The Laird and I: A Kilts and Quilts of Whussendale novella (2 page)

She dragged her luggage upstairs to the third floor and found his room, dropping her things in the doorway.

“Ohmigod.”

The four-poster bed was anchored with what looked like cabers and positioned at an angle so the occupant of the bed could enjoy the magnificent view. Diagonally across the room from the bed were two picture windows that hugged the corner.
If both of the windows were undraped
. She pulled back the curtain to see the sunlight glinting off the snow and ice-covered loch, peaceful and tranquil. The other window framed a Munro, a true Scottish mountain, with its peaks white and tall.

Sophie felt a special connection to all the Munros in Scotland as she was a direct descendent of Sir Hugh Munro who had climbed and categorized most of the elevations. She could almost imagine what this Munro would look like in the spring—lush green and scattered with black-faced sheep grazing at the lower levels.

“Oh, that would be a grand sight to see,” she said to the Wallace.

She stepped back and collapsed on the bed. The Wallace and the Bruce jumped up, joining her, making themselves comfortable on the king-sized pillows propped at the head.

“I could get used to living like this!” She centered herself between the dogs, enjoying the incredible view outside. “I’m going to love it here.” The Bruce inched closer so he could get his belly rubbed, too. For a few moments, she allowed herself to relax, but only for a few.

“Come on, fellas. Things have to get done. Let’s find yere water dishes, and then I’ll make myself familiar with the rest of the house.”

The dogs followed her back downstairs. Sophie had the place to herself. According to the email, the house staff left early on Saturdays and was off tomorrow, too. This would be her only chance to explore the house without an audience. Come Monday morning, Sophie was expected at the kiltmaker’s in Whussendale, the wool village, to begin her apprenticeship, and to meet the other workers at the woollen mill.

She spent the rest of the day in glorious, quiet contentment, without another soul to tell her what to do. In the parlor, she pulled a chair to the window to take advantage of the sunlight and stitched buttons onto the quilted wall-hanging she meant to finish in the next few days.  It was her own creation, a depiction of her Gandiegow fishing village as seen from the sea, the buildings stacked against each other. Before the week was out, she would sew on the binding and be done. Another project completed.

Afterward, she wandered into the kitchen for the cabbage and tattie soup which had been left for her in the refrigerator, along with a covered loaf of thick-crusted bread. She fixed a tray and returned to the parlor, turning on all the lights as the winter days were short in the Highlands, the sun fully down by four. She cuddled with the dogs in front of a roaring fire while she ate her dinner.

Very unexpectedly, she felt lonely.

“I’ve never been away from home before,” she said to the dogs beside her.

Black clouds—very familiar and unwelcome—started to cover her. Emma had drilled into her time and time again to be proactive with her depression. As soon as the first wave of despair hit, Sophie was to plug in her therapy lamp.

The dogs followed her to the small writing table as she set up her bright-light lamp and switched it on. She grabbed a tweed fashion magazine off the shelf behind her and sat browsing through it while soaking up the light.

As both dogs lay on the floor beside her, she rubbed them with her socked feet. “Ye two have to keep me from calling home to Mama. She would be nothing but worried and full of instructions for me.” The Wallace stood and rested his head in Sophie’s lap.

“Ye’re both good boys.”

After a time, she felt better, and taking the wall-hanging with her, she made her way upstairs with the Wallace and the Bruce following. She draped the Gandiegow Fishing Village quilt over Hugh’s rocking chair in the corner. The dogs watched as she unpacked her other things into the three drawers that Hugh had cleared for her. Within a half hour, she had her nightgown on, her teeth brushed, and was tucked under the quilts with the dogs beside her.

Being in an unfamiliar bed should’ve felt strange. Somehow, though, she was comforted. It was either the dogs keeping her company or Hugh’s aftershave, which lingered in the room.

She reached over, flipped off the side lamp, and settled further under the quilts. She was on her own…for the first time in her life. The Wallace scooted closer, cuddling into her back. The Bruce stretched across the bottom of the bed by her feet.

But the darkness and quiet brought back the conversation she’d overheard last night between her parents. How many times over the years had Sophie heard them discussing her depression after she went to bed? This time, though, their concern had been different, and they didn’t seem to be keeping their voices hushed as they normally did.

“It’s too late for her. She’s past her prime,” Sophie’s father said, much to her dismay. Her da was a good da. Why would he say such a thing?

“It’s never too late, if the right one comes along,” Annie argued.

“But she’s too old. Too bossy. Too set in her ways. No one will want her now.” Her da had sighed heavily. “I know ye like to believe in romantic ideas, luv, but ye need to face facts.”

Annie had agreed, and Sophie had been heartbroken.

But now she was accepting her future. She didn’t need love to make her happy. She reached over and gave the Wallace a squeeze, thankful for both canines.

Because the day had been long and the dogs were so warm and reassuring, Sophie fell asleep.

She woke suddenly in the middle of the night, her heart pounding. Had the bed dipped down? There had certainly been some movement. But then she remembered the dogs. She smiled into the darkness, feeling foolish—one of them must’ve readjusted. But then she heard a deep sigh. A deep, male sigh.
That is definitely no dog.

“Move over, Wallace,” the voice said.

Oh, God, the master is home!

Sophie froze. But her nerves were in a jumble—terrified.

What is Hugh doing home?

Why would he come and get in bed with me after insisting that I sleep here?

A million other questions bombarded her. His aftershave floated her way and hovered, adding to her confusion.

“
Walllllace
,” he said again firmly. She could feel the dog being pushed over. “If ye don’t make room for me, ye’ll be sleeping with the rams in the sheep shed.”

Wallace rose, circled in a C, and plopped down over her legs, trapping her.

Panic had her close to hyperventilating. Without the dog barrier, Hugh could easily stretch out and touch her.

Could she get her feet loose without anyone noticing—man or beast?

For a long time, she didn’t move. She lay barely breathing, trying to decipher the different noises in the night. The dogs were both snoring. When she was sure the master had gone to sleep, too, she took her chance.

By millimeters, she pulled her feet free and began to scoot to the edge of the mattress. So slowly in fact, it might turn morning before she made it out. She kept her senses tuned to the opposite side of the bed. Just as she was about to lower her feet to the floor and slip away, a strong hand reached over and gripped her thigh.

“Who are you?” he growled, more feral than any dog in the vicinity. “And why in the deuce are you in my bed?”

She bit her lip, and when she spoke, her words came out in a squeak. “It’s me, Sophie.”

“Sophie?” He sounded completely clueless. “Sophie, who?”

“Sophie Munro.”

As she heard him groping for the lamp on his side of the bed, the hand gripping her thigh held her in place. The light came on.

“Amy’s friend?” she added, not certain at this moment if Amy was really her friend or not.

He glared at Sophie as if she was the Loch Ness Monster.

And that’s when the quilt slipped on his side of the bed. The brute was naked.

Chapter Two

“H
ow did you get in here?” Hugh held on to the woman beside him. It registered that her skin was soft and warm, but he could see only red. “Why are ye in my bed?” He slightly shook her leg.

She pushed at his arm. “Unhand me!”

It was one thing for him to be holding on to her. It was quite another to have her touching him back. He let go and swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up and making sure the quilt kept him covered.

She averted her eyes anyway.

“Explain yereself.” He noticed his bluidy hounds had ratcheted themselves up against her as if protecting
her from him! Gads!
“Wallace. Bruce. Come.” He pointed to the floor beside him.

The Wallace whimpered, and she wrapped her arms around them. “Stop being a bully.”

“Good God.” He glared at her and then at his animals. “Biscuit?”

Both dogs’ ears popped up. They jumped off the bed and ran to him, sitting by his feet at attention.

“Close yere mouth, lassie. In fact, close yere eyes while ye’re at it. I’m not decent here, and I’d like to be.”

When she turned away from him, he grabbed his boxers off the chair and slipped them on. His dogs were still waiting, so he pulled two biscuits from his jeans pocket. “Here, ye disloyal bastards.” For a moment, his eyes searched her backside, trying to outline the body that lay beneath her cotton nightgown. Aye, he remembered Sophie. She was as appealing now as she had been back in the summer. He felt the same instant attraction. Maybe stronger. But he couldn’t think about her that way now.

The reflection in the picture windows shifted, catching his attention. Sophie was staring back at him, her mouth shaped into an O. She’d been watching his every move. She seemed particularly interested in his lower half.

“Did ye enjoy the view, lass?”

Her eyes shot up to his. Her teeth caught her bottom lip. For a second, they stared at each other in the reflection, before she averted her gaze. She squared her shoulders and faced him, that exposed look gone.

“I’ve seen hundreds of men naked.”

He grabbed his jeans off the chair and slipped them on. “Hundreds?”

“Aye.” She waved her hand like she was airbrushing him. “Nothing new there.” But her cheeks were bright red, and he’d bet his best weaving machine that he’d been her first.

With her facing him, he could now take in the terrain under her shift a bit easier. She was perfectly proportioned, but maybe not as busty as he’d like. With her nipples budding against the fabric of her nightgown, he was more intrigued than he ought to have been.

“Put a robe on,” he growled.

She clutched the quilt up to her chin. “I didn’t bring one. I was supposed to be here alone.”

He snatched up his discarded flannel shirt and tossed it to her. “Here.”

She caught it. “Turn around first.”

“You just ogled my naked arse, and ye’re ordering me to turn around over a couple of perky breasts?”

Goldilocks glared at him, a bit of a stare-down, but he held his ground. In the end, he won, too. She gave him her back while she slipped his shirt over her nightgown.

His shirt swam on her, and the strangest thing happened—something quite uncomfortable shifted in his chest. He had the awful urge to tell her to come closer, stand before him…but not like one of his dogs. He merely wanted her near enough that he could touch her.

Abruptly, his oversized bedroom was much too small and cozy. “Follow me.” He only made it one step, before she was clearing her throat with a little ‘ahem’ to get his attention. He spun back around. “What is it?”

“Could
you
put a robe on?” she said shyly.

She was sweet, and her embarrassment was damned attractive. As if he were a man whose patience had been tested, he shook his head exaggeratedly. “So…a little man chest bothers ye, even after yere hundred naked men and all?”

Her gumption returned. “I’ve seen more than enough men, thank you very much.”

“Aye, me.”
He opened his armoire and pulled out a T-shirt and slipped it on. “Better?”

“Much,” she said. “Come, Wallace. Come, Bruce.” She slipped past him and out the door.

His damned hounds lumbered after her bare feet. Those two disloyal bastards needed a long visit at obedience school, at least where it comes to remembering who gives the orders around here. “The upper solarium is to yere right.”

For a moment, he stood in his room alone and felt that everything had changed.

He padded into the solarium after her, as bad as his dogs, and found the Wallace and the Bruce beside her with her feet curled under her on the sofa.
Making herself at home.

She stifled a long yawn.

He stayed standing, hoping to reestablish that he was indeed the master of his castle. “Now, tell me why ye’re in my house.”
And why you were in my bed.

She screwed up her face, and the place between her eyebrows pinched together. “Because you hired me to be here?” Her voice held a heaping dollop of attitude.

“I what?” he said incredulously.

She popped up. “Wait here.” The dogs went to follow, but she put her hand out in the
stay
position. A moment later, she was back. She thrust a piece of paper at him. “There. In your own words.”

He looked at the email. “What is this?” He scanned all the way down. “I—I…”

“Amnesia?” she provided. She looked quite pleased with herself, perched again on his couch, taking the stance of a vindicated woman.
Vixen.

Quite deliberately, his eyes bore into her, so she would shrink under his gaze. She didn’t. He shook the paper at her. “I’ve never seen this before in my life.”

That did the trick. She withered a bit and uncurled her feet, setting them on the floor. “But—but that means that I’m…”

“Trespassing?” he finished, giving her the smuggest look he could conjure. “Aye.”

***

Friggin’, frackin’, feck.
Sophie’s mama wouldn’t approve of her swearing, not even in her thoughts, but—
damn!
Emma, her therapist, had prepared her for a lot of different scenarios, but being caught in Hugh’s bed—with him completely naked—hadn’t been one of them. Neither her mama nor Emma had told her how to handle seeing a gorgeous man’s
full-monty
reflection in the picture windows either.
Oh, my!
Though there was a chill in the room, Sophie fanned herself.