Meet Me in Scotland (6 page)

Gabe settled in next to Mattie. “Okay if I rest here a moment?”

Mattie glanced over at him and shrugged.

He pointed to the seashells. “May I?”

Mattie nodded.

Gabe picked up a medium-sized white one, turned it over, and examined it. “I like to come up here to think. It's peaceful. A good place to work things out.”

Mattie gave him a knowing look. The poor kid probably came here to get a break from Cait's grandma, Deydie, and her gaggle of quilting ladies—Bethia, Rhona, Ailsa, Aileen, Amy, and Moira. It was a constant buzz when it came to the women of Gandiegow. And exhausting.

They also had the biggest hearts Gabe had ever seen.
Except when it comes to their new doc.
He guessed it wasn't such a bad thing that Mattie spent so much
time with the quilters, especially since Cait was such a fine person. She'd definitely been the only one who had tried, sincerely tried, to make Gabe feel welcome. She'd also been instrumental in bringing Dominic and Claire here.

Gabe gently placed the shell back where it had been. “How about I walk you home?”

Mattie tipped his head to his father's gravestone, as if to say,
I'll see ya later, Da,
then walked off with Gabe, kicking the snow with his boots like all boys do.

“I try to get out and walk to the top of the bluff most days. Can I come by and get you if you're not in school?” Graham was out of the country, making a film. Gabe figured the kid could use another male in his life. “I'd like the company.”

Mattie nodded again.

They walked along in silence toward Graham's mansion. It sat on the bluff above the town, close to the ruins of Monadail Castle, a good stretch between it and the cemetery. Gabe kept a slow pace because his stride was twice that of the boy's. He glanced down. He was a good kid and seemed relatively happy, considering the crap that had happened to him.

When they got to the back door, Gabe stopped. “Shall I be leavin' ye?”

Mattie nodded, but then the door opened and there stood Deydie, as old as the rocks on the bluff, with a broom in her hand.

“I was wondering when ye'd be back,” she said to Mattie. She dipped her head at Gabe in deference but not with any true warmth. “What can I be doing for ye, Doc?”

“Just seeing Mattie to his door, is all.” Gabe gave her an extra-friendly smile. If he could win Deydie over, he was sure the rest of the village would follow.

Deydie frowned at him, as if to work out whether she should ask him in or not.

Gabe made a rash decision. “Can I speak with you a moment, Ms. McCracken?”

“I told ye, me name is Deydie.” She waggled her broom as if she might smack him with it. No mistaking it: Deydie, Cait's crotchety gran and Mattie's stand-in great-gran, was a force to be reckoned with. She turned to Mattie. “Go get Dingus and take that dog out.” She stepped out on the porch and lifted her eyebrow.

Gabe jumped into the thick of it. “As the town doctor, I was wondering if Mattie has had any therapy to help him overcome his mutism.”

Deydie scowled at him like it was none of his damned business, but then finally answered, “Caitie and Graham had him seeing a man,
a therapist
, in Inverness last summer, but they let the lad take a break when school started.” She leaned in like she might be confiding in him, but the glower on her face said otherwise. “Ain't nothing wrong with wee Mattie. He's just a mite quiet—that's all.”

Mattie opened the door and his sheltie went tearing out into the yard, yapping for all of Gandiegow to hear.

“Thank you for the information,” Gabe said. He turned to the boy. “Remember, I'll be by for us to take our walk.”

Mattie smiled back and then ran off after the dog.

“Ye're not going to meddle, are you?” Deydie swished her broom.

“No.” Gabe took a step back. “I just thought Mattie might be missing his grandda and he might enjoy spending some time together.”

“Gandiegow doesn't like meddlers. But ye can come by some and get the boy for a walk. As long as you don't
meddle.” Deydie nodded and then shut the door in Gabe's face.

He exhaled, not realizing he'd been holding his breath during the exchange. That woman was downright frightening.

Aye, the town had made it perfectly clear, too: Gandiegow did not take well to strangers. He wondered how long before they would embrace him or at least accept him as their physician.
Bluidy hell.
Small towns were not easy, especially when you weren't one of their own.

But he had little control over whether they accepted him or not. This town was only a small part of the growing list that constituted his problems. He didn't know what he was going to do about Dom and Claire, how he was going to solve their issue. Especially if Emma insisted she wasn't going to help.

Another picture of Emma Castle came to mind—of her in her tailored, overcrowded blouse. He exhaled deeply, fantasizing about undoing the buttons and burying his face in her chest. Damn, the image banging around in his head was going to kill him. But the image that affected him more was the lost look he saw on her face as she explained how she'd given up marriage counseling.

God, he needed to get a grip. Neither his mechanic skills nor his medical ones could fix what ailed him—his attraction to her.

E
mma went downstairs and found Claire up to her elbows in soapy water, humming a lilting tune. Emma breathed a sigh of relief; the Russos must have resolved their problems.

Claire twisted around and smiled like she'd discovered the perfect scone recipe. “I've figured it all out.”

“What?” Emma looked around, but Dominic was nowhere in sight. “What have you figured out?”

“I don't have anything to worry about,” Claire cooed. “I just need to remind Dominic what's important to him.”

A sinking feeling came over Emma, like she'd fallen into a pit and dirt was being shoveled on top.

Conniving Claire is back.

The girl who'd gotten them in a heap of trouble at boarding school. The girl who'd convinced Emma to help fill the headmistress' office with wads of paper from the floor to the ceiling. The girl who'd procured pruning shears and shaped the bushes in the quadrangle into phallic statues. And poor Jenny Montague should've thought twice before stabbing Conniving Claire in the back. Claire used a hair dryer to get revenge, blowing a kilo of flour under the crack of Jenny's dorm door. When Jenny returned, all her things were buried in dust.

“Don't you want to know what I've figured out?” Claire said.

No, not really.
“If you must.”

“I just need to flash Dominic the girls.” She laughed. “He won't be able to resist. That man is like dough in my hands whenever I give him a wee bit of flesh to ogle.”

Good. Child's play
. Maybe Claire wasn't reverting back to her avenging younger days.

The restaurant's front door slammed.

“Is that him?” Claire wiped off her hands.

Emma peeked into the restaurant. Dominic was wheeling in a cart of supplies.

“Yes, but—”

“Good.” Claire slipped off her apron and undid the top three buttons of her sweater. “This should do it.”

The girls made an appearance, enough cleavage to make a eunuch sweat.

“Claire, we need to talk,” Emma tried.

But her friend was too busy hiking her skirt above her knees to listen. She grinned up at Emma. “Dominic does like my goodies. I think I'll go and give him a little taste of what he's going to miss.” She pranced from the kitchen like a Scottish doe in heat.

Emma followed her into the dining area, planning on stopping her, but Claire had already leaned her hip up against the counter. Dominic kept his head down while he unloaded a box of sausages from the wagon.

She captured his hand. “Do you need any help with your meat?” she purred.

His head came up. His shocked look turned into a glare. Emma had never seen him like this. No playfulness, just outright anger.

“I'm busy, Claire.” He reached past her and grabbed a case cutter to break open the next box. “You're in my way.”

Claire's face fell. Her mouth opened, but she shut it without a snipe back as Dominic stomped through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

Emma thought about the negative ledger upstairs and hoped Claire would now be in the right frame of mind to listen to reason. But her hope was short-lived.

Claire huffed, straightening out her ruffled feathers. “I'll just have to
up
my game.”

“Your relationship with Dominic is not a game,” Emma said.

Claire stared right through Emma. “You and I need to make a trip to Inverness for reinforcements. Aye, new lingerie. That's what this calls for. We'll go shopping in the morning, as soon as the rush is over.”

Emma would not conspire with her best friend this time. Some things were too important. It would do no good to call her on the carpet about the state of the restaurant. Claire could, at times, be shortsighted—sometimes unable to see much farther than her own wishes. Dominic, Emma, and everyone who cared for Claire couldn't help but play along because she was so lovable. But there were limits. Emma didn't know what to do. When that girl got something in her brain, there was no dislodging it.

“I need to stretch my legs,” Emma said.
And think.

For a moment, Claire snapped out of it, giving Emma a worried frown. “Are you all right?”

“We need—” Emma tried once again, but Claire cut her off.

“It's your parents, right? We'll get to that. I promise.” But in the next second, Claire was back to concentrating on the swinging doors of the kitchen.

So much for my problems
. “I'll be back.” Emma grabbed her coat, hat, and scarf, and went outside.

The late-November wind had picked up and the
waves were crashing against the containment wall, which served as the support for the boardwalk, as well. She wandered down it with no destination in mind, glancing at the buildings and cottages but mostly staying within her own thoughts.

She felt like an anchor had been dropped on her chest. She was certain Dominic felt the same. She had to convince Claire to give up her irrational notion of having a baby now. But how? If Emma had thought she'd felt stuck in her career in LA—
stuck in a career she didn't believe in
—well, being stuck in Gandiegow was far worse. Especially under such dire circumstances.

Her best friend needed a competent marriage therapist to help her. Some professional who believed in marriage-ever-after. And that wasn't Emma.

If it were anyone else in the world but Claire, Emma would book a flight, make her excuses, and run as fast as she could to Saint Martin or any other tropical location.
Lie on the beach
.
Watch cabana boys. Sip mai tais
.
And hide out
.

But no. Claire was her best friend, the sister of her heart. Emma was stuck in Gandiegow until either Claire got her way with Dominic—which would most certainly happen, if the past was any indication of the future—or the Russos destroyed their relationship and let their marriage wash out to sea.

Emma's problems—her disappointed parents and her uncertain future—would have to wait. She wrapped her scarf around her more securely and walked toward the General Store to look for a pair of warm boots. At least she could fix the problem of her frozen feet.

Then an idea hit Emma. It was so small, she couldn't even call it a plan. But if Claire insisted on going to Inverness tomorrow, Emma would tag along. Not for a thong or a bustier; she had no need, since her sex life
bordered on celibacy. No, the automobile ride would be the perfect time to confine Claire, make her listen to reason, and maybe Emma wouldn't be caught in the middle anymore. Yes, the drive to Inverness would be the perfect time to knock some sense into Claire's ruddy head.

Emma stopped midway through the boardwalk and leaned over the railing, gazing out at the rough sea. For a moment she was lost in it. The waves were on a mission with their endless pursuit of the shore—just like Claire's relentless pursuit to have a baby, come hell or high water. One wave started way out and didn't break, but waited until it was almost on top of Emma. She should've stepped back from the railing, made a run for it, but she was too mesmerized. The wave crashed over her, soaking her from head to toe. Then her arm was yanked back by a mighty force.

An old woman shook a gnarled finger at her and glared at her with rheumy eyes. “Are you addlebrained?”

Another elderly woman stood there, too. “Lass, you can't lean over the barrier with the sea as it is. You'll get carried away.” She smiled kindly at her. “Ye must be Claire's friend. Emily, is it? I'm Bethia.”

“Emma,” she corrected. “Emma Castle.” Even though she was cold, soaked, and embarrassed, Emma's proper English upbringing kicked in. She stuck out her hand. “How do you do?”

The first woman stared, frowning, from Emma's chattering teeth to her frozen, shaky hand. “I'm Deydie McCracken. If we don't get you back to Quilting Central and get ye dried off, ye'll die of a chill. Ye're as skinny as a measuring tape.”

Bethia took her hand and shook it. “Welcome to Gandiegow. Come now. Deydie's right. Let's get you inside.”

Emma obediently walked behind the women, taking
stock of them. Deydie was barely five feet, if that. Her white hair was done up in a loose bun, and below her long, dark skirt peeked a pair of heavy black boots. Bethia, slighter and taller with her silver hair bobbed short, wore a calico-print dress under her gray peacoat. Not Laurel and Hardy, but almost.

Only a few feet away, the women stopped in front of a storefront with the facade dolled up in painted-lady fashion—pale orange, dusty peach, and sage green.

“Do you know how to quilt?” Bethia asked.

Deydie pushed open the door before Emma could answer and ushered her into the warmth.

The room was gigantic and beautiful, with several long tables bearing sewing machines and brightly printed fabrics. One wall, covered in felt, had quilt blocks stuck to it, which two ladies were rearranging in a pattern. Some women stood in the back, ironing, while others mingled by the coffee machine. More leaned over green mats, cutting fabric with rotary blades. Only one man was there, an elderly gentleman bent over a long monstrous contraption with a huge sewing machine in the middle. The place, though homey, was somehow elegant and inviting. Emma knew how to sew but didn't know the first thing about quilting. Just seeing this place made her want to learn.

Bethia motioned to the far wall. “The necessary is over there.”

“Go dry off,” Deydie barked. “Then come meet my ladies while you warm up in front of the hearth. We're getting ready to start the Gandiegow Doctor quilt.” She rolled her eyes with true disdain. “The new doc isn't one of us though.”

An uncomfortable prick ran up Emma's spine. “You mean Gabriel?”

“Aye, the outlander,” Deydie hissed.

“But he's from Edinburgh, isn't he?”

Deydie's wrinkled face scrunched up into a scowl. “So far south, he might as well be a Brit. Now get going.” She gave Emma a polite shove.

Emma trudged to the loo, feeling uneasy. She was the actual Brit in their midst. Could they not hear her accent and know from where she hailed? What were they saying behind
her
back?

Inside the powder room, she discovered a stack of fluffy violet towels. She wrapped her hair in one and then used another to scrub her face and clothes. She hated to admit it, but quite unbidden, sympathy for Gabriel washed over her. Why she felt anxious for such a scoundrel, she didn't know. Maybe being ostracized was exactly what he deserved for his womanizing past. She deliberately put him out of her mind while she finished wiping the ocean from her person.

When she was done, she pulled the towel from her head and peered in the mirror. Her hair had gone from wavy to the ringlets she detested. “Great.” She ran her fingers through her hair.

Preoccupied, she pulled open the door and ran smack-dab into a hard chest.

Tea spilled over the front of that chest. But a droplet sprayed onto her white tailored blouse, too.

She gazed up into a pair of summer blue eyes, getting a little lost.
Perfection
. Until she regained her senses and realized they belonged to the dreaded physician.

Gabriel.

He'd changed into a black shirt and black pants, and wore a satisfied grin. On closer inspection, she realized his eyes weren't on her face, but on her clinging, still-ocean-wet blouse.

The glint in his eyes danced. “Did I miss the announcement?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I'll play along. What announcement?”

“The wet-T-shirt contest. Or, in your case, the wet-blouse contest.”

She dropped her head to stare at her own chest. Sure enough, her nipples pushed against her damp blouse with so-very-happy-to-see-Gabriel enthusiasm. As she tugged the wet fabric away from her breasts, her cheeks burst into flaming, high-octane embarrassment. All the while, she cursed herself for not wearing a camisole underneath.

“Why are you here?” she growled, despite the fact that a real lady didn't growl.

He steered her in front of the roaring fire. “Ye've got nothing there to be ashamed of.” He motioned to her blouse. “Quite the opposite, actually. Besides, I'm a doctor. I've seen plenty of breasts.”

“You're a rogue,” she muttered.

He gave her a strange look, like maybe she was right, all the smile leaving his eyes. He nodded and gave her what almost could've been a bow. “If you'll forgive me.” He motioned to the other man in the room. “I must catch George—George Campbell, the local tinker. His brother, Kenneth, needs him to stop by.” Sure enough, the older gentleman was putting his tools away.

“Wait!” she said, then felt instantly mortified. Proper English ladies didn't shout after gentlemen either.
Then again, Gabriel is no gentleman.

“Yes,” Gabriel said.

She took a bite of crow. “I'm sorry about before.”

He raised an eyebrow and took a step closer. “For what?”

She shifted from one foot to the other. “I shouldn't have said fathers were optional.”

“Glad to hear LA hasn't turned you into an airhead.”

Emma decided he deserved a small explanation. “My
mother tried to convince me that fathers weren't necessary. Hence my father's absence during my own childhood. If anyone understands the importance of fathers, it's me.” She had an empty hole in the middle of her chest where she knew her father should be.

Pity filled Gabriel's eyes. She hated being pitied more than being called Princess.

“But I've turned out just fine,” she said, with added steel in her voice. “Actually, better than fine.”

“Aye. You have, Emma.” Compassionate Gabriel was patronizing her and unbalancing her all at the same time. Go Get 'Em Gabriel would've been easier to take.

She had to stop him. “You may go now.” She dropped her head, effectively making her gesture do double duty—pointing out that George was headed toward the door and dismissing Gabriel with a nod.