To Scotland With Love (29 page)

“But—”

He bent down on one knee, and she about fell off the edge.
This is really happening.

Cait glanced over, and sure enough, the quilting ladies had all squeezed in the doorway of Quilting Central, ogling them, the twins even pointing in their direction.

“I see them, too.” Graham pulled a small box from his pocket, opening it up. It was a diamond ring, set in a substantial band, Celtic knots cut into either side of it.

“Oh my gosh,” she got out.

“You can't say no. Not with the quilting ladies watching. They'd string you up.” Graham gazed deeply into her eyes. “Caitie, my darling lass, I shouldn't have kept you waiting. Should've told you long ago how I felt. I love you. You're my clear sky, my calm waters, my life.” He kissed her hand. “In time, after we're married, do you think you can love me back?”

Her heart skipped a beat and then soared, finally satisfied. She felt calm and at peace, standing here by the ocean.

“Get up, you goof.” She pulled him up. “You got your pretty knee all dirty.”

“Name-calling?” he said, unfazed.

“It's something I do to remind you that you're just one of us mortals,” she said.

“You're always concerned with my welfare, aren't you?” He laid his hand on her cheek. “But you haven't answered my question.”

“I've always loved you,” she admitted. “And Mr. Darcy,
of course, but that was only a wee crush.” She moved her hands to his chest. “It's the real Graham Buchanan, not the movie star, whom I love with all my heart.”

His eyes lingered upon her with warmth and wonder. “You really do love me?”

“Aye.” She spread her arms wide. “I love you more than the ocean.” She laughed, overjoyed. “I love you more than Deydie's cherry cheesecakes. And that's saying something!” Then she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love you more than the finest quilt I've ever held.”

“Will you marry me, then?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.

She glanced over at the white steeple of Gandiegow's church. “Yes, I'll marry you, and it'll make me the happiest woman on the planet.”

He picked her up and hugged her. “You've made me verra happy, too.”

She swatted him. “But for the luvagod, you could've told me how you felt sooner. You've made me absolutely crazy.”

He set her down and smiled. “A little crazy isn't a bad thing. It just means you fit in here in Gandiegow all the more.”

“I fit in?” she said softly and then nodded her head. “I really am home, aren't I? I'm so done with being scared and alone.”

He took her into his arms. “I promise you'll never be alone again. And you'll always be safe with me, Caitie.”

“I know that now. It just took me a while to figure it out.” She wrapped her arms around him, too, and kissed him.

It vaguely registered that little footsteps were running
on the pier. Until a small body slammed into theirs, jarring their kiss. Little arms wrapped around their waists, hugging them tight. Graham and Cait looked down and found Mattie. Cait marveled at the little boy's progress. A few months ago, he couldn't get near the pier without trembling, let alone run out on it. But here he was. He'd taken another step toward recovery.

“What do you say, little monkey?” Cait ruffled his hair. “Should I marry your grandda?”

Mattie beamed up at them with happy tears in his eyes and nodded emphatically.

Whoops and hollers came from Quilting Central.

“Well, that's good enough for me. I guess it's a done deal.” She gave Graham a sparkling smile and reached for the box in his hand. “How many karats is that thing?”

* * *

Later that night, after they got Mattie to bed, Graham spread his new quilt—the Gandiegow Star, she'd called it—in front of the fireplace. He loved that she'd made it especially for him. She'd prepared a plate of cheese and fruit plus two glasses of wine, but at this moment, Graham wanted only to soak her in.

Cait threw a couple of pillows on the floor, her eyes darting up to meet his and then back away. She was a little shy now and quiet. But all afternoon she'd chatted away about Mattie, the retreat, and everything that had gone on while he was away. He knew when he listened to her that she considered it foreplay. But he'd missed her voice and hearing her had made him smile.

He stepped in front of her and toyed with the top button of her blouse. “Are you happy, lass?” His voice sounded husky, even to himself. He was anxious as hell to get her naked, but he needed to know she was okay first.

She laid a soft hand on his cheek. “No one has ever been happier.”

“Do you think now I can show you how happy you've made me?” He ran a finger under her top button as he undid it.

She sucked in a breath. “Aye.” Her brogue was thick. “I had hoped you'd planned to.”

“Aye, plans.” He dipped his head down and kissed her neck. He was so turned on, but there were plans they needed to discuss and it had nothing to do with the quilting retreat. He switched to nibbling her ear. “I have to know, Caitie, will you be wanting to have a baby with me?” God, he loved this woman so much.

Her breath caught again, and he kissed her magnificent lips. It took a while for her to answer.

“I would love to give Mattie a brother or a sister.” She pulled his sweater over his head and ran her hands over his chest. “Or would it be an aunt or an uncle?”

Graham wrapped her in his arms and kissed her as he pulled her to the floor. “Aye,” was the last thing he said as he lost himself in her and the life that lay before them.

J
ust as Emma Castle's plane landed in Scotland, she pulled out her phone and viewed the incriminating evidence once again.
Bollocks.
The damned video had gone viral. Exactly as her boss back in Los Angeles—or now her ex-boss—had feared. She still couldn't believe it.
Fired.
Egghead Emma had been fired.

She watched the forty-eight-second clip for a third time. How superior her British accent sounded, how smug she looked, like she had all the answers. Those forty-eight seconds had irrevocably changed her future.
Thirty years old and already a washup.
Oh, bloody hell, what would she do now?

Well, that was why she was here sitting on the tarmac—hoping to figure things out with her best friend, Claire.

As the other passengers pulled down their bags and left the plane, Emma stared out the window at what looked like midnight. It was only seven p.m., but a blizzard was brewing. An accurate metaphor for her life. She slid her phone back into her pocket.

When the aisle cleared, she hurried off the plane and searched the waiting crowd. God, she'd missed her best friend. She'd hesitated only a moment when Claire had invited her to come to Gandiegow. Running away couldn't fix the predicament she'd gotten herself into, but it would give her a respite, and oh, how she needed a best-friend booster shot to help make things better. Then she could head to London to face Mum. Hopefully, by then she'd have a few things worked out, maybe even a plan of what to do next.

Emma's mobile rang; it was Claire.

“Where are you?” Emma scanned the faces around her. “Are you waiting at baggage reclaim?”

“Nay.” Claire paused, producing a long yawn. “I sent Gabriel to pick you up.”

“No,” Emma cried. The people around her turned and stared. At the same time, her mother's voice rang in her ear:
Losing one's temper is not in a proper Englishwoman's repertoire.

Hissing wasn't either, but Emma did it into the phone anyway. “For your sake, Claire, I hope you're speaking of Gabriel the archangel and not the other one.”

Claire gave her attitude right back. “Don't grumble at me. It's not my fault your flight was delayed. You know how early I have to get up.”

“Why couldn't your husband take the morning shift for you?”

Claire
tsk
ed. “The scones are
my
specialty. The restaurant depends upon them.”

Emma sighed heavily. “Yes, I know. But still . . .”

“Gabriel was a saint to offer,” Claire defended.

Yeah, right,
Emma thought.

Her friend went on. “Is he there yet?

“I don't know.” Gabriel would be the perfect end to her perfectly horrible day.

“Buck up, Emma. You're a grown woman. You can handle a few hours with him.” With that, Claire said good-bye and hung up.

Emma's temples began to throb. Claire was testing her patience as only Claire could. Gabriel MacGregor was incorrigible, plain and simple. Claire
knew
she couldn't stand being around him.

When Claire and Dominic had first coupled up, Emma had spent a fair amount of time in Gabriel's presence. Dominic and Gabriel were inseparable, closer than most brothers she knew. They were not biological brothers, but Gabriel's father had taken Dominic in when he had been orphaned.

Emma had visited Claire often back then and had been thrust into Gabriel's path over and over. He'd made a lasting impression but not in a good way. He had a way of flustering her that was very uncomfortable. For years now she'd successfully avoided him, making sure she had plenty of excuses at the ready if Gabriel was to be present. The last time she'd actually seen him was at Claire and Dominic's wedding, ten years ago. He'd shown up late, roaring in on his motorcycle, wearing a leather jacket, leather pants, and an earring. Undignified and unrefined, especially for the occasion. Even worse, he had stirred something deep inside her that she couldn't name. Ten minutes later, decked out in a tux, he'd smiled at her, tucked her arm into his and walked her down the aisle, best man to her maid of honor. He'd behaved appropriately during the ceremony, but then at the reception, he'd flirted with all the bridesmaids and had taken most of them back to his room for a pajama
party. Emma sniffed.
Certainly no pajamas had been involved.
And Egghead Emma hadn't been invited, either. Gabriel MacGregor with his deep Scottish burr was a scoundrel—a rake.

She sighed heavily. There would be no helping it. She'd be forced to spend the next several hours with him in the car, but thankfully, it would only be that. Surely he wouldn't be staying in Gandiegow.

Emma stowed her phone and realized she was being stared at by an extraordinarily handsome man. As a trained psychologist, she recognized within herself all the telltale signs of instant attraction. Her pulse raced, she involuntarily licked her lips, and she brushed her hair off her shoulder.

Then recognition hit.
Dr. Gabriel MacGregor.

Bugger me.

At twenty he'd been handsome, and she'd thought him a man. But now she saw she had been wrong. Dead wrong. He made the twenty-year-old Gabriel look young and wiry and inconsequential. This man had muscles filling out his long-sleeved polo, the breadth of an American football player, and the stance of a Scottish warrior. She did it again. Licked her lips.
I'm in deep trouble.

He made his way through the crowd to her, not smiling, not happy to see her, either. In truth, she couldn't blame him. She had been a pill at Claire's wedding, but she had wanted everything to run smoothly for her friend's big day. Emma might've crossed the line by scolding Gabriel at his tardiness. And she'd definitely given him plenty of attitude during the reception about his
tart-iness.
All those women, indeed.

“Do you have more luggage?” he said in his firm baritone burr.

It ran over her like warm syrup. No, butter. No . . . She fanned herself. She was incensed at her own visceral reaction.
And he hadn't given her a proper greeting
. At least she could be civilized.

“Hello, Gabriel.” She felt her nose lift higher in the air. It might have been misconstrued as snooty, but seriously, the man was six-three if he was an inch. She cranked her head back to inspect his face.

He gave her a one-sided frown and seemed to be inspecting her, too. But not her face.

“You filled out,” he said.

Instinctively, she put a hand over her breasts. Her cheeks burned. She started to give him a piece of her mind, but then she got angry with herself for letting him provoke her.

Defiantly, she put her hand down and stuck out her chest. “Look all you want. They expanded all on their own. Without surgical intervention.”

“No reason to get your panties in a twist. I only meant it as a compliment.” He continued to feast his eyes on her.

She put her hands on her hips and glared back. “Are you done yet?”

“For now.” He gave her an unrepentant grin.
Still the rogue.

“Yes, I have more luggage,” she said, answering his earlier question.

“Fine.” Without permission he reached for her carry-on.

She grabbed his arm, stopping him. In the process, her fingers landed on an anvil-hard bicep. She yanked her hand away and snipped at him. “I have it. Thank you.” She tugged her bag back. “Your hands are filthy.”

As he glanced down at the grease under his fingernails, she took the opportunity to head off to the baggage reclaim, all the while giving herself a stern lecture. Getting grease off her Louis Vuitton luggage wasn't the issue. He was a dog and not the harmless type, either.

I can't be attracted to Gabriel MacGregor. Not again. I just can't.
What self-respecting woman would want to get involved with a cad like him?

And those hands.
His hands didn't look like doctors' hands—soft and delicate. He had the hands of an oil rig mechanic.

She also noticed he didn't wear a wedding band.

Of course, Claire would've told her if Gabriel had married, wouldn't she? She'd told Emma when he'd suddenly gone off to medical school. Emma hadn't believed it at the time, assuring herself that he would certainly work in a grimy garage for the rest of his life.

Oh dear.
Her thoughts did sound priggish, didn't they? But Gabriel seemed to bring the worst out in her. She'd treated him abominably back then, and she felt herself heading down the same path now. She would never be as serene and proper as her mother would like—all that etiquette training down the drain. Over the years, Emma had tried to be the person her mother wanted her to be, but she'd fallen short. She'd also fallen short of the person she wanted to be. Hell, she was still trying to figure out who that person might be.

With his long legs, Gabriel caught up to her; she automatically glanced over. He was all hard lines and pheromones.

“Why are you frowning?” he asked.

“I'm having a difficult time seeing you as a physician.” She probably should have kept her sentiments to herself,
but they'd always spoken their minds to each other, the truth flowing easily between them.
Each of us giving the other more candor than Mum's society friends would approve.
“Unless, of course, you use your title primarily as a way to pick up women.”

He frowned at her. “Princess, are we going to get off on the wrong foot again?”

“That depends on you,” she spouted. She did her best to sound assertive and unruffled, even though she felt unraveled and unsure. Seeing him didn't help. The last thirty-six hours had left her more than a little battered and bruised. She'd been fired and displaced. If he could have seen inside her—see the real Emma Castle—he'd know she wasn't such a snob. She didn't have all the answers. In fact, he'd see how she was questioning every aspect of her life and every choice she'd ever made.

She put the focus back on him to take it off herself. It helped her feel less uncomfortable. She raked her eyes over him unabashedly. Doctors were supposed to be old and nerdy. Doctors were supposed to instill a sense of calm and trust. Doctors were not supposed to conjure up all sorts of vivid images of a steamy nature. Yes, she could definitely imagine Dr. Gabriel MacGregor in his lab coat
playing doctor
. Just the thought sent a warm, nervous tingle zipping through her veins, throwing her limbic system into a tizzy.
Gads.

It rankled her that he, a former grease monkey, had made something of himself. Her only claim to fame was that she'd succeeded in becoming a huge failure. But she couldn't let him see how vulnerable she felt. No doubt he'd take advantage of it. She had to admit that he had every right to fling one of her past sermons back into her face.
It's time to become an actual adult and contribute
something to society.
The amount of bull she'd dished out regularly to him in their younger days was embarrassing. Especially since, by anyone's standards, she was the screw- up now.

At the baggage carousel, she intended to corral her own luggage, but she'd packed too heavy. In the end, Gabriel stepped in and hoisted her bag off, acting as if it were nothing more than cotton balls in his surgery. “Saint Gabriel,” she muttered under her breath.

He raised a superior eyebrow at her. “
Thank you
is the
proper
response. Has Miss Manners forgotten how to comport herself?”

Him and his bloody burr.

And accuracy.

Yes, she should've taken the high road and been grateful. But he made her forget she was supposed to be a lady.

With a huff, she pulled the handle up on her bag.

“What's in there, by the way?” He pointed to her rolling suitcase. “It weighs at least ten stone.”

“Books.” She would make no apologies. She'd packed as many books as clothes, planning to use reading as her escape from her disastrous life.

“Well, we'd better get a move on. There's a winter storm blowing outside,” he offered. “I was afraid you might be diverted to London. But you made it just in time.” He looked up at the board as the announcement came over the loud speaker. All flights were canceled.

As they hurried through the terminal, she couldn't stop peering over at him. He was so damned good-looking. A proper English deb did not swear, not even in her own thoughts, but once again, Gabriel had her behaving quite horrendously.

“Emma,” he said impatiently, “why are you staring?”

“I . . . uhhh.” She sounded like an imbecile. Had his hair always looked this enticing? Enough so that she wanted to run her hands through it? She wondered if Gabriel was in a relationship.

“Well?” he said impatiently.

“Well, what?” She felt stupid for zoning out.

He frowned at her as if disappointed she couldn't keep up.

“Listen,” she countered back, “I've been traveling for the last twenty-four hours. Cut me some slack.” She'd been in America for far too long, adopting some of its terrible language habits.

“Fine.
Slack cut
,” he said.

Emma felt like they'd been trekking for miles through the terminal. Maybe she'd been rash by not allowing Gabriel to help. Her arms felt like deadweight, tired from maneuvering both her carry-on and the checked bag behind her.

Before they stepped outside, Emma stopped to button her suit jacket. But when she left the terminal, she found her effort was in vain. It was bloody miserable—cold as freezer frost. Wind blew up her long pencil skirt and froze both her legs and her nether regions. Her lined suit jacket couldn't keep out the cold either as the snow whirled all around them. “This is quite an adjustment,” she hollered above the wind.