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MY HANDSOME NEW BOSS moved gracefully down the pavement beside me as we walked to Dun Roamin’ Guest House—the only bed and breakfast in the village. It was owned by the rather crotchety Mrs Barclay, the widow of the previous minister of the village church. Mrs Barclay had never quite come to terms with her demotion in village life to merely being another parishioner, as opposed to being the wife of possibly the most important person in the village. It was not usual for ministers to stay in their old parishes for that very reason. Most moved away as soon as they retired. Mrs Barclay had fallen out with the Women’s Guild, the knitting bee, the church choir, the Burns’ Club and now the Bowling Club. The only people she had not fallen out with was the Thursday Lunch Club for the elderly, but I suspect that was because she had set it up and ran it with a fist of iron.
I knocked on the red painted door and waited. Mrs Barclay arrived a few seconds later. Her gaze swept over me and then over my companion. I noticed her lip curl ever so slightly in disapproval. Mrs Barclay didn’t like me. As a child I had been rather precocious in Sunday school. The thing is, I had known the well-rehearsed answers they wanted from their questions but I was interested in asking questions, not performing like a trained seal.
She never quite forgave me for showing up her lack of knowledge on world religions when I asked if my friend Sameena would go to heaven too since Muslims believed Jesus was a prophet, though not the Son of God. But the day she spotted me watching her as she had popped a couple of extra Rice Krispie cakes into a little sandwich bag for herself at the church bring-and-buy sale, when she thought no one was looking, was the day she decided she really hated me. I never said anything to anyone and I noticed her put a few extra coins into the tub of money for them.
“Rhona, what can I do for you?” She looked me up and down as though I was some creature that had just crawled out of the sewer.
“This is Lord Macallan. He’s the new owner of the Strathdougall estate. He needs a room,” I said.
Her gaze swept back up the bekilted American and her expression turned mocking. “I’m afraid I have no vacancies.”
I turned to the little sign in the bay window of her living room, which doubled as the breakfast room. “Your sign says you have vacancies.”
“I forgot to turn it round,” she said, staring me straight in the eye without the slightest sign of discomfort. I have to say that for a woman who had spent her life preaching to children the importance of keeping the ten commandments, she was pretty damned brazen when breaking the ninth one.
I turned my back fully to Lord Macallan as some kind of shield to the machinations of the nasty woman who used to be the helpmeet of the man who was the spiritual guide of our village and spoke sotto voce.
“Oh come on, Mrs Barclay. You and I both know you have vacancies. Even in the height of summer you have vacancies. Strathdougall is in the arse end of nowhere and nobody ever visits. Surely you can’t turn away a paying customer. I’m sure he’s house-trained, even if he is American.”
“I’ll even put the toilet seat back down after I pee,” came a lazy drawl from behind me. I groaned inwardly.
“I’m sorry, Rhona, but we’re full.”
“Mrs Barclay!” The door was being shut in my face. Lord Macallan reached out a hand to stop the door but he was too late. I caught a brief whiff of his aftershave. Damn, the smell of wet wool and aftershave was quite sexy.
“I apologise—that didn’t help but I didn’t like being spoken about in that manner,” he said.
I ran my hand through my now soaking wet dark brown hair and sighed, looking up at him. “Saying you are house-trained—it’s just British humour. I didn’t mean to offend you. She has rooms. But a lot of people in the village are antagonistic to the idea of an American inheriting the estate, even though we’ve known it was going to happen for a couple of years now—ever since the old Lord Macallan’s nephew died in that tragic boating accident.”
He waved away my apology. “So, is there another guest house?”
“Not in Strathdougall.” I shrugged. There was only one thing for it. I didn’t like it but it seemed that Karma owed me another kick in the hind quarters. “Come on. You’ll have to stay with me.”
“Oh I couldn’t put you out like that.”
I waved my hand dismissively. Of course he was putting me out—massively. But this was what happened when you didn’t do your job properly. I should have arranged a room with Mrs Barclay and done the wheedling beforehand so that she would have accepted the big Texan into her home, no matter how ungraciously. At least the poor man would have had a room.
“Honestly, Lord Macallan. It’s no bother to me. I’m just sorry you have to stay in my small, dingy and messy cottage.”
“I don’t mind staying in your cottage but I feel like you’re going to a lot of bother for me. I’d prefer you to call me Cole, though, if we’re going to be living together.” His lips quirked into a cheeky smile and I couldn’t help mirroring his expression. I bit my lip to suppress it but he knew he had got me. He obviously knew he was handsome. Did he realise that the little lines at his eyes, probably from squinting into the sun, just made him even sexier. And that cowboy drawl could warm me up on a cold wet Scottish spring day in an instant. My belly seemed to flip flop every time he opened his mouth. I kind of wanted him to say “y’all” just so I could hear him say it.
I nodded and indicated the direction we needed to walk. Suddenly he stopped and pointed to the old ruin sitting atop a small hill overlooking the village.
“What is that?”
“That’s your castle.”
“But it’s a...a...”
“It’s a ruin. Yeah. It has potential to be restored as a tourist attraction but it would take a lot of money.”
“Hmm. Is that so?”
He studied the building for a moment or two before cocking his head to the side, making a little huffing noise and following me, looking thoughtful.
We arrived at the former gatehouse to the old estate and I unlocked the door. The old Lord Macallan had given the house to my father when he had been the estate manager. I had fallen heir to both the house and the job when my father had become ill with Alzheimer’s disease. I had kept him at home initially. Mum, unable to cope with seeing my dad’s decline, had taken that moment to decide that she wanted to do a degree in art and had gone off to Edinburgh Art School—never to be seen or heard from again. Well, all right, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. I saw her occasionally. I saw her the day Dad went into Sunnyvale nursing home. She said goodbye to him, kissed him on his balding pate, left the building then jumped on the back of her boyfriend’s motorbike and rode off into the sunset, leaving me to explain to a confused and upset man where Jeanette had gone.
“Nice cottage,” said Cole as he ducked his head slightly to avoid cracking his skull on the lintel.
“It comes with the job... which I probably won’t have very soon.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, pushing down the handle of his massive suitcase and dropping his rucksack off his shoulder.
“I imagine once you see what you have inherited, you’ll be on the first plane back to the States,” I answered honestly.
He gave me a broad smile and cocked an eyebrow at me. “We’ll see.”
At that moment a ball of blonde curly fluff came bounding out of the kitchen, wuffing at me and jumping up to say hello. My cockapoo, Molly, had come to welcome me home. A cross between a cocker spaniel and a poodle, my furry best friend rolled immediately onto her back to allow me to rub her stomach. In truth, she was an absolutely useless guard dog. I had brought home a strange man and she had not given him a second glance.
“Hello, Molly dolly,” I cooed. “Have you been a good girl?”
My baby made a noise that sounded something like a growl of satisfaction as my digits hit the right spot and her tongue lolled out of her mouth. And still she had not thought to try to protect me from the stranger in our house.
“She’s not much of a guard dog,” I admitted.
“So I see.”
“That’s enough.” I said sternly to the dog, reaching into my pocket for the treat I knew would be there. “You’re not afraid of dogs or allergic or anything, are you?
He chuckled. “Naw!” he drawled. “We have dogs all over the ranch. Not pampered pooches like this one, mind ya, but plenty of dogs.” He scratched behind Molly’s ears and she leaned into his hand.
“Molly is not a pampered pooch.”
“She’s one of those designer dawgs.” His accent was more pronounced when he was arguing, it seemed.
“No, she just happens to be the product of an illicit liaison between Mr Mackay’s spaniel Toby and Mrs Barclay’s poodle Missy. Believe me, there was rather a furore when Missy came home from her wanderings while she was in heat in a terrible state, but those who saw her swore that bitch had a smile on her face. Mrs Barclay was horrified. I’m surprised Missy wasn’t taken away to an elderly aunt’s for the duration of her confinement. Needless to say, the hole in Mrs Barclay’s fence has now been fixed. And Molly is the result of an encounter. The pups of shame were all given away free.” Molly jumped up into my arms and I nuzzled my face into her coat. “We’ll go walkies soon,” I promised her. “I’ll show you round,” I said to my visitor.
I opened one door. “This is the living room.” I liked my cosy little lounge with the hand-knitted throw rugs over the sofa and chairs and the crocheted cushion covers. It wasn’t very modern-looking but it was homely. My small television sat in the corner, a box of wool with various unfinished projects was stashed underneath. On the opposite wall were bookcases—two filled with books and one filled with DVDs and videos. On the side opposite the bay window was a large oak sideboard with family pictures and ornaments. Things that reminded me of happier times. I had also added a few subtle witch figurines. “Next door is the kitchen. I need to go shopping so there is not much food in. Help yourself to whatever you want. I’ll go tomorrow to the supermarket and buy some proper food. We can eat out in the the pub for dinner tonight. I’ll show you where the coffee and tea and stuff are once you’ve dried off. Upstairs are the bedrooms and bathroom. Can you manage your case?”
“Can a cowboy rope a calf?” He followed me up the small straight staircase, bumping the big heavy case behind him. I opened the door to the spare room and rushed in to clear the laundry off the bed.
“Sorry, I hadn’t expected a visitor,” I said, grimacing as I retrieved a couple of lacy bras and some underpants from a clothes horse sitting under the window. “Watch your head on the ceiling. We’re in the eves here and the ceiling does slope quite steeply.”
I hated that he was seeing my old bedroom and all the Harry Potter memorabilia I had collected over the years. I had been a bit of a nut for the series about the boy wizard, drawn into a magical world to escape the fact that I had mucked up my education and my chance to attend university. I had attended conventions until my dad had become too sick and then I had spent all my time on Harry Potter internet forums and buying crap. Until one day I had just stopped. I still loved the series, but I didn’t have time now. I pulled the Gryffindor scarf off the headboard and shoved it into a box of detritus.
“Gryffindor, huh? I got sorted into Ravenclaw when I went onto the Pottermore site.”
I looked up at him sharply. “Me too. I had been hoping for Hufflepuff, I’m not sure why. I think they’re always the underdogs so I kind of feel an affinity to them. But the scarf was bought a long time before Pottermore came online. Look, I’ll try and straighten this place out tomorrow. Just, as I say, watch your head.”
“I’ll be fine, I’m sure,” he promised me, giving me another bright grin. “Thanks for hosting me. It’s way above and beyond the call of duty.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll show you how to use the shower and let you warm up. I’ll take the dog for a quick walk and then make you a hot drink but emm...” I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of his ridiculous outfit. “I hope you don’t think I’m stepping over a boundary here but...” I waved my hand, gesturing up and down his rather fine body.
“It’s the outfit, ain’t it?” He grimaced slightly. I nodded. “I sort of realised as soon as I got off the plane. For some reason I thought this was how Scotsmen dressed. Anything I’ve ever seen to do with Scotland has men in kilts. My mom bought me this outfit a few years back on an internet site. And my sister reads all those romance books and they all have guys in kilts on the covers.”
I covered my mouth with my hand, trying to hide my mirth. He looked so embarrassed.
“If it makes you feel any better, a lot of Americans make the same mistake.”
“You guys all just wear regular clothes.”
“Yes, we do. We’re just normal. In fact, we’re quite influenced by American culture and television. Come, I’ll show you how to use the shower. Then we can go to the pub. It’s half past four now. By the time you’re ready, they’ll be serving food again.”
“Great. And Rhona.” His voice was low and sexy and I turned to him, almost falling into that dark, sultry gaze. “Thanks.”
Damn it. I was done for.