A Highlander's Obsession (Highlander's Beloved) (20 page)

“Soul mate? Gram, you should have been a romance writer.” Creighton wasn’t her soul mate. The man was probably just lonely, living in such a remote area.

“You know, I might just give that a try. Just think, Effie Munro, erotic-romance author pens ‘hawt’ stories from her beautiful Scottish estate.”

“Ma’am.” Effie jumped at Isobel’s sudden intrusion. “If you’re ready to see the manor house now, I’ll begin the tour. Follow me, please.”

“Certainly.” Gram rolled her eyes at Paisley. “She’s a sour one,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth as she turned to follow the housekeeper.

Isobel stood in the middle of a room to the right of the foyer. “This is the parlor. Master
Angus received most of his guests here.”

The large room had brown wallpaper covered with hunting scenes, complete with horses and hounds chasing foxes through brush. Brown, leather furniture and massive wooden tables further darkened the room. Heavy tan drapes blocked the sunlight. A worn Oriental carpet graced the floor.

“Mercy, this room reeks of testosterone.” Gram slowly turned, her index finger tapping her chin. “Know what I’m thinking, sweet pea?”

“Tell me it’s not rose wallpaper.” Hadn’t Gram gushed over it every day since they’d arrived at the lodge?

Her face beamed with one of her patented wide smiles. “Oh, great minds think alike. Yes, rose wallpaper just like in my bedroom at the lodge. Ivory sofas flanking this stone fireplace.” Both wrinkled hands gestured as she spoke. “Pink Queen Anne chairs. Ivory drapes and swags, kept open to let in the sunlight. Plants. This room needs plants.” She scowled at the carpet. “And this ratty ol’ rug needs to go.”

“Ma’am, surely you aren’t thinking of getting rid of Master Angus’s things?” The housekeeper reverently ran a hand over a worn leather chair, so well used it bore the imprint of someone’s body. Angus’s perhaps? Isobel sniffed as if the odor of rotten eggs had sauntered into the room. “Pink chairs? Oh, I think not.” The housekeeper’s rigid stance and stern expression would have intimidated most people, but Gram wasn’t most people. She was a feminine force that sped through life driving a satin steamroller.

“I think I’ll keep the masculine wooden pieces and paint them white.”

The housekeeper gasped.

“They’ll make a nice contrast to the more feminine furniture I want to buy for in here.” Gram unbuttoned her coat and slipped it off, then handed it to Isobel along with her scarf, subtly reminding the housekeeper who her new boss was. Paisley took off her heavy coat and laid it across the woman’s outstretched arms.

“What do you think, sweet pea? Shall we keep the coat of arms over the fireplace?”

Isobel harrumphed, her face growing more pinched as it reddened degree by slow degree.

“Gram, maybe we should talk about our decorating ideas once we’ve seen the entire house.” By Isobel’s reaction, she’d show them the front door long before Creighton returned. The housekeeper’s protectiveness of this house might create some problems.

Tea was served promptly at four and, per Gram’s gushing suggestion, was enjoyed in the solarium. She’d deemed this space full of tan wicker furniture and palms, orange trees and climbing roses in large terracotta pots, her favorite of the whole house. Ferns and begonias hung from the rafters. An angel waterfall held a place of honor in the corner, its tinkling and gurgling a relaxing balm to one’s nerves.

Isobel set antique china and an ornate silver tea service on the wicker coffee table. There were tiny cucumber sandwiches, cooked asparagus, and sliced egg on pumpernickel and open-faced smoked-salmon sandwiches, arranged on a three-tier dish. Aromas of fresh-baked tea cakes with lemon-butter frosting tempted Paisley’s sweet tooth, as did a couple other sugary concoctions.

“Wow, this is some spread for a cup of tea.” Gram settled into the pale-green love seat and handed Paisley a small plate. “I’ve always wanted to try a cucumber sandwich.” There were a few seconds of chewing and moaning. Like a child, she plucked a salmon sandwich from the bottom tier and sniffed the meat. “Is this stuff cooked?”

Paisley took a sample of each, enjoying the crisp crunch of the round cucumber sandwich decorated with a spring of watercress and a sliver of pimento.

“Now that it’s just you and me, tell me what you think of the house.” Gram plucked pumpernickel topped with asparagus and sliced hard-boiled egg from the middle tier of the crystal dish and bit into it. “Oh, heaven,” she moaned.

“Five bedrooms and six bathrooms is a lot, Gram.” She poured what the housekeeper said was blueberry-fields tea and inhaled its rich, sweet bouquet.

“I think I like the cucumber ones the best.”

Paisley reached for a piece of what Isobel called Highland toffee. “The house is huge. Very stiff and masculine. It’s not you at all.” She bit into the concoction of syrupy oatmeal topped with a layer of chocolate and nuts. “Oh, wow. These are great.”

Gram sipped her tea. “Do you think you could live here? After we did some redecorating, of course. You could have that lovely suite of rooms with the turret made into a little poet’s corner. We could have Internet wired in and upgrade the electrical to accommodate computer and fax machines for your animal business. Would make you a lovely private office. There’s a dressing room next to it we could make into a sitting room for you to use as a secluded area to entertain Creighton when he comes calling.” She waggled her eyebrows.

Gram and her matchmaking. “Just what do you mean by living here? Are you thinking about traveling to Scotland a couple times a year for a vacation? I bet spring and fall would be lovely in the Highlands.”

“No. I’m thinking of moving here. I want to return to my roots.” She set her cup and saucer down and reached for a piece of toffee. “Besides, at my age I’d like having servants to do the cooking, cleaning, and laundry. To say nothing of the yard work. I might even try my hand at writing, something I’ve always wanted to do.”

“You can’t be serious!”

Gram grinned in that determined way she had. “As a heart attack.”

“Why? So I have another chance at romance?”

“Pahhh, you
never
had a romance.” She waved her toffee at Paisley. “I wager Creighton will romance you like Alex never did. He’s the man for you. I can feel it. I can see it in his aura. There’s so much passion there.” She waggled her silver eyebrows, pressed a hand to her heart, and exhaled a loud sigh.

Paisley pressed fingertips to her temples to ease away the headache brewing.
Gram and her damn auras
. “You’re reading too much into Creighton’s attentions. We’ve only known each other a few days.”

Gram wiped a linen napkin over her fingertips. “I disagree. You’ve known each other forever. I feel it in my soul. That’s why the attraction exploded the minute you two set eyes on each other. I’m betting that’s why you can hear his thoughts—and only his. You two are the beats of each other’s hearts.”

Rush-hour traffic in town moved at a snail’s pace. Creighton was thankful his tasks were completed and pleased with the purchases he’d made. Everything was set for tomorrow night. If Paisley decided to return to the States, her time with him at the dance would be one memory seared into her heart. He’d see to it.

His thoughts floated back to the meeting he’d had with his cousin, Kendric Matheson, and an investigator at the local police department. Creighton had asked for an extensive background check done on both Effie and Malcolm. She claimed she had no previous knowledge of her inheritance, which made sense. Creighton had been good friends with Angus most of his life, yet he’d known nothing of the stipulations and bequests in the architect’s will. So, how had Malcolm learned of the will and Effie’s plans? Plans she claimed never existed? Did Malcolm really have a reliable source, as he claimed, or was he blowing cold smoke up Creighton’s kilt? One of them was being dishonest … and he was determined to find out which one.

Because of Paisley, he was prone to believe Effie’s version. In fact, his inner bear insisted on it. If Effie was lying, then chances were good the woman he’d fallen in love with was being dishonest too. Would he be able to get beyond her deception? The heart he’d guarded so well all these years wouldn’t recover. Not with the way he loved Paisley.
Not lying. She’s pure of heart
.

A traffic light turned red and he braked, staring off into nothingness. In the past, he’d dated, but never the same woman for more than four or five months. The responsibilities of his clan weighed heavily on him, and had since the death of his father when Creighton was a mere lad of ten. Angus Iverson, temporary clan chieftain, trained him to take his rightful place as laird when he turned sixteen. Although the position was in many ways an ancient title, he’d taken it to heart, giving his clan—the sleuth of secret bears—his full attention and affection. Horns blared and he snapped out of his reverie, driving through the intersection.

Part of his obligation to the clan was to provide an heir. He ground his molars together. Truth be told, he’d resented the pressure to marry and breed for the sake of his lineage. Elders strongly suggested he marry within the clan, but what if he couldn’t find a woman to love? A lifetime with such a person could be a miserable eternity. Too much passion flowed through his blood to tie himself to a woman he didn’t desire—or worse, a cold wife.

Minna was a quiet, docile young woman in his clan. Although she was plain looking, a mere month ago he’d considered the shy lady. Her good and generous heart pleased him. Yet in casual conversation, no attraction sparked between them, and so he’d never asked her out. Now, after seeing Paisley’s zest for life and her spunk, a shy woman would never do. A smile spread. Aye, his Paisley could cut him to shreds with her tongue, and Lord knew the things he wanted to do to her with his. His cock nodded its agreement.

He turned off the main highway onto a smaller road. There was one stop he wanted to make before he picked up Paisley and Effie. At the weather-beaten sign that read Una Matheson, Weaver and Witch, he made a right and slowed going over the many ruts in the old woman’s lane.

Minutes later, after inquiring about Una’s health and making a repair to her loom, he chose a scarf for Paisley. “Mum said she called with Effie and Paisley’s sizes and ordered items for the two ladies to wear to the dance tomorrow.”

“Aye, she did. The things ye requested will be ready.”

“Ye have always done excellent work.” He tugged his wallet from his back pocket.

Una nodded, her wrinkled lips pinched. “Any job worth doing is worth doing well. Is this scarf for the Norse woman, then?” She narrowed one eye and waited for his reply.

“ ’Tis a present for the young American and, aye, she’s part Norse and part Scottish.”

She fingered a spool of yarn. “A marriage to her would end the curse.”

He’d been trying not to think of that damnable curse. In the darkness of night, voices of doubt niggled his mind, asking if his attraction to Paisley wasn’t somehow connected to it. Did he subconsciously see her as a boon to his clan, to his lineage? Then in the light of day when the sunshine of her countenance warmed his mental landscape, those doubts vanished.

“Aye, but I don’t want her used. She’s too precious for that.”
Ours. She’s ours
.

“Signs tell me she has magic within.” Una reached for an ancient teacup and showed him the dried leaves. “I made ye a love potion to deem ye irresistible in her Norse eyes.” She set a jar of red liquid on her tiny counter and favored him with a snaggletoothed smile. “I brewed it this morning when the dew drops told me ye were coming today.” She jerked her chin toward the jar. “ ’Tis a recipe from the goddess of nine.” She tugged a rolled and ragged piece of aged vellum from the knot of hair at the crown of her head. After unrolling it, she flicked a finger over the print and squinted to read the ancient writing.

“Nine leaves of basil, rose petals, and sweet berry wine.

“Nine pieces of ginseng root, a handful of needles of pine.

“Grind nine seeds from the fruit of Eve, juice of strawberries, numbering nine.

“Boil for nine minutes when the clock strikes nine and the love ye seek will be thine.”

He eyed the jar and his stomach cramped with disgust. “Do ye expect me to drink it?”

Her phlegmy cackle bounced off the walls of her old cottage. “Nay, ye rub it on yer neck and between yer legs.”

“The devil ye say!” Bloody hell. He would do no such thing. He slid the jar back toward Una with his finger. “If I canna woo Paisley and win her love on me own merits, I’ll not use some ancient witchcraft.”

Una leaned toward him, her eyes narrowed and her breath foul. “Dinna be using yer stubborn male pride ’round me. Dinna ye steal the memory of the woman ye love? What was that, if not witchcraft?”

A bead of sweat trickled down his spine. Just how the bloody hell she kent
that
he dinna want to know. “How often must I rub this stuff on me skin?”

* * *

When Creighton eased the lodge’s Land Rover to a stop in front of the Iverson manor house, Hamish jogged toward the vehicle and rapped on the passenger-side window. Creighton unlocked the door and Hamish slid in. “What’s up? Ye look troubled.”

“We’ve got a bit of an uprising in there.” He jerked his thumb toward the house.

“Dinna tell me Effie’s been at it again. I thought when she didn’t wear her pelican baffies, she’d be on her best behavior.”

“Bloody hell. I nearly swallowed me tongue when she showed up for the reading of the will in those pink monstrosities. Ye never know what’s going to tumble from her lips. Isobel is in a righteous snit. Claims the American wants to toss out all of Angus’s furnishings and antiques.” He covered his eyes with a hand and slowly shook his head a couple times. Turning his face slightly in Creighton’s direction, he fought back a smile. “Isobel says she overheard the auld pink-haired woman talk about writing sex stories. Aye, she wants to write about men naked beneath their kilts, their fukin’ dicks flappin’ in the wind.”

Creighton laid his forehead against the steering wheel and laughed until tears ran down his face. The walls of this manor would never be the same with Effie’s bawdy sense of humor bouncing off them. Sour-faced Angus would be rolling over in his grave if he knew. This pink-haired woman was quickly becoming one of his favorite people, a surprise since she’d put him off the first time he set eyes on her. Who could resist her spirit?
Please, God, don’t let her be a liar
.