The Laird and I: A Kilts and Quilts of Whussendale novella (8 page)

“He wouldn’t dare,” she said. “I have connections. I know the Laird.” She cranked her head a little more to the side, but still couldn’t be sure what—if anything—he had on under his kilt.

“Well, lass, now that’s where ye’re wrong. Willoughby told me not thirty minutes ago that if ye weren’t there soon, ye’d be shite out of luck. I may be the Laird of this clan and owner of the wool factory, but Willoughby carries the keys to his own workroom.”

“Damn.” She shoved at the Wallace, but made no headway, getting only a doggie grunt from him.

“Wallace, move,” the master said.

The Wallace slowly rose, took two steps, and collapsed. But it was enough room for Sophie to get to her feet.

She gave the Laird the once-over and then whistled through her teeth. “Why’re ye wearing yere colors?”

“It’s what I wear to the mill.” He tapped his watch. “You have ten minutes, if ye plan to be working there today, too.”

She hurried past Hugh. “Fine. Will you drive me? So I won’t be late?”

“I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

Sophie put on a white sweater with her Munro tartan skirt. When she got to the kitchen, Hugh had a cup of tea waiting and a bag in his hand.

“It’s yere breakfast. Mrs. McNabb will bring our lunch to us later.”

“Thank you.” She took the sack and hurried out the door to his Mercedes SUV as the sun was peeking over the horizon.

Hugh drove her to the wool mill while she inhaled her cinnamon raisin scone and scalded her mouth on the tea.

“It’s delicious,” she said around a bite.

Hugh only nodded. He didn’t mention last night, and she didn’t either. He pulled up to the building farthest from the road.

“He’s in there. If he hasn’t locked the door already.” Hugh had laughter in his voice, but he gave her an encouraging smile. “Go on now. I’ll stop by with yere lunch later. Ye can tell me how it goes.”

“Thanks again,” she said, feeling reluctant to leave his smile, but pulling herself from the car.

“Sophie?”

“Yes?”

“Good luck!” With his eyes dancing, he toasted her with his travel mug.

Sophie ran inside and met Willoughby at the door. Sure enough, he had the key in his hand, ready to lock her out.

“Ye’re late,” the old man said.

“No. I’m right on time.”

“Well, I didn’t think ye’d make it.” He sounded disappointed. “I’ve a lot of work to do. Don’t have time for the likes of ye.”

Why hadn’t she brought an extra scone—some little thing with which to butter up the old man?

“Well, I’m here,” she said cheerily. “Ready to make my first kilt.”

“Not so fast,” Willoughby said. “I’ll have to see some of your handiwork first before I’ll let ye be touching the tartans with the scissors.” With a gnarled hand, he pocketed the key in his old tweed jacket. From inside the coat, he withdrew a thick piece of wool tartan and a needle. He thrust them at her. “Make three evenly spaced pleats.”

Sophie claimed a small table and plain ladder-back chair for herself. Willoughby shuffled over to a narrow table that had to be fifteen to twenty feet long. A large bolt of a dark green tartan with a muted aqua and royal blue stripes sat at one end.

“Stop staring at me and get busy,” he grumbled.

“Aye.”
What a cheery instructor.

Sophie laid out her length of fabric on the table and grabbed the pins off the windowsill. She went to work, marking evenly spaced pleats and sewing them into place. She should’ve asked Hugh this morning if he’d strip out of his kilt so she could check to see how the stitching was done.

She smiled at the image and let her mind wander. How nice it’d been sleeping with Hugh last night. And before that, his nakedness in the reflection of his picture window had been pretty wonderful, too. What an education she’d been getting at Kilheath Castle.

Willoughby coughed. “Are ye done yet? We don’t have all day.”

Sophie walked her pleats over to him. He scowled at her as he snatched the fabric away, but his expression changed to confusion as he examined the woollen.

“That don’t mean a thing,” he muttered to himself, shoving the pleated piece back in his inside pocket. “Get up here and start rolling out the tartan. The Laird needs a new kilt. And ye’re going to make it.” He said it like that would show the new master for off-loading her onto him.

No!
She wanted to protest. She didn’t trust that her first kilt would be good enough for Hugh. What if she screwed it up?

But if she backed down from this order, Willoughby would throw her out of his workshop for good.

“Fine.” She stepped up to the counter. “Eight yards, right?” She began spreading out the wool, wondering if Willoughby was impressed that she knew how much fabric was in a kilt. “I assume this is the McGillivray Hunting tartan.”

“Aye.” He pointed to a corner where bolts had been stacked. “The
modern
McGillivray Hunting tartan,” Willoughby corrected. “Magnus, me brother, finished weaving it yesterday.”

She ran her hand over the quality wool. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad ye can appreciate fine craftsmanship. My brother may be an arse, but he does weave the best tartan in all of Scotland.”

His voice held pride, and as he instructed her on how to measure and mark the pleats, his voice became less rough, and she heard the passion for his craft in his words.

At noon, Hugh knocked on the jamb, making Sophie and Willoughby look up from their work.

“Lunch,” he said. “Willoughby, do ye want to join us?”

“Nay. I have to complete all the things
yere
lass kept me from this morning.”

Sophie ignored that the old man had lumped her and Hugh together with his
yere lass
.

“I’ll be back soon,” she said.

“Don’t hurry,” Willoughby answered gruffly. He didn’t really look angry with her, now that she was getting to know him.

Hugh grabbed her coat and helped her into it. Sophie savored his closeness, allowing a second to breathe him in. She could pretend for this moment that she was his lass, couldn’t she?

He walked her out, and as they made their way through the compound, he pointed out the various buildings of the wool operation, starting with the exhibition hall.

“We’re a sheep-to-shawl operation,” he said proudly. “We do sheep-shearing demonstrations here, but mostly the shearing is done at my cousin Ewan’s sheep farm down the way.”

“Nepotism?” she kidded.

“Aye, I’m happy to say. Most of our families have been here in the village of Whussendale and have been working at McGillivray’s House of Woollens from the beginning. And will continue to be here for generations to come, if I have any say about it.”

“What about outsiders? Do ye welcome them?” Sophie’s village of Gandiegow could be pretty closed-minded when it came to outsiders moving in.

“Absolutely. We’re expanding things here. I have visions of Whussendale becoming an artisan community. I’ve been working to bring in a potter to set up shop here.” He pointed to a funny little green building among the stone cottages. “After that, I’d like to see about getting a basket-maker and an artist here as well.”

They passed the building with the waterwheel, and he explained how it provided only a fraction of the energy needed. “We rely mostly on conventional electricity. Though, I strive to keep the old ways alive as much as possible. My father and mother worked hard to preserve the Victorian-era wool mill operation, maintain its authenticity. I’m trying to carry on the tradition. That doesn’t mean that some modernization hasn’t had to take place. We still have to compete to sell our woollens.”

They toured several buildings, and Sophie couldn’t help but revel when he’d lay his hand at the small of her back and guided her along. Everyplace they went, the Laird gave her a thorough explanation of each process. He was passionate about what he did, and she couldn’t imagine that he’d spent so many years away—or that now that he was home that he would ever leave this place again.

They finally made it to his office in the middle of the complex. Once inside, Hugh settled them at a small conference table in the corner, pulling up two chairs. Sophie retrieved warm meat pies and tea from a picnic basket.

“Compliments of Mrs. McNabb,” he said.

Would he bring up last night now? She opened her mouth to ask about the sleeping arrangements—if the other bedrooms were being outfitted as they ate—but he jumped in first.

“How are ye getting along with Willoughby?” Hugh asked. “I think he’s taken quite a shine to you.”

She gave him a half frown. “That’s a
shine
?”

“Aye. He actually let ye stay in his workshop, for one thing. It took Mrs. Bates two years to pass his pleat test before he’d let her sew the buckles on his completed kilts. His damned pleat test is the reason I haven’t been able to hire someone to take over…someday.”

Sophie was getting a clue as to why Willoughby would be reticent to have her or anyone else there. He saw her as a threat. She’d have to assure him that she had no intention of taking his place. She was going home soon.

One week. It just didn’t feel like it was long enough.

Hugh’s office made an interesting comment on the man who occupied it. Five bolts of various tartans were propped in the corner—from muted hunting plaids to the Royal Stewart tartan. A mound of folders and paperwork sat on his desk. And the man across from her was staring back at her.

“What?” Sophie asked. “Do I have meat pie on my chin?”

“Aye.” He reached over and wiped away a bit of gravy from the corner of her mouth. The gesture was very intimate, but not as intimate as what he did next. He stared into her eyes for a long moment.

He broke the spell, looking away. “I have to get back to work. Can ye make it to the workshop on yere own?”

“Certainly.”

“I’ll leave the auto for ye for later.” He tried to hand her the keys.

She waved him off. “I’ll walk. ’Tis not that far.”

“I’ll be here until late,” he said. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“But—”

The phone on the desk rang, and he reached for it. “I have to get this.” He turned his back, and their companionable lunch was over.

Sophie grabbed her coat and left. When she got back to the workshop, it was locked. She peeked in the windows, but didn’t see the stubborn Willoughby with his key on the other side. She wandered into the building next to the kiltmaker’s. Inside, she found what could only be a small café. Three women and two men sat at a table having lunch. One of them was Magnus, Willoughby’s brother.

“Excuse me,” Sophie said. They’d stopped eating when she’d walked in. “Do you know where Willoughby might be?”

Magnus harrumphed. “Doing a dance with the devil, for all I care.”

The oldest woman playfully smacked Magnus’s arm. “Don’t mind him. They’re feuding again.”

“Here, come sit with us,” said the youngest of the three women. She was dark-haired and petite. She scooted over and made room for Sophie. “We can get Elspeth to ladle up a bowl for ye in the kitchen.”

“No, thanks. I already ate.”
With the Laird.

The first woman made the introductions. “I’m Hazel, this is Taffy, and this is Lara, the babe of the group. This one is my husband, Harold, and of course, ye know Mr. Grumpy Pants here, one of the wool brothers. If ye’re looking for Willoughby, he probably has gone home for a wee nap.”

Magnus harrumphed again and muttered, “Lazy bum.”

Taffy rubbed Magnus’s arm this time. “Be kind, luv. He’s much older than you, and he needs his nap to make it through the afternoon.”

First, Sophie really didn’t believe that Willoughby could be that much older than Magnus, maybe a year or two. Second, it looked like Taffy had a bit of a crush on the old weaver.

They all chatted for a bit until the young woman piped up. “How about I walk you back?”

Sophie had a feeling that Lara wanted to pump her for information about why she was here…and with the Laird. The woman seemed so nice that Sophie didn’t mind. “Sure.”

Lara wiped her mouth and grabbed her coat.

When they got outside and before Lara could get in the first question, Sophie asked her what she did for the wool mill—“I dye the wool”
—
and kept her talking until they reached the kiltmaker’s workshop.

“This is me. Thanks for the company,” Sophie said and ducked inside. Unfortunately, Willoughby hadn’t taken a long nap and was back at his place, making a kilt out of the Royal Stewart tartan. Mrs. Bates was there, too, sewing on buckles. He gave Sophie a withering glare.

“Sorry, I’m late.” It wouldn’t be gracious to mention his nap. She got right back to work on the Laird’s kilt.

At five o’clock, they cleaned up the shop and Willoughby locked up. It was dark out, but the light was on in Hugh’s office as Sophie walked by. When would he make it home?

She began the trek to Kilheath Castle, walking a ways with Hazel, Harold, and Lara, her new acquaintances. By the time Sophie made it to Hugh’s home, she was very glad to see the Wallace and the Bruce. She expected to see Hugh’s aunt, but Davinia wasn’t in the house.

After taking the dogs for a walk,
close to the house this time
, Sophie heated up her dinner. She sat in front of her therapy lamp, eating her haggis stovies while the hounds rested at her feet. She felt good about the day, but one thing nagged at her…when was Hugh getting home?

She pulled out her phone, but Amy hadn’t responded yet to her texts or her voicemails. Sophie sent messages to both Emma and her cousin Ramsay—whom she could trust to get it done.

When you see Amy, tell her to call me.

Sophie’s eyes began to droop. She and the dogs hauled themselves upstairs. She looked in every bedroom, but found none had been furnished yet, which explained why Davinia hadn’t moved in today.

Sophie had two choices: She could pass out in Hugh’s bed or sleep in his sister’s room. She decided to do both. For now, she and her dog friends would cuddle in the master’s bed. Later, when Hugh got home—
if he didn’t come crawl into bed with her
—she’d sleep beside him again on the floor.