KiltedForPleasure (10 page)

It was a pretty shell before since it had lovely detailing on the wooden tables. And those pretty tables were surrounded by sturdy chairs with red cushions. How could she forget the framed tartans decorating the walls? No matter the colors, they all seemed to compliment the gleaming bartop.

But now there was something almost sacred to the echo of the voices filling the pub. Even the ceiling mirror didn’t seem so gaudy. It was just a different perspective of the same scene.

More than half the people had to be regulars. They took to the seats as though they had their names on it. She watched it all and fell a little bit in love with Douglass too. He’d made a place that people stood outside the doors, impatient to enter.

Once Baird greeted more than his share of patrons, he manned the draft. Maybe five minutes later a black-haired beauty slipped behind the counter, kissed him on the cheek and then threw on a dark blue apron. Victoria caught a flash of forest green eyes as the woman greeted her own fair share of patrons.

Envy gripped her heart. Victoria wished she understood what the people around her were saying just so she could join in, but it was like being in the Bayou. She knew they were speaking English—their own kind that was filled with shorthand and slang.

Victoria didn’t mind being the fish out of water, because eventually, no matter where she was, her location would start to feel like home. She considered the booze again on the bartop.
Oh. Yeah
. She would probably regret her actions in a few hours, but she slammed back her drink. Soon she’d mingle. She sighed and the sound was full of contentment.

Someone grabbed her from behind, yanking her out of the moment. A yelp squeaked out her throat and she was rudely turned around within the next breath. The sharp and fierce words she started to throw at the stranger clogged in her throat.

Callan’s hair was a finger-combed mess. Dampness clung to his thick black coat, and he looked pissed. At her. He gripped her chin with his thumb and forefinger and glared.

“Daft.” His voice barely rose above a whisper as though anger had stolen any higher octave. “Fucking daft.”

“Excuse me?”

He made a sound of disgust and pulled the glass out of her fist. “How many did you have?”

She tried to push back the solid wall of him, but Callan was immovable. He’d left little room between them. His legs bracketing hers felt too damn good despite the unspent anger vibrating through him. He smelled of rain and sandalwood.

“I only had two.”

His dark brows lowered. “You do not drink anything Baird gives you unless you recognize the name.”

She pursed her lips. They really, really felt tingly now. “The bottle had Baird Whiskey on it.”

“Whiskey?” From his tone Callan might as well have said anthrax. “More like moonshine. I hope you called your family and told them you loved them.”

“Pfft.” And, oh, she sounded a bit drunk. “I talked to my mother yesterday, matter of fact, and I did tell her I loved her. I miss her,” she added, a bit surprised at the sudden sweep of melancholy.

“Baird,” Callan barked at his uncle without moving his angry gaze from her.

“Laddie!” Baird greeted his nephew, sounding so pleased. “You made it.”

She glared over her shoulder at the man.
That’s what he’d done
. Victoria tried to remember if she’d seen him on the phone and couldn’t recall. He must have sent a missive to Callan when she’d straightened up his room. He’d been out of earshot for at least ten minutes before she ordered him to help.

Defeat lowered her shoulders. “What did he tell you? And why did you come?”

“He told me you were helping him in the pub today.” Callan hesitated. “And that you looked sad.”

Had she? Every so often when she was making a mental to-do list for work, Callan had slipped into her thoughts. Her mind would fixate on his touch and how she could almost feel it, miss it. Shit.

She never had much of a poker face, but she tried now anyway. “Well, he lied. Move back. I can’t breathe with you so close.”

He gripped her chin again. “Are you sure you only had two?”

She pushed out an irritated sigh. “I can count.”

Appearing satisfied with her answer, he nodded. “When was your last drink?”

“Right before you came in here to manhandle me.” Despite the cold outside, he was warm. She stiffened her back to keep from leaning into him.

“I’ll drive you back.” He shoved his free hand through his hair, tousling it more. “You’re in no condition and won’t be. Takes another twenty minutes to feel the full brunt.”

The slightly tipsy part of her was pleased he had come to her rescue, but she hadn’t drunk that much. “You called me stupid. I take offense.”

“You drank Baird’s moonshine. I was being honest,” he reminded her.

She hated that. He was often right. The bastard. “I think you’d die, right on the spot, if you ever apologized for being rude.”

“Do you know what happens to people who drink his moonshine?” He pointed to a man who sat at the other end of the counter. He looked in his late forties. Dark brown hair, furrowed brows and he was nursing a Coke. “He did once. Let’s go ask him about the time he married his third cousin.”

She tried to stay angry, but her laugh undermined her. “You’re so dramatic. You should have a drink.”

He didn’t smile back. “Come on. We’re taking you upstairs before he talks you into another. I’ll put some food in you.”

She swatted his hands away. “I’m fine. I’ve never been to a pub before. I think the people are nice. Though they could lend a hand. Do you rough up women often? Is that why they aren’t bothered by it now?”

“Burke.” Apparently, he’d reached the end of his short patience.

She hated that she liked that about him.
Bothered. Right to her core.
She needed to know why she liked his bark and loved his bite. Until she had that answer, going anywhere alone with him was probably a bad idea. “Do you, though? Rough women up? You have a temper.”

He sighed and released her. “So stubborn.”

“Such a jackass.”

He shook his head, his lips pulling together like he was fighting a smile. “Baird, pour me a pint. I’m going to need it.”

She laughed and turned to the man beside her. She offered him her hand. “I’m Victoria. Baird’s new caregiver. You are?”

The man had to be in his late thirties. He wore a track suit and a gold chain around his neck. She could honestly say he’d be the first ginger she’d ever seen rocking a mullet. “A Yank can call me Bobbie. Where’d he find yer?”

She bit into her lip until she got it. “Oh. His doorstep. Callan hired me. Are you a regular?”

“This here is my spot. Never had such a good view before.”

She could believe it. Though the place was packed, women were slim. The ones she had seen looked closer to the Baird’s age. She’d also noticed he’d winked at more than a few. If this is where Baird’s boys grew up, she could understand why they suffered from a constant testosterone overload.

Callan shifted at her side and put a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off, ignoring him. Glasgow was supposed to be her haven away from him and here he was grouching at her. But she couldn’t say he was wrong about the booze at least. Her fingertips and earlobes had started to tingle like crazy. Baird’s moonshine was bound to kill her in a few hours.

She decided to make the most of the time she had left on this earth and continued to have a semi-coherent conversation with Bobbie. Unfortunately at the end of his pint, he decided talking wasn’t good enough. He placed his beefy, moist hand on her knee.

She smiled and knew her dimple would give him the impression of being sweet and kind. “Bobbie, are you fond of your hand?”

He gave her knee a squeeze and winked at her. “I like where it is right now. You’re a soft lassie.”

“I’m giving you five seconds to move it.” She leaned back, giving him her best bitchy glare. She felt Callan tense and then move behind her. “If you choose not to, then I’m going to get mean.”

His face turned an impressive shade of red. His fingers dug in. “You teasing cu—”

A fist flying over her left shoulder ended his sentence. Bobbie fell ass over teakettle in the chair. Victoria’s mouth dropped down. She knew who had hit him and could even guess the reason why, but shock stilled her and seemed to slow down time.

Silence suddenly filled the pub. Several patrons turned in their seats. She could only imagine what this scene looked like. Her mouth wide enough to catch flies. Callan moving from behind her and rolling his shoulders. Bobbie laid out on the pub’s floor. Two more beats filled with silence passed and then the quiet was punctuated with a roar. It took her a few seconds to realize it was applause of all things.

“The bastard deserved worse,” a woman’s voice piped up.

Victoria turned to see it was the woman helping Baird behind the counter. Her green eyes were bright as she smiled. “He gropes me when he thinks no one is looking. Thank you, Callan. Pint on the house.”

“Not a problem, Davina.” He sounded calm, almost jovial. “He should have been worried about what Burke would have done. I’ve seen her mean.”

Everything had happened so fast, and Callan didn’t even look ruffled. Victoria stammered, still a bit stunned. “You punched him.”

A rustle came from the floor and then curses floated in the air. Bobbie rose with his fists raised and ready for round two. She took in Callan’s lazy stance and broody brow. On the surface he appeared unfazed. The problem was she recognized the intensity in his stare. This wouldn’t end well.

“Stay down, you idiot,” Victoria urged Bobbie. “He came in spoiling for a fight and you gave him a good excuse. Sit and apologize to Davina. If not, she just might encourage him to hit you harder this time.”

Bobbie spat out blood near her feet. “Fuck you, lassie.”

Victoria huffed. Some people. “Well, I tried,” she said without an ounce of remorse.

Callan stepped around her fully. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked like money changed hands between many patrons right before Callan grabbed Bobbie by the collar and dragged him outside. Some people had no shame and followed them. She turned to Davina, her head still reeling at how fast things had turned to shit.

The younger woman laughed. “You tried?”

“I don’t condone violence, but he planned to call me a cunt.” A crowd grew right by the windows to watch the events transpiring outside. Only a small vindictive part of her wanted to watch too. She sighed. “Tell Baird I’m going up to eat. I don’t think I want to know how it all ends.”

Davina’s brows rose. “You don’t want a pint instead?”

She glanced down at her tingling fingers. Adrenalin and booze had turned the tips red. She winced. “Best if I don’t.”

Davina sobered for a moment. “Bobbie has a head like a brick. He gets into it with someone at least once a week for his mannish behavior.”

That news didn’t surprise her. “And here I thought I was special.”

The younger woman pursed her lips, suddenly looking much older than her twenties. “You know the last time Callan clocked a manky bastard for saying something untoward?”

Don’t ask. Don’t care.
“When?”

“Never. He usually fights with his cousins and that’s about it.”

“Fuck me,” she muttered low enough so the other woman couldn’t hear her.

Thankfully, another customer had flagged down Davina. Taking full advantage of the unexpected reprieve, Victoria made her way up to Baird’s flat and let the events of the day add up. Cotton may have filled her head but there was no doubt her brain still worked. Earlier she’d been too wrapped up in her thoughts to see the truth—this was all part of Papa Baird’s plan.

He had made sure to call Callan to imply she was sad and willing to fall into the Baird’s whiskey like a fish needing water. Baird knew his patrons, knew their seats and had made sure Victoria sat next to the only person in the pub who would step out of line.

Most importantly, Baird knew his boys. Callan was…temperamental. He would have had hours to stew on his drive up here to
save the Yank
. The Yank who had avoided him for days. She slammed Baird’s door and stomped to the kitchen because she was daft. To be fair to herself, Baird had years to hone his cunning nature.

Victoria took comfort in the fact his flat was clean. Not quite as pristine as the pub but enough so she could take the solace in the quiet before the storm hit. She pulled off a clean kitchen towel from the oven and threw some ice into it for a makeshift ice pack. Then she waited.

Since she’d caught onto Baird’s schemes, Callan would know she was upstairs, waiting for him, because this was what the whole day had been leading up to. Her being forced to look in the mirror, to face the woman who just might like being spanked. Papa Baird wouldn’t know that but maybe the man could sense the shift within her.

Until that moment came, she blanked her mind, prepped some tea and heated up one of the many casseroles she’d made for Baird. By the time Callan strolled into the flat, the ice had melted enough to make it perfectly cold. He sat down at the table without a word and looked at her.

Other than the small cut on his chin, Callan’s face bore no sign of a fistfight. His hands had taken the brunt of the beating. The knot in her stomach she hadn’t acknowledged loosened with the wash of relief. She picked up the ice, stood beside him and placed the makeshift pack on his chin.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. “I didn’t do it for you.”

Ah. Consistent. She pressed the ice down harder than necessary. He winced and then chuckled.

The laugh changed the contours of his face and it beat back the ever-present darkness in his eyes. She brushed a thumb over one of his laugh lines, thinking of all the things she wanted to say and finally chose, “Good.” More words climbed up and she swallowed, scared at the need to even add more. “I would hate to think you took offense on my behalf. Or felt jealous.”

“Lower,” he murmured.

She adjusted the ice. He sighed and closed his eyes, but his fingers didn’t stay still. He drew circles along her hip. Before they’d had sex that action would have sent a tingle throughout her entire body, a yearning to know exactly how that same caress would feel on her bare skin.