Some Like it Scottish (14 page)

Kit smiled at her, hoping for some friendly chitchat. “It smells great.”

But Maggie only grunted, letting Kit know that she'd
made her mind up beforehand . . .
They would not be friends
.

Ramsay sauntered back in, grinning, and came to stand close to Kit.

Since Maggie's back was turned, Kit nudged him. “Yeah, it's a shame you all don't get along.”

“Swab, it's your turn to say grace,” John said, carrying Dand under his arm like a football and dropping him onto a chair at the table.

Everyone stood at their places. Ramsay pointed to where Kit should stand—next to him. They folded their hands and Ramsay gave thanks for the good weather and good fishing and good food. He peeked over at her when he was done. He didn't look at all embarrassed to be singled out to pray in front of everyone. If Kit had been asked, she would've shrunk into the corner. And she never shrank away from anything. Ramsay, she thought once again, was more than she'd given him credit for in the beginning. He had a strength in him that she didn't have. Not just brute strength. He had character.

Dinner was delicious and entertaining, despite Maggie keeping her eye on Kit as if she might shove the silverware into her pockets. Soon Dand was regaling them all with the story of how Robert and Samuel had chased him into Mr. Menzie's garden.

“Robbie and Sam hid behind the cottage as Mr. Menzie yelled at me for trampling his turnips,” Dand complained with a grin.

“He should've taken the rake handle to yere backside,” Maggie said firmly.

The men laughed, but Maggie stared them down one by one.

“And you, Robert and Samuel. Ye were in charge of
Dand. You all need to learn to be respectful of others' property. Tomorrow ye'll all go to Mr. Menzie's and offer your weeding services for the rest of the season in exchange for his forgiveness.”

The three boys hung their heads, muttering
aye.

Kit saw the look that John gave his wife—fondness and gratefulness—and it hit her once again how much love this small cottage held. A lump formed in her throat.

After dinner, Maggie picked up the empty shepherd's pie pan, but John snatched it from her hands. “You go put your feet up.” He dropped the pan in front of Ramsay. “Swab's doing the dishes.”

Ramsay stood, stretched, and tapped the back of Kit's chair. “Come on, Woodhouse, it's time to earn yere keep.”

John's head popped up with a start, but he said nothing to Ramsay. Maggie frowned and made her way to the sofa.

Kit followed her chauffeur into the kitchen and spoke quietly to him. “I thought I'd earned
my
dinner by setting the table. Who sat on the sofa and egged the children on while they rolled around on the floor like a pack of bear cubs?”

“Ye're a cheeky lass.” Ramsay nudged her toward the sink, pushing up his sleeves. “You wash. I'll dry.”

At the sink, they stood side by side, like the knife and the spoon had been next to each other on the table. Pretty cozy, she thought. Too cozy. The kisses they'd shared while on the road came to mind. Those hadn't been cozy at all. Hot. Steamy. Consuming.

She glanced over as Ramsay reached for a dish to dry. She saw the scar on his forearm and touched a soapy finger to it. “From what battle did you get this? Please don't tell me it's from something boring, like a bar fight.”

She slid her finger down the scar for a moment before she realized what she was doing. She brought her eyes up to meet his and decided not to apologize for her brazen action.

His gaze was hooded for only a second, but when he spoke, he was all tease. “Nay, no bar fight. I got into a tussle with a conveyor at the North Sea Valve Company.”

She pulled his towel from his hands and wiped her soapy caress from his arm as if it'd never happened. “The conveyor won?”

“Aye. She had me from the get-go.”

His words seemed to hold a hidden meaning, or maybe Kit just wanted to think so. She really needed to start dating again. And as soon as she got the Real Men of Scotland off the ground and she was home, she would. She tossed the towel back to him. “Your dishes are piling up.”

He motioned toward her face. “Yere cheeks are red.”

“It's the hot water. I always blush when I wash the dishes.”

“Liar,” Ramsay mumbled.

Kit chose to ignore the accusation. They continued on without any further touching, or conversation. There was enough noise going on in the living room area for several cottages.

“I don't need a bath, Mum,” Dand argued.

Maggie laughed. “You're a filthy mess. You look like ye've been playing in the pen with Dominic's pig.”

“But I took a bath yesterday,” he whined.

Kit glanced over her shoulder as John hefted the boy into his arms and began tickling him.

“You choose, lad. It's either the tub
or the ocean
.”

The boy giggled. “The tub! The tub!”

“Make sure you wash his hair,” Maggie hollered.
“Pouring a wee bit of water on it doesn't count, John. Use soap!” She leaned back and sighed.

“I'll be right back.” Ramsay slung the dish towel over Kit's shoulder. “Finish up.”

“Your dishes will be waiting for you,” she said.

Ramsay went down the hall after John and Dand.

She could hear their hushed voices from the sink but not their actual words.

Ross joined her in the kitchen. “I'll take Swab's place.” He took the towel from her. “So, how goes the manhunt?”

Should she rat Ramsay out and tell Ross she felt certain his brother had sabotaged her? But then he'd helped her by finding her bachelors. It still remained to be seen if he'd saved the day.

“It hasn't gone as I had hoped,” she said truthfully. “But I'm remaining optimistic.”

Ramsay came back in the kitchen and pulled Kit away from the sink. “Ross'll finish the rest. I need to get you back to the pub.”

Normally, Kit hated being bossed around. But she let it go. Ramsay's bossiness felt like a layer of protection.

Kit turned to the Armstrongs. “Thank you so much for dinner.” She didn't have a chance to register their response as Ramsay was ushering her toward the door.

John stepped into the room. “Maggie, I'll have a word.”

The door had barely shut behind them when Maggie's voice rang out through the open window.

“What? No! Not under my roof!”

A
s they walked, Ramsay glanced over at Kit, but her gaze was fixed on the water lapping against the boardwalk. She didn't ask about Maggie's outburst, but after a few more steps he decided it was better to just get it over with. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Yeah. I already know. Maggie wishes I was gone.”

Before he could set her straight, Deydie bustled out of Quilting Central and waved them over. “Get in here, lass. You, too, Ramsay.” She met them halfway and grabbed an arm of each, pulling them into the building.

His proposal to the matchmaker would have to wait.

“What is it?” Kit asked.

Deydie waved a stack of fabric at her. “I want ye to see what I've picked out for yere Nautical Flag quilt.”

Bethia, Deydie's oldest friend, came over to introduce herself to Kit and warmly shake her hand. Bethia was as kind and lovable as Deydie was crotchety.

“We cut out part of your quilt for you.” Bethia pointed to the table where scraps of fabric were piled.

Kit frowned at the pieces and then at Bethia. “I can't imagine I can make those triangles, squares, and rectangles into the quilt that Deydie showed me.”

“Sure you can,” Bethia encouraged.

“Ye've got all of us to help you.” Deydie motioned to the table. “We've set your machine up over there. Go on now and get started.”

Ramsay still had to tell Kit the news. “She can't right now, ladies. She has to get to the pub.”

Kit pinned him with a look.

Unfortunately, Deydie stepped closer, examining him as if her eyeglass prescription was out-of-date.

“What are ye about, wee Ramsay?” Deydie asked. Which was funny because she had to crank her head back to see him way up there.

“She's had a long day.” He put a hand on Kit's lower back and ushered her to the door.

Kit kept glancing up at him, but he kept moving her along.

As soon as they were outside, she yanked his arm, pulling him to a stop. “Why
are
you walking me to the pub? It's not like the town is big enough for me to lose my way.”

“I'm heading in that direction is all,” he lied.

“For a drink.” Her eyebrows pinched together.

He'd let her think that. For now. In fact, a dram of liquid courage might be called for.

They finished the last few steps in silence. At the pub door, the noise spilled outside, confirming his wisdom in doing what he'd done.

They went inside the pub. She turned to him, bid him good night, and went behind the bar and up the stairs.

Bonnie shot one glare at him and another at Kit's disappearing backside.

He stepped to the bar and pulled out his money. “Whisky.”

“Ye look sick, Ramsay,” Bonnie said as she fixed his drink. “I think ye've got the Yankee flu.”

“Very funny.” He downed the drink and ignored Bonnie's outrage as he stepped behind the bar to take the stairs, too.

Outside Kit's door, he hesitated. He could just walk away now and tell John that Kit had declined. Ramsay wasn't even sure why he'd done it. But then Thomas's hoot of laughter from down below ricocheted off the walls of the stairwell. Here was the reason why. Ramsay finally knocked.

Kit opened the door, cinching her bathrobe around her waist. Her skirt peeked out from underneath.

Aw, gawd
. The bathrobe, her sweet legs. Was she topless under there?

She frowned at him. “Are you lost? Your cottage is in the other direction.” She pointed. “Downstairs. Across town.”

He couldn't stop himself. He scooped her in his arms and kissed her smart mouth into silence. Before he did more than get a good taste, he set her away from him. “Hush now.”

She looked stunned and he felt breathless. He was afraid he might do it again if he didn't get to the business at hand.

“Pack your things,” he said.

“What are you talking about? I just got unpacked.”

“I know. But you're going to come stay with us at the cottage. John thinks ye're not getting enough rest here at the pub.”

At that moment, a chorus of “The Maid Gaed to the Mill” broke out downstairs.

She looked at Ramsay skeptically. “So this was John's
idea? And tell me . . . what does Maggie have to say about it? As if I don't already know.”

He gave her a grin. “Och, she thinks it's a
grand idea
.”

“Yeah. Right. I'll stay right here, thank you.”

The noise from the pub got louder, as if he'd orchestrated it to make his point. She stared at the door somewhat dismayed.

He laid a hand on her shoulder, working very hard not to run his hand down her back and pull her perfect body to him again. “Do it as a favor to me then? And my brothers? We'll not let Maggie harp at you.” He tried to convey that this was all about looking out for her, because no matter the words, he wasn't feeling protective of Kit at all.

“I have a different idea,” she said.

“Of course you do. Let me hear it.”

“You go talk to Deydie and ask if I can stay at one of the quilting dorms.”

He shook his head. “A retreat is starting soon. Full up.” He didn't know that for sure.

Drums broke out downstairs now.

Kit stared toward the noise. “You've got to be kidding me.”

Ramsay leaned against the door, grinning at the dilemma on her face. “Get yere things. I'll hold yere robe while you pack.”

She tugged the belt tighter. “I'll stay at your house, as long as I'm not sleeping on the couch. Wait in the hall for a second.” She pushed him out and closed the door behind him. A minute later, the door opened and her tight top from earlier was back in place.

“I could've stayed if that was all you were doing,” he said.

She rewarded him for his cheek with a daggered look. He did like to rile his sprite. It didn't take her long to repack. It was as if the cadence of the drums set the pace, hurrying her along. She rolled her luggage toward him and grabbed her messenger bag. “Put your brawn to work.” She walked past him and out the door, leaving him to get her bags.

“Now I'm your bellhop? Do I get a tip?”

But she was halfway down the steps by then and he followed her like he was her ever faithful dog.

As he hit the bottom stair, Bonnie turned and gave him such a withering glower that he was sure she'd been taking glaring lessons from Deydie.

“Where are you taking that one?” Bonnie barked, pointing to Kit, who was opening the pub's door.

He could've said something clever but he was getting tired of Bonnie's bluster. “I'm taking her home with me.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Bonnie was a mountain compared to Kit. She took a step toward him with her hands on her hips, looking ready to give him a lecture.

“Leave it,” he said. He was done with her opinions. He walked past her, ignoring her gaping mouth.

Kit waited outside the pub. “Is everything okay?”

“Aye.” But he didn't feel like talking about it. He was doing what he knew to be right and to hell with what the town thought about it.

Back at the house, Ross was still up, grinning when they came through the door. He took Kit's bags. “John said we were going to have a houseguest.” He shot Ramsay a
you devil
grin. “Where should I put these?”

“My room,” Ramsay said.

Kit spun on him. “No.”

“Don't worry. I won't be sharing it with ye. I'll take the sofa.” Ramsay gave Ross the final answer. “My room.”

Ross wandered off with her things.

Kit looked around. “Where's Maggie? She may not want me to, but I should thank her for opening up her home to me.”

“I expect Maggie is off to bed.” Ramsay was surprised that John wasn't banned to the other sofa for allowing Kit to stay. “Come. I'll show you where you'll be sleeping.”

Ross said good night to them as he passed them in the hallway.

Ramsay pointed out the loo to Kit, across the hall from his room. He pushed open his door and let her pass in front of him; then he pulled the door closed behind them.

She spun around, looking panicked. “What are you doing?”

“Shh,” he said. “Thin walls. I shut the door so as not to wake up Dand.”

“Oh.”

Ross had left Kit's two bags by the far wall. It hit Ramsay kind of funny in the middle of his chest that it was both strange and right to have her in his room.

“There's the bed,” Ramsay said stupidly. He went to the dresser and opened the top drawer, scooping out his socks. “You can have this for yere things.”

“No, I couldn't.”

He dropped his socks in the wicker basket by the closet. “You have to. The drawer's already cleared.” He should probably have changed the sheets, but then he noticed that it had already been done. The bed looked
perfect as only Maggie could make it. He'd get an earful when he thanked her for it, too.

Kit frowned at the bed. “But I don't want to put you out. I've changed my mind; the pub is fine.”

Ramsay laid his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “You need yere rest.” He was only doing this because of his guilty conscience. He didn't give a damn about her well-being. He reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear—but jerked his hand back at the last second. Her hair was too soft. He remembered how it had felt when it had been all fanned out on the bed at the boardinghouse.

“Get some sleep,” he said gruffly. He headed for the door but turned back to her. “Maggie won't tolerate a crabby matchmaker in the house.”

“As if she'd tolerate a noncrabby one better?” Kit cocked an eyebrow at him.

As an afterthought, he stopped and pulled open the bottom drawer, yanking out a pair of pajama pants. “Try to keep from going through my things.” He was working at being his old self, the town teaser, but he didn't quite pull it off. He couldn't look into her green eyes, so he reached for the doorknob. He never should've shut the door with them in here all alone. The room was too small to breathe in.

“Good night, Ramsay,” Kit said softly.

Aw, hell.
Why'd she have to go and use his name? He didn't reply but closed the door quietly behind him, going to the living room.

Ross waited, stretched out on the couch and grinning broadly. “Did ye get her all tucked in then?”

“Sod off.” Ramsay pushed Ross's legs off his new bed. He wasn't going to explain to his brother that it wasn't
like that between him and the matchmaker. Although he wouldn't have minded kissing her good night with her hair twisted up in his hands. But hell, if he'd done that, he wouldn't have been able to stop.

“I'll be damned if she isn't a pretty little thing.” Ross unfolded himself and stood. “I believe I'll have a go at her. Give her a real man to remember dear ole Scotland by.”

Ramsay stepped in front of him, blocking the path to his bedroom. “Touch her and you'll be short an appendage.” He pointed to the other side of the cottage. “Go to bed.”

“All right,” Ross said. “But only because I'm tired. I'll chat her up at breakfast and see if she wants to carry on with the likes of me while she's here.” He raised his eyebrow as if he'd chunked the ball into Ramsay's court.

“Leave the matchmaker alone.”

“We'll see.” Ross laughed as he went to his room.

Hell
. It had been a while since he'd punched Ross and meant it. Normally, they just horsed around. But if he meant to mess with Kit, Ramsay would have to kick his arse. She was here on business, just trying to do right by her family. And no one in his family or in this town would bother her again.

He spread out the large earth-tone quilt over the sofa—Maggie must've left it there for him—and he collapsed, stretching out. Immediately, a thought consumed him—Kit lying in
his
bed with only her tank top covering those perky little breasts. She was there between
his
sheets, with her hair fanned out on
his
pillow.

Aw, gawd.
He went instantly hard.

Leave the matchmaker alone
rang in his ears. His own damn words. It was sound advice. Come hell or high
water, he'd better listen to it or he could be drowning in a world of trouble.

*   *   *

Kit lay down on the bed.
His bed.
Dang it, she couldn't stop herself from thinking about Ramsay stretched out here beside her. She'd bet the couch was uncomfortable. She rolled over on her side.

He was a good guy . . . and you couldn't argue with his rugged good looks. But, she reminded herself, men like him weren't for her. He didn't have a serious bone in his body.
Just like my father.
If Daddy had been a little more serious, a little more responsible, maybe he would've seen the recession coming. That, or had the business sense not to put all their eggs into one basket.

But wasn't that what Kit had done? Every penny she'd saved had gone into the Real Men of Scotland.

But she was different from her father. Her father only liked to have a good time. He was a kidder, the life of the party. But Kit was all business, twenty-four/seven.

Ramsay . . . he did nothing but tease.

Although she had to admit that he did have a fabulous idea—running a guided fishing business for the husbands of the quilters—brilliant! Now, that was a business she would like to invest in. A sure thing.

Every time she inhaled she could smell Ramsay in the room—the outdoors, his aftershave. At this rate, she wouldn't be getting any sleep. She sat up. Maybe if she got a drink of water that would help her relax.

She climbed out of his bed and went to the door, leaning her ear against it. She didn't hear a peep. Maybe she could sneak into the kitchen and get a drink without rousing anyone. She cracked open the door and stepped into
the hall . . . just as the bathroom door opened to reveal the naked-chested, pajama-bottomed Ramsay.