His Lass Wears Tartan (6 page)

“I hate to interrupt your digital conversation,” Aunt Baillie said as she walked into the kitchen, “but do check on the guests now and again, please.” She maneuvered easily through the waitstaff’s movements. “Look at you all dolled up tonight. Well, Miss Hostess, be sure the staff is fulfilling all their questions or requests.”

Rogue dropped into a deep curtsy low to the floor, bowing her head. “Indeed, I shall, oh matron of the family,” she teased.

“Have ya gone insane, child? Be gone from my kitchen with your wickedness.” Putney chuckled, shaking her head.

A few minutes later, Rogue swirled and twirled her way back into the kitchen. “Everyone is fine in the dining room.”

Putney set up a wooden tray with covered dishes and a set of silverware. She waved one of the waitstaff over. “Take this to room five.”

“Mr. Leatherton isn’t eating with the others?” Baillie asked.

“No, he asked for his meal in his room. He is older than most of the group; maybe he’s just too exhausted from his travels.”

“Do let me take the tray, Putney.” Rogue held out her arms. “I should like to introduce myself to the infamous Mr. Leatherton. See what all the fuss is about. He is our first best-selling author to hold a class here. I’d like to see more authors step up, or artists teach painting here at the castle, right?”

“Miss Marketing, get the tray upstairs with ya.” Putney tapped her foot.

Rogue carefully picked up the tray and headed for room five. She hummed a tune from some Hollywood musical about high school students as she climbed the stairs. She balanced the tray on her arm and knocked on the door.

It flew open, and a white-haired man yelled, “It’s about time, Jonathan.”

Lifting her chin, she said, “No, I am Rogue, owner of the Baillie Castle.” They stared at each other. “May I set your dinner down?”

The man stepped away from the door but looked out in the hallway.

“Shall I let Mr. Olson know you’re looking for him, sir?” Her voice was breathy at possibly seeing Jonathan again so soon.

“No,” he growled. “Don’t bother. I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly, sir.” And she stepped out into the hallway. Staring at the closed door, she muttered, “You’re no Mister Hollywood.”

“Ya back already from the castle this morning?”

Bruce turned and nodded at his employee, Jack, as he climbed out of the delivery truck.

“Aye.” Bruce scratched his head. He’d been so distracted with the insane string of instructions from the weasel-looking Mr. Olson, he didn’t get a chance to see Rogue anywhere.

“Bruce, planning to bring the paperwork inside, or do ya need me to do it for you?” Jack teased. “Nae like you to go mooning around all cow-eyed during working hours. Now coming back from a swinging weekend in the big city, aye, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Enough with ya now. Did a packet come in for that professor fellow? It should have been here earlier and gone with me on this last run. Bloody spoiled Americans, now I’ll have to make a separate trip up there.” He slammed the truck door. Wasting fuel on a second trip out to the castle for a single item went against his business economic logic, but having a possible chance to see Rogue might be worth the extra expense.

Jack ducked into the office, holding the door open for Bruce. “Yeah, it’s here.” He handed Bruce a Styrofoam box with bright warning labels plastered on all sides.

“Guess’ll have to go back tonight. This stuff is perishable.”

He set the box down inside the office. What pompous idiot paid top money for something as ridiculous as soup specially delivered in dry ice from America? Bruce scratched his head. His first impression of the author’s assistant, Jonathan Olson, after perusing the weird outfit the guy wore, was that he was harmlessly vague. But after a few minutes of his dictations as the one in charge, the man left a sour taste in Bruce’s mouth. He shook his head. Maybe the famous professor Leatherton guy had a more pleasant personality.

The American’s books flooded the local bookshop in town; people devoured his suspense thrillers and various other serials. His appearance at the castle had caused quite a row with the townspeople hoping for a chance meeting with the best-selling author should he visit the village. “If the man were so
fykie
, I seriously doubt he’ll be stepping foot in our tiny town.”

Bruce finished his paperwork and locked up the shop. Taking the stairs two at a time outside the building, he entered his childhood home located above. Most of the furniture was the same pieces he’d grown up with when his da lived here. He didn’t have many memories of his ma but could still see the womanly touches around the small apartment.

In the shower, visions of Rogue’s dark eyes one could drown within floated through the swirls of warm steam. The woman pulled off jeans and boots as easily and as sexily as the tight-waist gowns. His muscles tensed—maybe he should be drenching himself with a cold shower instead.

Combing his wet hair with his fingers, he wandered naked into his bedroom and yanked out a fresh shirt from the armoire. He caught a glance of himself in the antique mirror hanging on the wall, which his ma had used back in the day when this was his parents’ room. The heavy labor of lifting crates and bundles created chiseled shadows in his thighs and calves. His rippled abdomen showed the six pack women seemed to adore. Maybe not half bad compared to the photos he’d seen in issues of
People
magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive he’d flipped through in town. And definitely more in this one arm than that Olson character had in his whole bloody body, aye?

• • •

“Seriously? This is the best you literary posers can give me?” Mr. Leatherton’s sun-wrinkled face practically glowed in red blotches as he stood in front of an enormous fireplace, facing the seated writers. The flickering flames behind him gave his bark a more threatening feel. “It’s a simple writing exercise any amateur in high school could handle. Did you not listen to my explicit instructions? Your words should conjure soul-grabbing feelings from your readers, not a gag reflex with this trash.” He ripped the stack of papers he held in half. “Start over tonight, and do not disappoint me in tomorrow’s class. Five hundred words, and these better be your best.” The professor turned his back on the group and threw the torn papers into the fireplace with a dramatic flick of his wrist.

Bruce stood aside and let the bedraggled people walk single file out the door, their faces dull and zombielike with dark circles under their eyes. The silence, other than a few sniffles from the women, echoed almost louder than the man’s screeches a minute ago. What a daft way to teach someone. You dinna need to tear down the souls of people to get them to do as ya asked.

“Hey you, boy, you brought it? Great.” The professor stepped away from the hearth, flipping his mood from outraged to moderately moody. He wiggled his fingers toward the delivery bag like an addict reaching for his drug of choice. “I would die of utter starvation if I had to exist on the bland fare they call food in this place.”

Holding out the Styrofoam package, Bruce fought the strong urge to set it on the huge decorative table being used for the class and back away.

The professor yanked out a wad of bills from his wallet, thumbed through them, and shoved three hundred pounds at Bruce. “This should cover your efforts for a while. Remember, I expect immediate service to my requests while I’m here. Jonathan will be in daily contact with you should anything change.”

Bruce kept his face calm and forced out, “Thanks,” trying not to grit his teeth.

The professor disappeared through the doorway, clutching the package close. A moment later, Jonathan stood in the exact same spot.

“Have you seen Mr. Leatherton, boy?”

Narrowing his eyes, Bruce stared at the thin man.
Did he just call me boy? The jerk isn’t any older than myself.
He dinna expect him to bow as if a lordship, now did he? The man looked like he just set foot from some daft history book, none as you’d find in Scotland. As he clenched his fists, a queer, negative energy seeped through his system like a dark cloud hanging over his head.

“I’m sorry, I thought you Lowlanders spoke English. Am I not making myself clear enough, boy?” The words sliced through the air like a whip. Jonathan raised his hands, making strange movements with his fingers. “Have ... you ... seen ...”

Bruce turned on his heel and left. Of all the rude, belligerent
arseholes
. Turning the corner to the main hallway, he ran smack into something solid. “Excuse me, what the—”

Rogue grabbed the sleeve of his flannel shirt to catch her balance, her knees wobbling from the frontal impact. She looked up, startled, her face bathed in an aura of golden light from the wall lamps as the money from Bruce’s hand fluttered around them like celebration confetti. He lost all thought, and put his hand over her clenched fist. His heart pounded as he stared into the very eyes he dreamed about.

“This is becoming a strange tradition between us now, running into each other at full speed. Are ya all right? I dinna hurt ya, did I?” Bruce felt heat rise up his throat and across his face. He’d nearly knocked her to the ground and broke her sweet body in half.

The young woman slowly shook her head and grinned. “No need to flash your wee wages in my face, Bruce. Or have ya taken to smuggling drugs on the side?”

Hunching his shoulders, he didn’t say a word, making sure she had her balance before dropping to his knees and picking up the bills. How bloody embarrassing. What must she think?

The short quiet between them broke into pieces as Diva bounded around the corner, more legs than body, letting out a sharp bark.

Startled, Bruce saw the overgrown, gray-whiskered hound from his knees as it circled behind Rogue and planted a wet, warm tongue across his face.

Rogue gasped, her hands extended, grabbing the dog’s neck to stop further licks. “What the devil has gotten into you, dog? Ya’d be in yer right for a bucket full of anger at my Diva, slobbering all over you like that, MacKenzie.”

He chuckled and wiped his damp face with the back of his hand. “Aye, at least surely someone loves me for all my hard efforts.” The dog flopped on the floor in front of him, her tail thumping a rhythm behind her. He rubbed the top of the dog’s head. “Unlike some people in this castle, I fear.”

Did the bloody dog just wink at him?
Remind me to bring that four-legged mascot a steak bone in gratitude
, he thought as he enjoyed Rogue’s warm smile and sparkling eyes above him.

“Would you look at that? Diva typically doesna like men. She has a keen sense of character, she does.” Rogue smiled. “Ya must be something special, I guess. First you’ve wooed Putney and now my dog.” She tucked her hands behind her. “Did you no forget something from your deliveries earlier?”

It was Bruce’s turn to shake his head as he stood up. “Special delivery to your professor guy. Ya know, uh, Robbie let me in and told me where to find the professor. Seems I’ll be transporting these deliveries on a daily basis for the guy.” He stuffed the bills in his back pocket. “Rich Americans with more wants than common sense, it seems.” But he’d be forever grateful to the ornery man for the chance to see Rogue again and break the ice from his last visit.

“Walk with me to the kitchen?” Bruce nearly crossed his fingers in hope she had nothing better to do at the moment. He wanted her company for as long as he could.

Rogue smiled and said, “Diva, lead the way for us.”

Cook turned her head as they passed by the stove, walking with less than an inch between them. She made a sharp noise deep in her throat.

“Ms. Putney, will ya be letting me ken if ya need anything extra before I made my rounds tomorrow?” The look on the cook’s face as her eyes darted between Rogue and himself made his ears feel hot. It was like the old woman could read his thoughts of wanting privacy to put his arms around Rogue.

“I have all I need for tonight, Bruce.” She put her red hands on her hips. “Your delivery tomorrow will be on time, aye? We’ve many mouths to feed this week.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded as a trickle of sweat made its way down his back. The woman in front of him reminded him of his grandmother, a no-nonsense woman, who knew all his sins with one look. He moved closer to the exit, already missing the warmth from his side. “Well, I best be getting back to the village.” He nodded to both women and let himself out the heavy wooden door. He could barely gulp the cooler night air as he crossed the bridge toward his truck. The corner of his mouth pulled into a relaxed grin.

• • •

“Now that’s the sort of smile I like to see on your face.” Putney ran warm water into the sink.

“Aye, and what kind of smile is that?” Rogue folded her arms over the cool loss of Bruce near to her; it was like taking off a favorite sweater in a chilled doctor’s exam room. The man’s attention made her heart lightly flutter, like butterflies circling inside her, not like the intense, strange flurries in her stomach when Jonathan stood near. It was a more peaceful, comfortable feeling, like her favorite saddle. And Diva seemed to adore him. She rubbed her tired eyes with her fists.

“Ya seem happy, content, aye?”

A sigh slipped out, confusion creeping into her thoughts as both men twirled a sudden tango in her mind. Why was so much male attention happening around her? Spring madness? Had she dropped in a rabbit hole she didn’t remember seeing and lost her independence and way home?

“Rogue?” Aunt Baillie touched her shoulder.

She squealed at the top of her lungs and jumped up onto the counter, sitting on the edge with her legs dangling. “Ya gave me such a fright, Auntie. I canna breathe.”

Putney slapped her hands together before bursting out into a hearty laugh. “I havena seen you move that fast in years, lass. You look like a ghost tapped on your shoulder, not your sweet aunt.”

“Humph, I was just lost in thought, that’s all.” Climbing off the edge of the counter, Rogue tried keeping her dignity intact. “I guess I canna say I donna believe in ghosts now, can I?” She laughed at herself.