The Great Scot (7 page)

She slipped the shirt on over her own and rolled up the sleeves.
Yes
, she thought,
let's get over your fixation with the hot Scot and get back to business.
She surreptitiously lifted her arm so she could breathe in his scent from the linen.

And she would. Any minute now.

Just as soon as she figured out how.

T
he instant he had a spare minute to call his own, his brother was going to hear from him and quite loudly. Not that he hadn't thought of contacting Erin himself. But he'd like to think that was his conclusion, drawn after a long, sleepless night of deep contemplation about the business ramifications of her offer. But the truth was, he'd had a hard time putting her out of his mind.

It was bad enough he'd had to turn even a portion of his family's ancestral home into an inn. He had zero desire to turn Glenshire over to some American film crew. After all the blood, sweat, and tears he'd literally poured into both restoration and renovation, they'd come storming in, setting up all their cameras and cables, causing untold damage in the process. No. He'd accepted the commercialization of their Chisholm heritage. He wouldn't further sell out their integrity by allowing it to be used as a backdrop to some crass dating show.

But the devil on his other shoulder wouldn't stop whispering that if the check was big enough, and they agreed in writing to repair anything they damaged, how could he not at least hear her out? And, though it felt unseemly, there was no getting around the fact that the promotion for future bookings was something to consider in getting the bed and breakfast off the ground. Even with Daisy's marketing savvy, Glenbuie wasn't exactly a hotbed of tourism. The television show could change all that.

He'd fallen asleep last night with the battle still waging, only to have Ms. MacGregor play a starring role in his dreams. Which had nothing whatsoever to do with television programming or keeping four hundred years of Chisholm history from crumbling to dust, and far more to do with the images he'd wrestled with most of the way home last night. Images that followed him into sleep if the rock hard state of his body when he woke up was any indication.

So he'd steamed those confusing images of Erin's ready smile, her spontaneous laughter, her natural joie de vivre from his mind with a long morning shower, intent on putting his thoughts back into focus. In the end, however, one thing had led to another and it had taken a bit more creative use of soap and suds, taking the matter in hand, so to speak, to finally make that happen. He should have just done that the night before as he'd planned. Maybe then he'd have at least gotten a good night's sleep.

Then, bang, there she was again, right on his doorstep, first thing in the morning, lease agreement clutched in hand, and an entirely too cheerful smile on her pixie face. He hadn't blushed since he was a very young lad, but it had taken a considerable toll on his willpower to hold her gaze steadily for more than one second and not flame up, as he was incapable of not thinking about the very different version of her he'd been envisioning a mere hour or so earlier, while he'd been…doing what he'd been doing.

Hell, even now his body was stirring just thinking about it. He angled himself more toward the wall. Just in case. What the bloody hell had gotten into him anyway? He'd all but run up the stairs in front of her just to get enough distance between them to will himself back under control. Only to get trapped with her all but plastered against him back there in the doorway. She hadn't seemed to have the least clue of the rather insanely bawdy direction his thoughts had taken, but then he'd been so disconcerted by the whole thing, he'd all but shoved one of his old shirts in her face and escaped to his paint brush and drip tray.

His sole concern was supposed to be what to do about the bloody lease offer, which was the only thing he should be considering leasing out. He slapped the brush against the wall and dragged his recalcitrant thoughts back to the real business at hand.

“Oh!” came a surprised gasp from behind him.

He turned to find her looking quite put out. Though, given the rather large splotch of pale blue paint presently oozing its way into the open neckline of his dress shirt, and between her breasts, he couldn't say he blamed her.

She looked down, then up at him, but rather than complain, she laughed and sort of thrust her chest out in an exaggerated fashion pose. “And blue is so not my color.”

Dylan found his lips twitching. She was just so…real. His gaze was drawn back to the splotch. “I don't know,” he said, considering, then immediately bit back the rest of what he'd been about to say, which would have sounded suspiciously like flirting. He didn't flirt. Or hadn't, anyway, in a very long time. He certainly had no business being compelled now. Erin was an obstacle of sorts, and witty banter of any fashion was not the way to clear that particular hurdle. She already had more of an edge than she realized. He'd be a fool to give so much as a toehold more when there was negotiating to be done.

Belatedly realizing he was still staring, he grabbed a rag from the pile on the floor. “Here. If you get it off now, likely it won't leave a mark.”

She took the rag and plucked his shirt away from her skin so she could scrape off the offending blob. It was only after several moments of watching her dab at the spot between her breasts that he realized he was still staring. He quickly jerked his attention back to his own paint brush and the stretch of window trim awaiting his attention.

“How long have you been working on renovating the place?”

Yes, innocuous banter. Good. Anything to distract him from the fact that he'd noticed that while she might not have a sexy swing to her hips, she had far more of a curve to her bosom than he'd have suspected. And if the nipples pressing against his old shirt were any indication, quite perky, too. He cleared his throat and stared at the wall. “I'm fairly certain a Chisholm has been renovating some part of this place since the moment they laid the final stone.” He glanced in her direction, testing himself. “Perhaps even before that.”

She shot him a grin before turning back to her section of wall. There was a blue smear across her cheek, her hair stuck out at odd angles, apparently on purpose as it had been much the same yesterday, and she seemed entirely unconcerned with how she came off. Appearance-wise anyway. He was already quite certain when it came to her business mien, she was more than concerned. Or she wouldn't be wearing his shirt and slopping paint all over herself.

And looking somehow quite charming doing so.
Get hold of yourself, lad.

“How much of the place, overall, are you turning into the B & B?”

Her questions seemed casually asked, but he knew they were anything but. Calculating her offer most likely. “The upstairs wing on the north side—that was the hallway we entered earlier—and these three central loft rooms. Fourteen rooms all total. Various sizes.”

She made a noncommittal noise and didn't look up, focusing instead on keeping the brush steady as she drew it down alongside the trim. He saw that when she was really concentrating, she bit the corner of her bottom lip. Which was entirely alluring. On the right kind of woman, of course.

She turned and caught him looking at her, but didn't react in any overt way. “What about the other first floor on this side? Any plans to expand further if things go well? Do you plan to use anything downstairs?”

So many questions. All of them about business. He should have been happier about that. He attacked his trim with renewed determination. “The rooms along the second upper hallway are in various stages of renovation, one whole section has been completely shut off for years. I don't foresee the need to add them to the list of available rooms, but I suppose if I were to change my mind, I'd start with the more readily available rooms there. The first floor in this wing has only one common hallway. The rooms below are considerably larger, meant for social gatherings, some in better shape than others. The plan is to open the main parlor, situated near the front of the wing, closest to the central part of the house. The kitchens are located in the central rear, so serving breakfast there makes the most sense.”

“No dining room, then?”

He paused, looked over his shoulder, but she was concentrating on the sill now. “We have several, the smallest of which seats a modest thirty—or would if there were furnishings in it. At present, it's closed off. Sagging walls, sinking floors. A common problem with a lot of older structures and this one is no different. Anyway, I felt the parlor had a more intimate ambience, suitable to a bed and breakfast, with several small tables set up for a more private atmosphere. Guests can also take their morning meal on the side portico with a view of the mountain range.”

“It all sounds lovely,” she said, sounding quite sincere and likely she was. Yet he easily imagined her mental calculator busily toting up numbers in her head.

“Across from the parlor there is also a library, more of a study really, but on a rather larger scale comparatively speaking, that has been put to rights. It will be available during the day should anyone care to sit and read, play a hand of cards, or whatnot. But otherwise, the other rooms in the lower part of the north wing will remain off view. As will the entire south wing.”

“That is the family wing, I take it?”

“It's where I reside, if that's what you're asking, aye. However, most of it has been likewise shut off. There is no way to tackle the entirety of Glenshire, so we preserve what we can, and seal off, at least temporarily, what we canno'. It's the only way to keep her afloat.”

“I know I said it before, but it's such a huge undertaking for one person.” She let out a small laugh. “I guess that's the understatement of the century.”

His lips quirked, but he kept to his work. “Aye. Several of them, in fact.”

They spent a few moments in companionable silence, and he was surprised at the urge he had to fill that silence with some questions of his own. He was equally surprised to discover that, inquisition notwithstanding, he was rather enjoying this particular disruption of his work day, much as he had his trip into town last night. It felt…good to have someone around. Someone who wasn't Letty Dalrymple, anyway.

“So, when you open your doors to guests, will you bring someone in to help with the cooking and room cleaning?”

He turned. “Rather sexist, don't you think?”

Appearing honestly surprised, she stopped as well, and blew her hair off her forehead. One wispy lock had adhered itself to a spatter of paint and didn't budge. She was going on about something to do with how she was a woman in a man's field and the last person who'd ever pigeonhole anybody, but he wasn't really listening. He found himself too distracted by the sudden urge to go over there and free those muck and mired strands.

“My guests won't go hungry,” he interjected finally, more to get himself back on track—again—than to shut her up. “And they'll have fresh linens.”

Erin broke off, smiled, then, without skipping a beat, said, “Hard to imagine a place this size ever being fully utilized just by family and staff.”

She'd said it sounding more practical-minded than dreamy romantic. Made him wonder if there was a romantic heart beating beneath her all-business exterior. Given the brand of television show she was touting it seemed she should be a bit more of that happily-ever-after sort than she appeared to be. But what did he know?

“The sheer history of it, the centuries it has endured, it really makes this place quite a draw. And then there's that awe-inspiring view. I imagine you'll have no problem filling those rooms.”

Aye, a businesswoman, then, through and through. She was right about Glenshire's rather gothic ambience being its main selling point. He'd always thought of the crumbling decay as being more eyesore than particularly romantic or attractive, but Reese's fiancée, Daisy, had taken the same view as Erin. In fact, she'd made that the focal point of the website she'd created as an adjunct to the site she'd developed for the distillery. She'd packaged Glenbuie distillery tours, with village shop discounts and a stay in Glenshire's bed and breakfast, and lo and behold, though it had taken some time to get the bookings started, over time it had worked. Maybe it was some kind of Yankee sensibility, though the two women couldn't be more different.

“You're not too keen on the whole idea, though, I take it.”

Dylan lifted his gaze to hers, realizing once again he'd trailed off into his own thoughts. He'd been out here on his own for so long now, he wasn't used to being observed by anyone, much less having to concern himself with whether anyone could interpret his thoughts or expression. “I thought I made my stance on that clear yesterday.”

“Though you're reconsidering now,” she said, that impish light back in her eyes. She waggled her brush at him, splattering paint on the dropcloth. “But that's not what I meant. I meant you're not too keen on the whole bed and breakfast plan, either.”

“What would make you say that?”

Erin laughed. “Let's just say you don't exactly have the temperament of an innkeeper. You talk about Glenshire with a combination of pride and weary acceptance, but there is a guardedness to it, like a brother who can talk smack about his own siblings, but dare someone else do the same and they'll get a fist in their face. You're protective of her,” she said with a softer smile. “And maybe a bit resentful of her demands. But you don't really want to share her with anyone, do you?”

Dylan said nothing in response. He was a little disconcerted by her insight. Maybe more than a little. Because she was right. And he'd wondered more often than he cared to admit whether, despite his commitment to the joint decision made with his brothers to go ahead with the bed and breakfast scheme, if he'd be truly up to the actual task of running it when the time came. Putting the place to rights was one thing. Planning the room layout, the breakfast menus, the pricing structure, taking reservations, he'd done all of those things, the things an innkeeper would do. And yet, other than the occasional laborer or subcontractor, he hadn't had to deal with actual people yet. Not a paying guest anyway. And he'd be lying if he said that that part of this whole deal didn't have him a little nervous.