Some Like it Scottish (15 page)

Considering how seriously he was gazing upon her lips, he didn't look like the wisecracker now. He reached behind him, turned out the bathroom light, and pulled her into his arms, her palms landing on his solid chest. He kissed her breathless. Senseless. Numbing her to the fact that she shouldn't be kissing him in the hallway of his family home.

His lips eased off and he rested his forehead on hers. “Were you lost?” he whispered.

She shook her head
no
, not entirely sure he hadn't kissed the words out of her, too.

“Lonely?” he tried.

She lied, shaking her head
no.

“Can't sleep?”

She shrugged. “Can I sit in the living room for a while?”

He frowned at her, seeming undecided. “What about my beauty sleep?”

She patted his chest. “You've gotten enough already.” If he got any better-looking, he'd have to carry around mace to keep her off him. “If I'm not welcome, I'll just go back to bed.”
Your bed.
She tried to step away.

He kissed her again quickly, spun her around, and patted her on the bottom, apparently his way to prod her down the dark hall. She thought she heard him mutter
trouble
under his breath.

“Can I have a glass of water?”

“Ye're a high-maintenance lass, aren't ye?” But he went to the kitchen cabinet and retrieved a tumbler as she went into the shadowy living room.

She sat down in the easy chair next to the sofa and pulled his pillow into her lap. Her camisole and boy shorts weren't completely decent for sitting in the living room.

Ramsay brought the drink to her. “The elixir of life for milady.” He presented it with a bow.

She took it. “We really should talk.”

“Give me a second.” He went down the hall and was back quickly.

In the moonlight, she watched as he pulled a T-shirt over his head. Disappointment walloped her in the chest. It was a crying shame to cover that masterpiece.

As he sat on the couch, he reached over and pulled her to him, settling them very close together on the sofa. She liked his strong body next to hers—the heat of it, the power of him, and how it made her all hot and bothered.

But she gently shoved him away. “You're going to have to stop kissing me.” Kit's lips were unhappy with that declaration. They liked kissing him. A lot. But the madness of mixing business and pleasure had to stop. Now.

“Ye're right,” he said into the darkened room.

She hadn't expected him to agree with her. At least not so readily. She frowned, trying to make out the magazines on the coffee table in front of her.

“Aye,” he continued as if she'd made some response. “We have to stop. There's no chemistry between us at all.”

She heard the teasing in his voice and turned her body toward him. “Can't you be serious for one minute?”

“No, lass, not when it comes to things between a man and woman. I'm never serious.”

“Just stop kissing me,” she said, not sure how to take his statement. She shifted her body again so her head rested back on the couch.

“I'll try.” He moved closer. “Here.” He tucked his arm around her shoulders.

“But you are easy to talk to,” she said more to herself than to him. She rested up against his T-shirted chest, wishing for the bare, naked one. “Do you know how unusual it is for me to open up? I've told you more about myself than I've ever told anyone else.” Including her sisters. But Kit had been a little tipsy when she'd shared all about her family and the pressure she was under.

“Ye're easy to talk to, too,” he said in his rich Scottish burr.

His words blanketed and warmed her.
Comforting her
. Sitting here in the dark like this, she felt like she could share everything with this man, and she'd be safe.

“Go ahead and tell me something else about yereself.” He caressed her arm. “And make sure it's an embarrassing story.” A little echo from their car trip.

“I could never top your story.
Pretty in pink.
” She gave a quiet bark of laughter. “No one ever dressed me up like a boy.”

He laid his head over on hers. “Ah, that's where ye're wrong. You dress yereself up as a lad all the time.”

“Very funny.” She relaxed against him and began her tale. “Once upon a time there were three sisters . . .”

Kit yawned. The nights were indeed chilly in the Highlands. She snuggled into Ramsay's chest for warmth and continued with her story. She should have gone back to his bed, but she'd take one minute more, indulge herself, and stay in his strong, capable arms.

*   *   *

When Ramsay woke, it was still dark . . . and his arm was painfully asleep. Not to mention he had the hard-on of a lifetime.

He was about to shift Kit to regain some feeling in his dead appendage when she stirred and shifted toward him.

She snaked her arm around his neck and pulled him down to her mouth.

Oh, gawd, she was hot, and his body roared to life even more than before. She kissed him as if she had all the time in the world. Languorously. Sensually. But hell, she was kissing him in her sleep. She could be kissing anyone in her dreams. But it felt so good that he continued to let her carry him away.

Kit pulled away too soon. She sighed contentedly and wrapped her arms around his waist, cuddling closer, burrowing into him.

The sprite was killing him! He wanted to go back in for another kiss, but he couldn't. It wouldn't exactly be right with her asleep. With his nondead hand, he caressed her arm, holding her close. Soon, he'd have to get up to check the nets with his brothers. He pulled the extra quilt from the back of the couch over them.

After this night of the two of them acting like a couple of lovesick idiots, he'd really have to keep his distance from her. He had plans. He needed to get his mind back in the game. But for right now, he'd give himself one more minute to hold
his sprite
.

He must've fallen asleep. He jolted awake when something kicked his leg. He opened his eyes to find Ross standing over him.

“W
hat?” Ramsay hissed.

“You better get
yere matchmaker
outta here,” Ross whispered. “Maggie'll be in any second to start the breakfast.” He turned and headed for the kitchen.

“Aw, hell,” Ramsay muttered. He gently prodded his sleeping companion awake. “Kitten. Ye've got to get up.”

She snuggled closer.

“The house is coming awake.”

She sat up and looked around wildly.

“Morning,” Ross said.

She cranked her head around, red quickly creeping into her cheeks. She stood and glared down at Ramsay, like it was his fault that she'd been wrapped in his arms. “Why did you let me fall asleep?”

Instead of answering, he gave her a lazy grin. “Toddle off to my room. I'll be in shortly to get my things for the day. Just so ye're forewarned.”

“The door will be locked.” She huffed off.

No sooner had his door shut than he heard John's bedroom door open.

“You owe me,” Ross said, filling the kettle.

Ramsay stood and stretched, not feeling too bad for
sleeping sitting up the whole night. He folded both of the quilts and sauntered down the hall, meeting up with Maggie at the bathroom door.

“Is
she
going to get up with the rest of us? Or sleep all day?” Maggie said.

“I expect she'll lie in for a while. She didn't get much rest when we were on the road,” Ramsay answered truthfully.

“You watch yourself with her. She's not for the likes of us. Remember that, Ramsay.”

“Aye.” It was true. Kit wasn't for him. She seemed like the kind of woman who came preinstalled with a ball and chain. He usually picked up his female companionship in Lios or Fairge, or any other town but Gandiegow. He made sure he chose wisely—birds who didn't want to get involved, who only wanted to have a little fun. He wasn't the marrying type. Hell, he wasn't even the relationship type. He had too much to do in his life to be worried about that forever kind of crap that had John jumping whenever Maggie rattled his chain.

But Ramsay had liked holding Kit in his arms last night. And he'd certainly liked kissing her. “I'm going to sneak in and get my clothes,” he said by way of explanation to Maggie.

“Make sure that's all ye do in there,” she said.

Aw, gawd
, Maggie was a bossy one.

Ramsay stole inside his room, shutting the door behind him.

Kit sat up. “I locked that door.”

“I forgot to tell ye the lock's broken.”

She dropped back on his pillow and crossed her arms over her chest.

He gazed at her, liking how she looked in his double
bed. Beautiful. Ticked-off. Kissable. As he walked over to her, her eyes got big.

She put up roadblock hands.

“Relax. I just don't want you to get cold.” He pulled the quilt up and tucked it under her chin.

“Thanks,” she said, chagrined.

And because he could, he leaned down and brushed his lips over hers.

She pushed at his chest. “I
said
no more kissing.”

“I'm hard of hearing.” He sat on the bed and leaned in again, but this time it was no light brush; he plundered her mouth.

She clutched the front of his T-shirt and plundered back. He heard a moan, and to his astonishment, he realized it was him.

“Aw, hell,” he said as he pulled away.

The sprite patted his chest and had a gleam in her eyes, as if she was quite pleased with herself for bringing Ramsay to his knees.

He growled and stood, trying to ignore the instant hard- on she'd given him, and the fact that she'd won this round. He didn't meet her eyes as he grabbed his things out of his dresser. But he could certainly feel her eyes on him.

“Oh, Ramsay?” she purred.

“What?” he said roughly.

“Shut the door on the way out.”

He could hear the sprite laugh as he walked into the hallway.

In the bathroom, he dressed quickly, knowing he had to hurry or his brothers would leave without him. Back in the kitchen, his family waited.

John jabbed a thumb toward the hallway. “Are ye keeping
her
happy?”

Ross sputtered into his coffee.

Ramsay glared at him and then spoke to John. “Aye. She's got her damned bachelors all lined up for her social.”

“Good. I want you at her beck and call. I figure if she's happy, this could turn into a lucrative long-term relationship. The matchmaker could be our safety net. We could drive her all over Scotland and have some steady cash flowing in even when the fishing is slow.”

“
We
, nothing,” Maggie piped in. “You, John Armstrong, aren't driving anyone anywhere, unless it's yere wife. And, Ross, well, you're promised to Pippa.” She glared at Ramsay. “You're welcome to keep her happy as long as she doesn't get her hooks into ye. She's a Yank. She's not meant for you or Gandiegow.”

Ramsay wished Maggie would leave off telling him how to live his life. But she was right. He would leave Kit alone. And he meant it this time. Kissing her was fun, maybe even a little habit-forming, but he wasn't interested in anything long-term. Or even short-term. Settling down was the last thing on his mind. Having a wife and kids was for the likes of John and Ross. Ramsay liked being single too much—being his own man—to saddle himself with a woman.

“Let's get going, lads,” John said, grabbing his cooler from the counter and pecking his wife on the cheek.

Ramsay and Ross picked up their coolers and coffee, too, and followed their older brother out.

*   *   *

At the dock, as if synchronized and choreographed, they each went aboard the
Indwaller
and touched the wooden cross before they went to their jobs. The cross had been carved by their great-grandfather for the boat he'd built
with the help of his own father. Not all the boats in the Armstrong family had survived the sea, but the cross had, and was passed down from one generation to the next. Ramsay knew that an outsider would think it was superstitious to touch the cross when boarding . . . but fishermen understood. It was only right to remember and show respect to the one who ran the ocean and their boat—the Almighty—the true captain of their ship.

It didn't take long to get on the open water. Ramsay loved it out here—the sea was a part of him. He was like John and Ross in that way. He just wanted to be his own boss. He was going to have to talk to his brothers; he was running out of time.

He went in the wheelhouse and stood beside John near the captain's chair. Ramsay was quiet for a long moment. The three brothers could go days without talking and still be comfortable as hell. And they could spend hours talking bullshit just as well. But right now, Ramsay needed to ask his brothers for a favor and it wasn't going to be easy.

As if he'd been called, Ross joined them, pounding Ramsay on the back. “I know you were only gone for a few days, but it's good to have you back, Swab.” He jabbed a finger in John's direction. “This one isn't much of a conversationalist.”

John didn't even glance in his direction. “What is it ye want to say, Ramsay?”

Brothers were a funny breed. Ramsay should've been surprised that John knew he needed to talk to them, but he wasn't.

“Ole man Martin's boat is for sale,” Ramsay blurted out. That wasn't what he'd planned to say first.

“So?” John patted the wheel as if their boat was the
only one that mattered. “Why should we care whether his boat is for sale or not?”

“I have an idea,” Ramsay started.

“It'll have to wait,” John said. “Get down there and pull those nets.”

Ramsay frowned at John, but his brother was right. The nets came first. Hopefully he'd get another chance later and wouldn't muddle it.

He and Ross jumped down and began hauling the filled nets aboard. For the next several hours, he was occupied using his muscles while he went over in his head how he would broach the subject with his brothers. Lunch should've been the perfect time to speak with them, but while John and Ross sat with their coolers in the wheelhouse, Ramsay had to fill the bait jars. The day got away from him and he couldn't find another opening. Ole man Martin's boat was slipping through his fingers once again.

Before he knew it, they were back at the dock, tying up. Ross stepped off with his gear.

“Wait up,” John said. “Ramsay, go ahead and say what ye need to say.”

Ross came back aboard. “Dammit, John, I need to get to North Sea Valve. I promised the McDonnell I'd get the high-pressure pump working. Today.”

“It can wait.” John leaned against the boom. “Ramsay, go on.”

“I want to start my own business,” he announced. Crap, that's not what he should've said, either.

“Ye don't want to fish with yere brothers? Ye want to go off on your own?” Ross crossed his arms over his chest. “Armstrong brothers have been working the fishing grounds together for generations.”

“No. I don't want to start a fishing business.” But
Ramsay had to amend that. “Yes, I do, but not commercial fishing. Not like what we have.” He told them about his plan to take the quilting husbands on fishing tours. He was aware that they would think it was a cream-puff endeavor—not manly like
real
fishing—and yet, Ramsay pushed on, telling them all the details.

“Ye're a fisherman,” Ross complained. “Not some slick businessman.”

Ramsay shoved his hands in his pockets, not sure how to respond to that.

“Leave off, Ross,” John said.

Ramsay couldn't believe John was on his side. But then the other shoe dropped.

“If Ramsay wants to leave us and start his own business, he's welcome to do it.”

Shit.
“But here's the thing,” Ramsay tried. He'd gone this far, he might as well go the rest of the way. “I'm a little short on the cash to buy the boat.” Something stopped him from pointing out the sacrifice he'd made for the family by driving Kit around.
Lost cash, lost opportunity
. It just seemed petty. The family fishing boat had, after all, given him a living his whole life. “I was hoping that you two might want to invest in the business.”

As soon as he said it, he wished he could take it back. He felt like he was five years old again and didn't have enough money to buy the bobber he wanted from the General Store. His brothers had made it clear then that you never asked for money—ever.

“Never mind,” Ramsay said.

John spoke up. “The extra money we have, Maggie has set aside to take Dand to see her grandfather in the old folks' home in Edinburgh.”

“Hell,” Ross said. “I put what little I had in the North
Sea Valve Company. I wanted a piece of it. That company should make me a mint down the road.”

“It never hurts to get on the right side of your future father-in-law,” John added. “So how short are you, Ramsay? This sounds like a pretty half-baked idea. Do you even have half of what ye need?”

Ramsay refused to justify himself to his brothers. Even though they were turning him down, he'd been happily surprised at their hint that if they had the money, they'd give it to him. But John's last question betrayed their true feelings. Ramsay was the little brother. The coaster. The kidder. With no substantial ideas. His brothers would never see him for who he was. What did a guy have to do to get a little respect around here?

He could move away. He'd thought about it a million times. But Gandiegow was home. He didn't want to live anywhere else. But to stay here meant that he'd never be treated as his own man.

“Well?” John prodded.

“There's no point in talking about it anymore.” In their eyes, he would never be seen as an equal. He wouldn't tell his brothers that he'd saved nearly every pound he'd ever made, the vast majority in CDs and bonds. All he needed to get ole man Martin's boat was an extra month's work. But the boat would be gone in two weeks, up for auction. Ramsay doubted, even if he stood with the rest of them, that his bid would make the grade.

Ross smiled. “Ye're always good for a laugh, Swab. That's for sure.”

But John peered at Ramsay for a long moment, not saying another word. John had this way of acting more like their father than their brother, and right now Ramsay wished their old man was here instead. Maybe he'd
climb up the bluff later today and visit his father in the cemetery. At least the old man would listen to him and not say that his idea was half-baked.

*   *   *

Kit had only meant to close her eyes for a minute. She'd been lying on her side in Ramsay's bed with her head facing the door, in case Sir Kisses-A-Lot decided to come back in and do it again. She'd heard the front door close, but she couldn't be a hundred percent certain that Ramsay was truly gone. She'd decided to wait a bit longer before getting up to face the day . . . and Maggie. But when Kit woke up, the sun was high in the sky and blaring on her face through Ramsay's window.

She rolled out of bed and listened. The cottage was quiet. She quickly made his bed and grabbed his robe from the hook on the back of the door. Sure, she could've dug out her own robe, but his smelled like Ramsay—fresh soap and man. She inhaled more deeply.

She opened the door slowly and padded into the hallway. Still no sound. In the big room, she found no one, just a note on the dining table, two oatcakes, and a mug.

Gone for the day

—Maggie

Kit tapped one of the oatcakes. Hard as a rock. She plugged in the electric kettle, put a tea bag in her cup, and threw a glance at the clock on the wall. She really must've been dead to the world to not have woken up with a small energetic boy in the house. But she hadn't. When the tea was ready, she dunked the oatcake in the hot liquid and took a bite. It wasn't terrible so she did it again. She was undecided about what to do first. She frowned at the clothes
washer under the counter. She needed clean socks and underwear and doubted Gandiegow had a Laundromat. She wondered how pissed Maggie would get if Kit did some laundry. She looked at Maggie's note again. There was nothing on there that said she
shouldn't
make herself at home.