Must Love Highlanders (18 page)

She woke in the middle of the night, her heart pounding. Had the bed dipped down? There had certainly been some movement. But then she remembered the dogs. She smiled into the darkness, feeling foolish—one of them must’ve readjusted. But then she heard a deep sigh. A deep, male sigh. That is definitely no dog.

“Move over, Wallace,” the voice said.

Oh, God, the master is home!

Sophie froze. But her nerves were in a jumble—terrified.

What is Hugh doing home?

Why would he come and get in bed with me after insisting that I sleep here?

A million other questions bombarded her. His aftershave floated her way and hovered, adding to her confusion.

“Walllllace,” he said again firmly. She could feel the dog being pushed over. “If ye don’t make room for me, ye’ll be sleeping with the rams in the sheep shed.”

This time, both dogs rose, circled in a C, and the other plopped down over her legs, trapping her.

Oh, crud! Without the dog barrier, Hugh could stretch out and touch her.

Could she get her feet loose without anyone noticing—man or beast?

For a long time, she didn’t move. She lay barely breathing, trying to decipher the different noises in the night. The dogs were both snoring. She was sure the master had gone to sleep, too. She took her chance.

By millimeters, she pulled her feet free and began to scoot to the edge of the mattress. So slowly in fact, it might turn morning before she made it out. She kept her senses tuned to the opposite side of the bed. Just as she was about to lower her feet to the floor and slip away, a strong hand reached over and gripped her thigh.

“Who are you?” he growled, more feral than any dog in the vicinity. “And why in the deuce are you in my bed?”

She bit her lip to keep from squeaking, but then finally spoke. “It’s me, Sophie.”

“Sophie?” He sounded completely clueless. “Sophie, who?”

“Sophie Munro.”

As she heard him groping for the lamp on his side of the bed, the hand gripping her thigh held on tighter. The light came on.

“Amy’s friend?” she added, like she wasn’t sure Amy was really her friend or not.

He glared at her as if the Loch Ness Monster had crawled into his bed.

And that’s when the quilt slipped on his side of the bed. The brute was naked.

“How did you get in here?” Hugh held on to the woman beside him. It registered that her skin was soft and warm, but he could see only bluidy red. “What do ye want?” He slightly shook her leg.

She pushed at his arm. “Let go of me!”

It was one thing for him to be holding on to her. It was quite another to have her touching him back. He let go and swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up and making sure the quilt kept him covered.

She averted her eyes anyway.

“Tell me why ye’re in my bed.” He noticed his hounds had ratcheted themselves up against her as if protecting her from him! Gads! “Wallace. Bruce. Come.” He pointed to the floor beside him.

The Wallace whimpered, and she wrapped her arms around them. “Stop being a bully.”

“Good God.” He glared at her and then at his animals. “Biscuit?”

Both dogs’ ears popped up. They jumped off the bed and ran to him, sitting by his feet at attention.

“Close yere mouth, lassie. In fact, close yere eyes while ye’re at it. I’m not decent here, and I’d like to be.”

When she turned away from him, he grabbed his boxers off the chair and slipped them on. His dogs were still waiting, so he pulled two biscuits from his jeans pocket. “Here, ye disloyal bastards.” For a moment, his eyes searched her backside, trying to outline the body that lay beneath her cotton nightgown. Aye, he remembered Sophie. She was as appealing now as she had been back in the summer. He felt the same instant attraction. Maybe stronger. But he couldn’t think about her that way now.

The reflection in the picture windows shifted, catching his attention. Sophie was staring back at him, her mouth shaped into an O. She’d been watching his every move. She seemed particularly interested in his lower half.

“Did ye get an eyeful, lass?”

Her eyes shot up to his. Her teeth caught her bottom lip. For a second, they stared at each other, before she averted her gaze. She squared her shoulders and faced him, that exposed look gone.

“I’ve seen hundreds of naked men.”

He grabbed his jeans off the chair and slipped them on. “Hundreds?”

“Aye.” She waved her hand like she was airbrushing him. “Nothing new there.” But her cheeks were bright red, and he’d bet his best weaving machine that he’d been her first.

With her facing him, he could now take in the terrain under her shift a bit easier. She was perfectly proportioned, but maybe not as breasty as he’d like. Her nipples budding against the fabric of her nightgown did intrigue him more than he wanted them to.

“Put a robe on,” he growled.

She clutched the quilt up to her chin. “I didn’t bring one. I was supposed to be here alone.”

He snatched up his discarded flannel shirt and tossed it to her. “Here.”

She caught it. “Turn around first.”

“You just ogled my naked arse, and ye’re ordering me to turn around over a couple of perky nipples?”

She clutched his shirt to her chest, blushing red all the way to her cheeks.

And because he could be a son of a bitch sometimes, he went ahead and scandalized her further. “I’m not lying when I tell you I’ve seen plenty of naked women, hundreds even.” If magazines counted.

Goldilocks glared at him, a bit of a stare-down, but he held his ground. In the end, he won, too. She gave him her back while she slipped his shirt over her nightgown.

His shirt swam on her, and the strangest thing happened—something quite uncomfortable shifted in his chest. He had the awful urge to beg her to come closer, stand before him…but not like one of his dogs. He merely wanted her near enough that he could touch her.

His oversized bedroom was abruptly much too small and cozy. “Follow me,” he said.

She cleared her throat with a little, “Ahem.”

“Could you put a robe on?” she said shyly.

She was sweet, and her embarrassment was damned attractive. He shook his head exaggeratedly, as if he were a man whose patience had been tested.

“A little man chest bothers ye, after a hundred naked men?”

She donned her gumption like it was his shirt. “I’ve seen more than enough men, thank you very much.”

Aye, me. He opened his armoire and pulled out a T-shirt and slipped it on. “Better?”

“Much,” she said. “Come, Wallace. Come, Bruce. The master has something to say.”

His damned hounds lumbered after her bare feet. Those two disloyal bastards needed a long visit at obedience school, at least when it comes to remembering who gives the orders around here. “The upper solarium is to yere right.”

For a moment, he stood in his room alone and felt that everything had changed.

He padded into the solarium after her, as bad as his dogs, and found the Wallace and the Bruce beside her with her feet curled under her on the sofa. Making herself at home.

She stifled a long yawn.

He stayed standing, hoping to reestablish that he was indeed the master of his castle. “Now, tell me why ye’re in my house.” And why you were in my bed.

She screwed up her face, and the place between her eyebrows pinched together. “Because you hired me to be here?” Her voice held a heaping dollop of attitude.

“I what?” he said incredulously.

She popped up. “Wait here.” The dogs went to follow, but she put her hand out in the stay position. A moment later, she was back. She thrust a piece of paper at him. “There. In your own words.”

He looked at the email. “What is this?” He scanned all the way down. “I—I…”

“Amnesia?” she provided. She looked quite pleased with herself, perched again on his couch, taking the stance of a vindicated woman. Vixen.

He bore into her with his eyes, quite deliberately, so she would shrink under his gaze. She didn’t. He pointed the paper at her. “I’ve never seen this before in my life.”

That did the trick. She withered a bit and uncurled her feet, setting them on the floor. “But—but that means that I’m…”

“Trespassing?” he finished, giving her the smuggest look he could conjure. “Aye.”

Friggin’, frackin’, fuck. Sophie’s mama wouldn’t approve of her swearing, not even in her thoughts, but—damn! Emma, her therapist, had prepared her for a lot of different scenarios, but being caught in Hugh’s bed—with her half-dressed and him completely naked—hadn’t been one of them. Neither her mama nor Emma had told her how to handle seeing a gorgeous man’s full-monty reflection in the picture windows either. Oh, my! Sophie fanned herself, though there was a chill in the room.

Delayed, she jumped to her feet, more embarrassed than she’d been in her whole life. “Sorry.” She’d have to pass Hugh to make a run for it, but there was no helping it. She didn’t make eye contact, but put her head down and started for the door.

“Sophia.”

His deep burr curled and hugged her given name soundly, too intimate for late night, too much for her senses. It made her pause as each syllable registered low in her middle. As she tried to slip past, Hugh grabbed her arm gently.

“Ye needn’t tear out in the middle of the night, lass.”

His breath hit her cheek. Her arm tingled where he held her. She wanted to go up on tippy-toes and find out what it would be like to kiss him.

He must’ve read her mind, for he dropped his hand and stepped away.

Great! Rejected once again by the insufferably gorgeous Hugh McGillivray.

“Come.” He stepped from the solarium.

For a second, she wondered if he had been speaking only to the dogs, for they trotted after him.

He stuck his head back in. “I mean you, lass.”

She followed and found him retrieving an old-fashioned skeleton key from a little basket that hung by the room next to his. For a second, he gazed upon the key and then determinedly shoved it into the opening and turned the lock. He pushed the door wide, flipped on the light, and stood back for her to enter.

The room was large like Hugh’s, but not decorated in masculine tones. This room was all pink and floral—rose wallpaper, a gingham bedspread, rose motif pillows, and a matching sage afghan across the bottom of the bed. The Wallace and the Bruce slipped past Sophie and circled the room reverently.

“Whose room is this?”

Her eyes fell to the key grasped in his hand. The key shook with a slight tremor.

“It was my sister’s.” He frowned like he wanted to back out of the room and pretend he’d never unlocked the door.

Sophie knew all about his sister—falling through the ice on the loch, the drowning—the reason he’d gone to live with Amy and their aunt when he was twelve. His parents had been so distraught that Aunt Davinia had rescued him from his family’s grief. Amy had said Hugh took a long time to recover, but he finally learned to laugh again, the two cousins having grand times together.

“Isn’t there another room?” Sophie couldn’t stay in this room. “Anything will do.”

“Nay. After my parents…” he trailed off, but then changed tracks. “All the rooms have been cleared for redecorating. There’s not another bed in the house. None, except mine and Chrissa’s.” His voice caught on his sister’s name.

She touched his arm.

He jerked away as if her hand could scorch. “Stay. The room’s just going to waste.”

Chrissa’s bedroom looked regularly maintained, not a speck of dust anywhere.

Sophie couldn’t go back to his warm bed, and she certainly didn’t want to sleep in a room that caused him pain.

“Good night,” he said abruptly, leaving the key on the dresser. He was gone.

The Wallace and the Bruce looked conflicted.

“Go on now. Go sleep with the master.”

They each gave her one more worried glance and then trotted from the room.

For a long moment, Sophie stood in the middle of the floral paradise—perfectly feminine, perfectly preserved. When the quiet had thoroughly settled over her, she pulled the sage afghan from the bed, left the key on the dresser, and stepped into the hallway. She walked over to Hugh’s closed door and laid a hand on it, worrying about the grief that she’d dredged up in him. But she didn’t knock, knowing he didn’t want comfort.

She sneaked down to the parlor to the loveseat in front of the fireplace. She wished now the dogs had stayed with her for company. When she lay down, the puzzle still remained—Amy had suggested that she housesit, but who had written those emails?

And more important, what would she do now?