His Lass Wears Tartan (8 page)

Jonathan had made it clear that the staff should leave only an undersized fare of finger sandwiches and fruit on a side table, as the writers would be responsible for quite a bit of work before class started up again in the afternoon. His remark still stuck in her mind: “The writers should take their bit of nourishment, huddle into their rooms or some corner space, and concentrate on their writing exercise of the day. Remember, they will have no time for high tea.”

So Rogue stood near the food table, making sure everyone was taken care of with bottles of water or juice and jotting notes on a tablet for Putney. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end before she realized Jonathan had come up behind her. She turned her head; lengthy tendrils of dark hair curtained the side of his face as he watched the writers leave.

He cleared his throat. “I was in the midst of what has become rather a ritual at this time of day during my stay here, a communication of sorts with myself, when I realized perhaps I should do something of immeasurable difference today.”

“And what might that be?” Rogue asked. She tried focusing on her task, but the small crowd had already dissipated, leaving her alone with Jonathan and nowhere else to look but at the attractive man in black.

“Inspiration has moved me to impetuously ask for your company during the midday meal.” Jonathan moved closer. “Far be it from me to interrupt your duties. As such, I implore you to allow me these precious moments of time with you.”

His eyes locked on hers; the flaming intensity bored straight into her heart. “I, I could put together a picnic lunch if you’d like to sit outside.” Rogue warmed up to her own suggestion, an intimate feast alfresco sounded charming, romantic. “Today’s sunshine proves that Scottish weather isn’t constantly gray. We should take advantage of it.”

Jonathan bowed with a wicked grin. “Then by all means, I would be pleased to meet you near the front door when you’re ready.”

He sauntered off, and Rogue watched him leave, his shoulders straight and head high, before heading to the kitchen.

Opening cabinets and slamming the doors, Rogue found the wicker basket on the third try. Setting it up on the oak table, she grabbed plates, glasses, utensils, and a bottle of wine, setting them inside. Along with cucumber sandwiches and fruit, she added a container of biscuits and sweets.

Putney was watching her movements, and Rogue squared her shoulders. “Yes, Jonathan and I are going for a picnic in front of the castle.” She laughed and grabbed an old blanket from the hall cupboard, heading for the front door. Even this slight deviation from her usual exit made the event more special.

Jonathan, who posed elegantly by the entrance wall, slowly moved toward her. “Despite what I am certain are excellent delicacies from your kitchen, I will find nothing more delightful than you during our meal.” He took the basket from her grasp and put the blanket over his arm with a quick grimace, immediately erased. “Please lead the way, indeed, my dear.”

She opened the door as if in a trance, and blinding sunlight filled the foyer and her mind. She noticed briefly out of the corner of her eyes the lanky gray dog standing back in the shadows of the hallway. She could have sworn she heard a low, menacing growl.
Silly dog. This picnic food is not for you, Diva.

• • •

Rogue stepped into tour guide mode, showing Jonathan the iron grate above the archway leading out. To reach the main bridge over the moat, Rogue led him through an intimate inner bailey where the massive, solid doors stayed open.

“Long ago, castle security against the enemy, be it English or another clan, was tantamount.” The sun draped across her face like a delicious warm pack and elevated her mood beyond ecstasy.

“Charming yet brutal, stark.” Jonathan looked around him. “There is so little regard for the past in my world unless on a movie screen or a backdrop at a party. I’m more in tune with the high social life of nightclubs and international soirees.”

She leaned against the bridge’s railing. “Well, for now I thought we could picnic by the moat in the grass there.”

“Certainly you jest.” Jonathan stopped in front of her. A chuckle caught in his throat. “Sit on the ground? How barbaric.”

“Excuse me?”

“Perhaps we should try something a little more distinctive. Do you not have a quaint table and chairs available, like a bistro of sorts?” He sniffed. He’d left his hair down, and the breeze caught the flowing curls, flicking them behind his shoulders in a dramatic cinema fashion.

How does he do that? Usually my hair ends up in my face, nicking me in the eye a time or two when there’s a breeze.
“I’m afraid I dinna have anything more formal set up. Would you like a table?”

“Yes, I assure you I will be much better company if we are sitting like civilized people during our meal.”

Rogue scrambled for words. Civilized? She’d offered the man a picnic, not a fancy
taigh-bìdhe.
“Please excuse me, I’ll have the staff prepare a setting for us.” Before she’d completed her sentence, the man tucked a Bluetooth piece in his ear, dismissing her, and began a phone conversation.

In minutes, a handful of young men brought out a portable table, chairs, and a linen tablecloth. Another man carried a silver tray with matching salt and pepper shakers plus a petite vase of white heather and ivy.

“This will do.” Jonathan pulled out her chair and whispered in her ear, “Think of ourselves at a Parisan café watching the many peasants walk by. I shall try to control myself under the table, but you are most tempting, my dear.”

Goose bumps spread down her arms from the heat of his words. She could smell a floral wave, almost overwhelming her senses as he lingered at her bare neck.
He reeks.
He must have bathed in cologne while she’d packed their lunch. Gillian would be rolling his eyes at this faux pas.

While Rogue set out the china plates and cutlery, Jonathan snatched the bottle of wine from the basket.

“If I may.” He pulled an opener from his jacket pocket. “Something I obtained during one of my many travels. Paris, I believe. See, you must let me take to you the fabulous places I know. We could summer on an island in Greece.”

The wine flowed freely and mainly into Jonathan’s glass as his trifling portion of food remained untouched. He kept up a running dialogue about himself, which she supposed was for her entertainment, but the more he rambled, the more her romantic spirits melted away.
He’s no more than a pompous, self-centered ego hidden inside a gorgeous shell.
Not unlike most of the male celebrities and royalty she’d met during various events at the castle. Her heart sank.

“I have become well acquainted with the vicissitudes of life, but I find the aura, the enchantment, of your home enticing.” His voice droned on.

Rogue repacked the basket and leaned in toward him. “I hate to interrupt your engaging story, but I am needed elsewhere. I have a sweet mare in labor and need to head for the stables.”

His face flinched with a flash of disgust, quickly replaced by a more appealing grin. “How will I endure without your company at my side this afternoon? I thought we’d have the rest of the day to spend together.”

“You’re welcome to come out to the stables with me.”
Please, please say no.

He broke into a hearty laugh. “No, my dear princess, I don’t ‘do’ horses.” He wiped a finger beneath the corner of his eye from the sudden merriment. “Where is your stable manager? Shouldn’t he be in charge of the birthing?”

She tried not to grind her teeth.

“You have the wealth, indeed. Why would you dirty those delicious hands in the filth of a barn?”

Rogue stood suddenly, throwing her napkin on the table and biting her tongue, holding back a rage of fury against his snobbishness. Jonathan took his time unfolding from his chair and drained his wine glass.

“Far be it from me to stand in the way of what you deem to be of the utmost importance. I am at your service ... for any indoor activities.” A Cheshire cat grin filled his face.

She froze, her hands still clenched at her sides. His smile made her breath catch, but his words had more of an impact. Indoor activities sent a slight shiver down her spine, slowly melting her rigid stance. A merriment twinkled in his eyes, captivating her in a tingling heat, and she carefully grasped the back of her chair for support.

“Forgive my boorish behavior just now. I blame the wine and your exquisiteness. Let me escort you back to the castle, at least.” He stepped to her side and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.

Without another thought in her clouded, puzzled mind, she walked beside him back across the bridge.

• • •

Still flustered from the snarky turn her lunch took with Jonathan, Rogue changed into her jeans and boots then rushed down the stairs. Mumbling to herself with her head down, she moved toward the kitchen door just as Bruce opened it carrying a box of vegetables and almost smacked her in the face.

“Are you all right? I didn’t expect anyone to be close to the door.” Bruce set the crate down and ran a shaky hand through his ruffled hair. “This running into each other is becoming more dangerous by the day.”

“It’s my fault,” she said with a sigh. “I wasna watching where I was going. Sorry, sorry.”

Bruce put a reddened hand on her shoulder. “Hey, no harm done. Why ya looking so gloomy?”

Her gaze locked on to the concern in his intense green eyes while a delicious fervor spread where his hand touched her. What was the matter with her? How did women flip their thoughts from one guy to another? She felt staged inside a romantic comedy without a script. She forced the edges of her lips into a smile.

“That’s better.” Bruce smiled back at her, taking his hand from her shoulder and putting it in his back pocket with a nervous jerk. “I heard your gigantic beast when coming in. Seems tension is running amok around here.”

“He’s got a wee foal due anytime now and doesna like being patient for no one. I was on my way to check on the mama.”

“Might I come along with you?” Bruce pulled the clipboard from the crate and quickly handed it to Putney for a signature. “I’ve never been much of a horseman myself, but ya gotta love the four-footed
bairns
.”

“Uh, sure. If you’re done here, let’s go.” He loved horses? She stared at his ruddy, bare arms and well-fit jeans, absorbing his excitement, and like a wizard passing a wand overhead, she looked forward to her day stretching out ahead.

Putney gave the lad back the clipboard and chuckled. “Careful she doesna put you to work out there. She can be quite pushy in her stables, lad.”

“Says who?” Rogue yanked on the wooden door and led the way outdoors.

“Here, let me throw this in the truck.” Bruce tossed the clipboard on the front seat and the empty crate against the truck. “You sure that black devil Dougal will no mind me being so close to his mare? He would seem to be a temperamental father.”

She slid her arm through Bruce’s and then laughed when his eyebrows shot up. “I’ll protect ya from the beast.”

Walking out of the bright light into the cool, dark stables, Rogue took a deep breath, enjoying the familiar scents. “Best perfume ever. Too bad ya canna buy this in a bottle.”

Bruce’s mouth opened and closed. “Woman, ya’ve gone daft. I canna believe you’d even describe the smell of a horse as a perfume. It’s okay, earthy and all, I guess. I mean it doesna stink in here.”

Rogue took her arm away from Bruce and gave his shoulder a playful shove before walking away.

“Ya donna see me pining for a men’s cologne of fresh vegetables.” Bruce followed her to a stall in the back.

Soft snuffles and snorts came from a standing satin-black mare in the gated enclosure. Her enlarged stomach made her massive Friesian presence even more impressive. Rogue climbed over the low fencing and cooed at the pregnant mare, approaching with her right arm extended.

“Hey, my girl. Dinna think I would leave you alone, did ya? Ssh, all is fine.” She looked back over her shoulder where Bruce had propped his foot on the lower rung and crossed his arms watching them both. His eyes were wide, focused, and she felt a flutter in her heart at the odd grin on his face.

“Miss Scotlynn here was my first foal to raise myself. What a darling she was, prancing about when I first got her. She turned out right gorgeous, aye?” Rogue ran her hand over the mare’s damp neck.

Making a strange sound in his throat, Bruce said, “Did I hear you right? Ya named your horse Scotland, after our native land?”

She sniffed and raised her chin up a bit. “Her name is spelled S-c-o-t-l-y-n-n. Scotlynn Rose, she is. Finest sweet beauty in all the moors. Are you not, my wee girl?”

“And now you’re calling her a wee girl. Have you noticed ya barely come up to her shoulder as it is? I’d hardly call this mothering horse
wee
.” Bruce gently shook his head. “Ya got horses on the brain, woman. Affected quite seriously with the illness it seems. Do they say there’s any hope for a cure?” They both laughed.

“Hand me the brush beside ya, Bruce.” Rogue kept one hand on the horse and reached out with the other. “Just a little grooming before the big event.” Taking a handful of long black mane, Rogue tenderly ran the brush through its length. “Have ya ever been riding, Bruce?”

“Me? Ah, no. My da wasna too keen on animals larger than himself. I don’t remember my ma ever saying anything about horses, so I don’t know if she ever rode as a child or not. Did you ride as a young girl?”

She ducked her head against the warm horse flesh and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. She paused a moment before answering him. “No, I lived in the city during the early years until I ran away as a young teen. Actually, that’s where I first met my Dougal. He was trying to fight his way out of a horse trailer, and I happened to be nearby, hearing his screams. It was if he was calling me, begging me to help him. The man with the truck, the man who owned him, tried to keep me away from the horse, said he was too dangerous for the likes of me. But Dougal settled right down for me once I had the chance to talk to him.”

Rogue took a ribbon out of her pocket, draping it on her shoulder, and started braiding the long strands of mane in her hands. Bruce didn’t say a word as she glanced over. “From that moment in the streets of the city, I knew we would never part, Dougal and I. I can’t tell ya why, but it was as if the spirits themselves had led me to that street, at that time to find him. The man gave me his kind heart, too, and adopted me. He brought me here, to Baillie Castle, and me not knowing a thing about my real last name or where I came from. He was the rightful Baillie heir at the time. I miss him something awful.”