Some Like it Scottish (6 page)

“That's some smell.” She thought if she pointed it out, that it would move him along. She was wrong.

McGillivray inhaled deeply. “I only smell money.”

She looked to Ramsay, pleading with her eyes to get her out of there.

But Ramsay, the lug, pretended not to notice. “Ms. Woodhouse, wouldn't you like to have a go with a sheep and a pair of shears?”

McGillivray clapped his hands. “What enthusiasm. What a fine addition ye'd make to the farm.”

This was her opportunity. Whether she could breathe past the horrid stench or not, she would make herself perfectly clear with McGillivray.
Ramsay
she'd deal with later. “Ewan, I wouldn't make a fine addition to your magnificent farm.” She was laying it on as thick as she was standing in it. “I'm in the business of setting up other couples. We matchmakers have a strict code of honor. We
never
mix business with pleasure.” She made sure she sounded terribly disappointed. “I'm so sorry, but I'm just not available for matrimony.”

McGillivray's face fell. “Oh.”

Kit laid a hand on his arm. “But I promise you that my clients are far better catches than I. All of them are bright women who can appreciate a man with livestock. In fact, all of my current clients own horses.”

His face lit up again. “I have a horse barn with a few nags in it. Plenty of room for more.”

“If ye marry, you could add one more nag to yere collection,” Ramsay drawled.

If she'd had duct tape, she would've used it on her chauffeur's mouth. Thank goodness the double entendre sailed over McGillivray's head.

“How about that tea now?” Kit had derailed her chauffeur, and hopefully, tripped up McGillivray enough that he wouldn't remember the shears.

“Yes, tea. That would be good,” the sheep farmer said.

If she could've sighed without breathing, she would've done so with relief. “Do you have somewhere for me to clean up?” She gestured toward her shoes, which would go straight into the garbage.

“Aye, plenty of space for a pretty lady to get gussied up.”

She saw Ramsay roll his eyes.

“I'll need to get a few things out of the SUV. Ramsay, could you join me?” She gave him a pointed look.

He didn't take the hint. “Nay. I'd like to speak further with McGillivray about his sheep, if he doesn't mind.” He produced the keys from the folds of his kilt and tossed them to Kit.

She walked off alone to the Outlander, thinking of tossing her ruined shoes at Ramsay's perfect head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ramsay lay a hand on the sheep farmer's shoulder as they walked toward the side entrance of the castle, their heads bent together. It seemed weird.

It was only innocent conversation between Scotsmen,
she reassured herself. But then Ramsay turned and gave her a look.
A strange look
. One that said he was setting her up again for more shenanigans, perhaps more traipsing through the minefield of sheep dung.

At the SUV, she dug out her Mary Janes from her bag and slipped them on. Just to be safe, she grabbed her wellies, too. From the front, she retrieved her messenger bag with a stack of contracts for her potential bachelors. It was time to get down to business and close the deal.

But a sinking feeling came over her. Intuition told her that Ramsay's little chat with the sheep farmer wasn't only a few questions about his livestock and their habits. Ramsay was up to something. And that
something
felt like a sheep load of no-good.

*   *   *

Ramsay glanced back at Kit, wondering if she was watching while he sabotaged her plans. Her eyes widened, and even from this distance, he could see the worry spread
across her face, kind of like the sheep crap that had taken over her shoes.

He turned back around and gave McGillivray an earful. “As I was saying, you don't need the matchmaker's services, now, do ye?”

“Well—”

“If ye're after a wifey, why take on an American shrew? Wouldn't a pretty little Scottish lass do just as well to tell you what to wear, what to say, and how to act every waking hour of the day?” Ramsay motioned to the expanse of his home. “A Scottish lass could do a right fine job of nagging ye from one end of the castle to the other.”

McGillivray stopped and peered up at him with a perplexed look on his face. “When Ms. Woodhouse contacted me she said an upper-class American woman would be good for Here Again Farm, give our brand an international appeal.” The man dropped his gaze. “And I thought it would be grand to have a woman at the dinner table to share my meals and a warm body in my bed to share the nights.”

Ramsay patted his shoulder. “Och, ye don't need an American woman to help ye with your business. Look at what ye've done all on yere own.” He gestured once again at the grandeur of the house. “Ye're doing a fine job. Besides, I say it's best to get another dog for the dining room and a warm quilt for the bed than to take on a wife.” He felt victorious as he saw McGillivray cave under his argument.

“Aye, ye're right. I don't have the time or the inclination to have a woman tell me what to do.”

Ramsay pounded him on the back. “Good man. It's
best to make up yere mind before she tries to talk you out of it.”

The door to the SUV slammed. Ramsay turned around and shot Miss Matchmaker a genuine smile.

One down.

The rest of the bachelors to go.

K
it sat across from the sheep farmer, wondering if she'd lost her touch. No amount of persuasive argument or reason could convince Ewan to sign her contract.

“I'm sorry, lassie. I shouldn't have said you could come. I'm not in a mind to take a wife at the present.” McGillivray glanced over at Ramsay.

Her chauffeur gave her an
oh, that's too bad
look.

She didn't believe his bullshit expression, not for a second.
Rascal. Cad.

“May I get you another biscuit?” McGillivray said. “Ye're such a bonny lass.” His cheeks turned red. “I know what ye said before, but I might reconsider my position on marriage if ye were to fix me up with yereself.”

Ramsay stood abruptly. “We better get on the road.” He reached down, took Kit's hand, and hoisted her to her feet.

Before she knew what was going on, he was ushering her toward the exit.

He opened one of the huge front doors and shoved her through while talking over his shoulder. “We've a long stretch of road ahead of us tonight.”

It was a good thing she had her messenger bag looped
around her arm or it might've been left behind. As it was she didn't get a chance to tell Ewan goodbye. Ramsay had her in the SUV before she found her voice.

She glared over at him. “What was that all about?”

“You're looking haggard. I thought we should get ye to the inn to get yere rest.”

Bullshit.
“I think if I'd had more time with McGillivray, I could've convinced him.”

“Lass, he wasn't interested in looking at the pretty pictures of the American girls in yere briefcase.” With disgust, he glanced down at her messenger bag as if it offended him. “The only briefs he was interested in are the ones under yere dress.”

“Ha. Ha. Very clever of you. Well, don't do that again. Next time, we'll leave when I say we leave, and not a moment before.”

“Whatever ye say,
boss
.” He gave her a cocky grin.

She rolled her eyes. This man was a handful. It would take a Herculean effort on some woman's part to tame this one. Certainly no one in her database would be up to the task.

She dropped her head back on the headrest and closed her eyes. “Mind the potholes. I'm going to rest for a minute.”

But after a few moments of near whiplash, she gave up. She saw that he'd negotiated the SUV onto a road that was little more than a dirt track with grass down the middle.

“I hope you know where you're going.”

“Aye.”

She turned toward him, keeping her head lying on the headrest. “Entertain me. Tell me a story about yourself. Preferably an embarrassing one.”

“There's too many to pick from,” he deadpanned.

“Give it a try,” she insisted.

“Okay. But I'm only going to tell you this because I'm confident in my manhood.”

She glanced at him and smiled. He had every right to be confident. He was big and imposing. The only problem she saw with him was that he was never serious.
Never
.

“It's about my mother, Grace. She always wanted a girl. You know, a lass to dress up and fuss over.” He paused for a second. “Mind now, that this happened when I was a wee lad, younger than my nephew, Dand, is now.”

“Come on, you're hedging.”

“As I said, I was a wee one, four or five years old. It was Mothering Sunday and John and Ross decided the best gift they could give Ma was to find her a girl. At least for the day.”

“No.” Kit already saw the end of the story.

“Ross borrowed a pink frilly dress from Pippa—ye haven't met her yet, but she's like one of the family. Besides Ross scrounging up the dress, John got ahold of Ma's makeup and pearls.”

Kit was all-out laughing now.

“They dressed me up bonny and presented me to Ma with her tea.” Ramsay shrugged. “It's what my mum wanted more than anything else in the world.”

“And then what happened?”

“Da came home. He yelled the roof off the cottage. Sent me in the other room to change. John and Ross were stuck doing dishes for a month. My mother laughed for years that I had been pretty in pink—the prettiest daughter she'd ever had.”

Kit wiped tears from her eyes, unable to imagine Ramsay in a dress now. But how sweet it was that Ramsay, the
tough little boy, would go along with such a thing because he loved his mother so much.

Straight-faced, Kit said, “You are kind of pretty.”

“Handsome,” he corrected with a grin. “Ruggedly handsome.”

She agreed with him, but she wouldn't say it out loud. His ego was already too big for the SUV.

“So where are your parents now? Gandiegow?”

“Da passed three years ago.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, feeling bad for asking.

“His heart gave out.”

“Your mother?” Kit prayed she was well.

“Ma is in Glasgow with her sister. My aunt Glynnis has been sick and Ma moved in to care for her.”

“Does your mother get back often?”

“We go and see her once a month. To take Dand.”

Kit thought about her own family, how she'd left them for long periods of time to set up her business in Alaska. And now here in Scotland.

She studied her map instead of thinking about how she missed her mother and sisters. She and Ramsay had been on the dirt track for a long time. She was beginning to wonder if they weren't lost when Ramsay pulled onto a road with actual pavement. After a few miles, he pulled into a micro-village—a few houses and a pub. The pub turned out to be the inn they were staying at for the night and the place was packed. She wondered how far the patrons had to drive to get here.

Ramsay spoke to the pub owner and brought back two keys—one for her and one for him. “The sandwiches will be ready soon.”

“Please tell me it's not anything like what you brought me this morning.” The smell was still in her nose.

“Ham and Swiss on rye,” he said.

“Can it be brought to my room? I'm bushed.” She clutched her messenger bag to her chest.

He wrapped his hand around her arm. “Why don't you stay and have a dram? A dart tournament will be starting any minute.”

She gave him a weak smile and had the urge to lean in to him for support. “I'm about to drop. Seriously, I need my sleep.” Even though she'd seen Ramsay talking with Ewan McGillivray and believed him the culprit, she wondered if her exhaustion wasn't the real reason she'd failed to close the deal. “Good night, Ramsay.”

He let go of her. “Aye. Get some rest.”

*   *   *

Like I'll let you
. Ramsay watched Kit drag herself to the stairway.

The pub owner slapped him on the back. “The teams are forming right now. Yere idea to have a dart-throwing tournament was a grand one. The bets are already being placed.”

Ramsay had a twinge of guilt, but he ignored it. Kit would have done the same thing if she were in his place. Business was business, and it was every person for himself. Right? “Are the sandwiches ready yet?”

The pub owner tilted his head. “They're on the counter.”

Ramsay left to take the tray of food up to her himself. At the top of the stairs, he found her room and knocked with his elbow. He expected a
come in
or for her to appear, but neither happened. He set the tray down and was surprised when he turned the knob and the door opened.

Inside, Kit lay curled up, passed out on the single bed. Guilt pricked him hard, no passing twinge this time. She looked so peaceful, a veritable angel, slumbering away,
not realizing that he'd requested the noisiest room for her. Soon she'd be pulled from her sleep by the racket he'd arranged downstairs.

He retrieved her plate and laid it on the little table, using the napkin to cover her sandwich, in case she woke up and was hungry.

He felt like a cranking nursemaid, and conflicted as hell, as he gently slipped off her shoes and arranged them under the bed. Then he covered her petite body with the light quilt lying across the foot. Quietly he pulled the door behind him as the first
whoop
of the crowd resounded from below. The tournament must've started.

He trudged downstairs to join them. To drink. To be merry. To make enough noise to raise the roof . . . and the dead. But most of all he hoped Kit took the hint soon and figured out that her matchmaking gig wasn't going to work. He needed her to get the hell out of Scotland. Now.

*   *   *

The next morning, Kit didn't find Ramsay waiting downstairs as she expected. The earplugs that Amy had sold her from Gandiegow's store had helped considerably. Or she had been so exhausted that a slew of bagpipers could've marched through her room and she wouldn't have noticed. She didn't even remember aligning her shoes under her bed, but she must have.

She went back upstairs and knocked on Ramsay's door. She heard a groan. She tried the door and it opened. She guessed a big guy like him didn't have to worry with locks. She peeked inside.

His naked chest registered with her first—chiseled with hard muscles. Next, she saw his feet—hanging off the end of the bed. Then she noticed how the sheet rested low on his hips.

Oh, God, he's naked under there!

But she couldn't turn away. She liked hair on a man's chest and Ramsay had the perfect amount trailing downward to the edge of the sheet.

His eyes opened halfway. “Could you think a little quieter? I have a wee bit of a headache.” He didn't pull the sheet up. Either his near-nudeness didn't embarrass him or he didn't know that he was giving her quite a show.

She stood there, feasting her eyes on the rest of him. Even the angry scar on his arm was sexy. He really was a Scottish god.

He seemed to rouse more, studying her for a long moment. “Are ye wanting to join me? I can make room.” He slid toward the wall and the sheet slipped farther south.

She put her hands up. “I was just wondering if you were up yet.”

“I'm getting there,” he drawled.

That's when she saw his growing interest poke at the sheet. Her cheeks burned.

“I'll be waiting downstairs for you.” She backed out of the door quickly, but couldn't help taking one more peek. The man was beautiful, and infuriating, and laughing at her.

“Come back, lass,” he called out. “I
need
yere assistance.”

“Not on your life.” She spun around and found she had an audience. One of the inn's guests was in their doorway, giving her a blurry-eyed stare. “Sorry about the noise,” she mumbled, and headed downstairs, rattled that she'd been caught lusting over her driver.

Too soon Ramsay joined her. She was afraid to look at him, afraid she might be visualizing that chest of his all over again.

She sipped her tea and grabbed an oatcake from the
container set out for the inn's guests. She couldn't help herself. “Isn't the day half over to you fishermen?”

Ramsay went to the coffee carafe and poured himself a mug—no sugar, no cream, no response to her jab. He gulped it down.

She opened her day planner and pulled out the image of her grandmother's quilt, laying her hand over it while she studied her itinerary on the other side. Then she looked up at him. “You don't look well.”

“I'll be grand. Why are ye so perky this morning?” His eyes dropped to her chest.

He was goading her and she was going to give it right back to him.

She stood and spun in a circle with her arms wide. “So?” She waited for the compliment, testing him. She knew her navy shorts and cute sandals were very feminine—fun and flirty. But it was her fitted striped sailor's top that should have been sexy as hell to a fisherman.

Ramsay shook his head, apparently not taking the bait. He motioned to the computer in the corner. “I glanced at yere website last night.”

“Really? What did you learn?”

“You know where ye give tips to yere clients? You should add something about how
unattractive
it is for women to fish for compliments.”

“Very funny.” She would've lobbed her oatcake at his head, but he'd probably tell her to add
throwing food
to her Must Not Do list. “So did you find any of my suggestions helpful?”

“It's not ladylike to hound a man when he's a little under the weather.” He seemed to be perplexed. “It was loud in here last night. Really loud—how can you be so painfully chipper this morning?”

“I feel renewed and rejuvenated. I'm confident we're going to sign up three bachelors today.”

“
We're
not,” he groused.

“Okay, but
I
am.” She looked in his eyes. “Are you sure you feel up to driving today?”

“Was that an offer to go back to bed?” He held her gaze as he took another drink of his coffee before placing the mug on the counter.

Her cheeks felt on fire. “No, that wasn't an offer.” But Ramsay flustered her in ways he shouldn't. “I'm only concerned for your well-being.”

“I'm right as rain,” he said. “Be ready to leave in five minutes.”

She was ready in three but Ramsay was already waiting for her. On the road, she studied her list of potential bachelors. She wondered how she was going to make up for yesterday's strikeout and the fact that Art MacKay wouldn't be back in time for Deydie's deadline for the mandated quilt retreat and Kit's mixer. Six women would be coming to Scotland, and time was running out. Kit peeked over at Ramsay. Should she ask him to be one of her bachelors? She shook her head.

Ramsay glanced at her and then his gaze went back to the road. “What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

“
Now
you give me a compliment,” she deflected.

“Spill it, lass.”

“I'm going to have to set up more appointments.”