The Laird and I: A Kilts and Quilts of Whussendale novella (9 page)

She changed and snuggled under Hugh’s quilt, feeling a little cheated—the Laird hadn’t kissed her once today. Interesting how quickly she’d grown accustomed to his lips on hers.

Sophie woke up an hour later to a thump and a litany of swear words in a baritone hiss.
Oops. Maybe she should’ve picked her things up off the floor before she went to bed.
She expected the bed to dip down like the first night, and she lay there in glorious anticipation. But the bedroom door clicked shut, and she was alone.

In the room next to hers, the Laird was making up his pallet, still cussing on and off. When he grew quiet, Sophie stole out of bed and sneaked in to sleep next to his warm body with her arms wrapped around him.

***

Hugh laid his arm on top of Sophie’s and held her hand, not sure why she insisted on torturing him like his. God, didn’t she know he’d stayed away tonight on purpose? She was too much for him…he was a man who was half-dead inside. Fortunately, she cuddled his back, instead of slipping into his arms for him to spoon her—or else, Sophie Munro might’ve had quite a surprise pressing up against her bum.

It took everything in him not to turn and face her, kiss her, and to love her all night long. But he could withstand her time here and keep his lips off her.
Couldn’t he?

Sophie’s breathing evened, and Hugh raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it. She sighed in her sleep and pressed her hips into him from behind.

God. She was going to be the end of him!

Hugh had done something for Sophie today. He’d made a call to his friend Liam, his roommate from university, an art dealer now. Liam agreed to overnight a vase that Hugh had admired in his friend’s study on his last visit to Perth. Aye, it was impulsive, but Hugh hoped the gift would be a comfort to Sophie when she was gone from here.

For a long time, he lay in her embrace. When he’d gotten home, the first thing he’d done was check the four other bedrooms.

But the furniture hadn’t been delivered today as promised. Hugh checked Aunt Davinia’s room on the main level, and it was still empty, too. He was getting the stinking suspicion that someone had canceled his order at the furniture store in Inverness.

He shouldn’t be surprised that Aunt Davinia had hacked into his home computer again. He’d have to confiscate her key to the castle!

He didn’t understand why Davinia and Amy were so hell-bent on finding him a wife. His parents hadn’t been particularly happy being married, though maybe he was only remembering the time after Chrissa’s accident.

Sophie squeezed his hand in her sleep, and a memory came flooding back. The family had been sitting in their pew at the kirk on a warm Sunday. For once, he and Chrissa were behaving while the pastor droned on. Hugh had looked up to see his parents share a look—
a look of love and connection
. He’d watched as his da had taken his mum’s hand, and she’d squeezed it back.

And Hugh remembered how comforted he’d been, how happy.

Grief had a way of masking the nicer emotions, and he’d forgotten how his parents had really loved each other.

Hugh kissed Sophie’s hand again. A warmth spread into his chest, and he felt lighter than he had. He closed his eyes and went to sleep, content.

***

The next morning when Sophie awoke, she was alone, and the Laird was gone from the castle. He’d been thoughtful enough to leave her the car, but she walked to the mill instead, as the weather had turned unseasonably warm for the Highlands. She worked with Willoughby, ate lunch with her new friends in the café, and made headway on the kilt for Hugh. The only time she saw him was through his office window, when she was leaving the mill in the evening. He sat at his desk in front of the computer, his back to her.

At the castle, she ate alone except for the hounds, who looked longingly at her smoked haddock flan, left by Mrs. McNabb. While Sophie sat in front of her therapy lamp, she felt pretty sorry for herself. She missed Hugh…his lips and his companionship. When she trudged off to bed, though, she found a vase on Hugh’s dresser with a note propped in front of it.

For Sophie:

Fiat Lux

(Let there be light)

“It’s so beautiful!” she exclaimed to the Wallace and the Bruce. They weren’t particularly impressed, barely raising their heads from where they rested on the master’s bed.

She carefully picked up the vase, running her hands over the smooth exterior. It was all luminous blues and greens that seemed to shimmer with an internal light source, which reminded her of a loch with a sun at the bottom. 

“I can’t believe he did this.” But Sophie had known for a long time what a good heart Hugh had. Amy had told her what had happened when her parents had died. Hugh had sat quietly with Amy after the funeral, knowing she simply needed him there, not to talk, but to understand.

Sophie replaced the vase, readied for bed, then retrieved her Gandiegow Fishing Village wallhanging quilt from Hugh’s chair, prepared to work on the binding. When she was done, she held it up, admiring the finished product, happy with how it turned out. Maybe she should leave it here for Hugh, a reminder of her. She spread the quilt over his cedar chest at the foot of the bed. When she climbed under the covers, she gave one last glance at her vase, a gift from the Laird before turning out the light.

Much later, when she heard Hugh in the room next to hers—and was sure he was asleep for the night—she crawled in next to him. She wrapped her arm around his waist and pressed her lips to his back.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He didn’t wake up. She cuddled close and fell asleep.

The next three days passed pretty much the same, except there were no surprises waiting for Sophie on Hugh’s dresser. She longed for time with the Laird, but it felt like she really was spending the week alone. Apparently, Hugh had gone on a hunger strike, disdaining to eat lunch with her again.
Or dinner
. Her time at the wool mill had turned precious, as she had grown very fond of the other workers she’d met. Willoughby had softened toward her, too, and Magnus was nothing but a big marshmallow under his crusty exterior.

Friday arrived too quickly, Sophie’s last day. She stood at her workplace in the kiltmaker’s shop, knowing she would miss the wool mill terribly when she went home tomorrow. Across the table from Willoughby, she picked up her scissors and trimmed the threads on the Laird’s kilt, thinking about her quiet evenings at the castle this past week.

Aunt Davinia must’ve left the country, because Sophie hadn’t seen or heard from her. Amy still wasn’t taking her calls or answering her texts. When bedtime rolled around at Kilheath Castle, Sophie would stretch out in Hugh’s king-size bed with her two four-legged friends. She smiled because her hearing had become as acute as the hounds’; for when Hugh slipped into his sister’s room late that night, Sophie would go sleep with him one last time.

She’d started out sleeping with him to give
him
comfort, but cuddling him had become a comfort for
her
, too. Now she yearned for more. She loved cuddling up against him, but she was starting to feel rejected…though, to be fair, he always rested his arm over hers and held her hand in his sleep.

He hadn’t kissed her since Sunday, and he hadn’t laid a hand on her consciously—
either above her sweater or underneath it
. She was losing her one chance to make love to Hugh McGillivray, a chance of a lifetime, but she had a plan for tonight.

Tonight, she’d be brazen. It was no longer about losing her virginity, or being properly shagged before she left tomorrow evening. She truly cared for the Laird.

“Lass?” Willoughby barked from across the table. “Did ye not hear me? Damned daydreaming again. What’s got into ye this afternoon?”

“Nothing,” Sophie said, smiling at the old fellow. “I’ll miss ye, is all.”

“Well, grab that buckle over there and get to sewing it in place.”

“I thought Mrs. Bates sews on all the buckles. You said that she was the only one beside yereself that you trust to do it right.” Sophie held a swatch of tartan over her heart. She’d found a place in this old man’s shop, and she’d grown comfortable enough to goad him a little.

“Don’t be cheeky with me,” he rattled. “It would serve the Laird right to have his kilt fall off because of an ill-placed buckle. The man never should’ve stuck me with ye. Now get to sewing.”

Sophie put down the scissors and hugged the old dear. “Ye’ll miss me, too, won’t ye?” She kissed his cheek.

The poor man was so stunned that he froze for a good ten seconds. He finally sighed, his shoulders sagging. “It will be quieter here without ye. Do you need help with where to place the damned buckle?”

“Aye. That would be grand.” Though Sophie had seen Mrs. Bates put on enough buckles to know precisely what to do.

Willoughby spent the next five minutes instructing her on proper buckle placement and another five telling her the importance of using good strong thread and small stitches for this part of the process.

At five o’clock, he brought out tissue paper and a box for the Laird’s completed kilt.

“Take it on up to the big house and show the Laird what ye’ve made.”

She doubted Hugh would be home for dinner again tonight. She thanked Willoughby for everything and hugged him one last time before he locked up the workshop.

“Good luck to ye, lass.” He patted her on the shoulder awkwardly. “Ye’re a fine seamstress, and ye’ll make some man very happy someday when ye get married.”

Sophie adjusted Willoughby’s scarf and then walked away, holding the box with the Laird’s kilt inside. She couldn’t concern herself with marriage any longer, but she intended to make one man very happy tonight.

***

Hugh was well aware that Sophie was going home tomorrow. Part of him couldn’t wait to get his life back to normal—where he could concentrate on something more than the lovely body that snuggled up to him every night—and another part of him wanted to roar at the thought of her leaving.

Every night with Sophie’s arms around him, more and more memories had come back—showering his consciousness, bathing him with goodness.
Happy memories
. Memories of his family and how they’d loved each other.

He hadn’t slept on Chrissa’s floor only after her death. He’d slept there even before the accident, every Christmas Eve from the time she was a baby, reading her ’
Twas the Night Before Christmas
before she went to sleep
.

He remembered the times he’d spent at the wool mill while learning the operation from his parents, knowing they were proud of him.

And he remembered their family meals. He’d forgotten how happy they’d all been together, and now, somehow with Sophie cuddled up against him, he could remember the good and forget the bad.

Hugh turned out the light in his office, locked up, and left, thinking to surprise Sophie by being home for dinner. He’d called Mrs. McNabb earlier and asked her to leave them a supper which included haggis potato apple tarts. His cook had gone silent for a second, but she didn’t question his choice. It was his favorite, and he hadn’t asked for it since his sister’s death.

All his staff and the whole town knew he had a houseguest, and he was sure the grapevine had been speculating...one of the reasons he’d put in long hours this week. Aunt Davinia had left him a note.

Urgent business in London and apologies for leaving poor Sophie to the gossip.

I’m sure you can make it right by the lass, and do something to salvage her reputation.

Auntie was as subtle as a bulldozer.

He rushed home, looking forward to surprising Sophie with a nice dinner. He wasn’t trying to make it romantic, but he did have Mrs. McNabb set the grand dining room for their meal. He hoped she’d found the candlesticks that had been packed away long ago. He walked a little faster.

As he rounded the last bend, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. The outside light was on, and part of the loch was illuminated. Hugh heard Sophie’s voice, speaking quietly, calmly, before he actually saw her.

“It’s okay, boy, I’m coming out to get ye. Stay calm.” Sophie’s arms were in front of her, and she was shuffling her way out to the middle of the loch.

“Holy fuck!” he whispered. His mouth went dry, taking in the horror scene. One of his hounds, struggled to swim in the center through the broken ice. The other whined at the edge. And Sophie was heading to her certain death.

The Bruce, standing at the shore, sniffed the air, saw him, and began barking. Hugh took off at a dead run.

“Sophie,” he yelled. “Don’t move.”
I’m coming.

She glanced up, but didn’t acknowledge his warning. She kept talking to the Wallace as she crouched down to lie on the ice.

Good girl.
She knew to distribute her weight.

He was close, so close. But as she inched toward the struggling Wallace, he heard the ice cracking, a sound so familiar in his memory that it jarred his bones.
The sound of death.

He couldn’t get there in time. Just as she reached for the Wallace, the ice crumbled, and she went in, too.

Oh my God, not again! He ran to the edge of the loch, but stopped short. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. “Hold on, Sophie,” he said gruffly. God, he hated leaving her. But he ran full-out for the ghillie’s shed and the rope hanging inside. He grabbed Chrissa’s sled off the wall, too.

Back outside, he saw she had the Wallace in a death grip in one arm and struggled to tread water with the other. As he rushed back to the ice, he tied the rope to the sled.

“Are ye okay?” He read somewhere that talking to the victim could help keep them calm. “I’m on my way.”

“Hurry,” she said breathlessly.

He slid the sled out to her. “I need ye to grab on to this.” He hoped her hands weren’t too frozen.

“I’ll try.” When it reached her, she got a hold of it, but it slipped from her hand.