The Great Scot. Donna Kauffman
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we’re presentable.”
Erin grinned. “I don’t think you understand. I want to rent out your entire bed and breakfast. For the next two months.”
Chapter 2
“I beg your pardon?” Dylan couldn’t have heard the Yank properly. One of his brothers was having a go with him again, no doubt. “Did Brodie put you up to this? Because his humor can be found a bit wanting at times.”
“I’m perfectly serious.” The young woman stuck her hand inside her jacket pocket, fished around, came up empty, then patted down her other pockets, before smiling at him and pulling a card from the rear pocket of her jeans. “Sorry. I apparently handed out all my other ones in Glenbuie. I have more in the car.”
She’d handed out cards? He took the somewhat dog-eared business card and glanced down at it. “Erin MacGregor. Location Coordinator. Thomas Marchand Productions.” He looked back at her. “Wha’ exactly would ye be coordinating?”
“I’m scouting sites for one of America’s top-rated television shows. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Your Prince Charming. We’re getting ready to film our eighth season.”
Your prince what? “I don’t watch much of the telly, sorry.”
“We’re not syndicated over here,” she hurried on to say, “but we’re talked about in print and online all over the world. We’ve used locations in Italy and France, Brussels, Sweden. It’s a watercooler show.” When he frowned, she added, “You know, the show everyone talks about the morning after it airs? At work? We score very well with the broadest demographics. Advertisers love us.”
He handed the card back to her. “Well done, I’m sure. I’m sorry to say, however, that it won’t be possible to stage part of your show here. There is still work to be done and I’m booked up in less than a fortnight.”
Her smile didn’t falter. “Glenshire has been in your family for centuries, is that true?”
What was she on about now? “Aye, that it has.” Why was he still standing there, talking to her? There was more work to do than a battalion of laborers could tackle, and he was presently an army of one.
She stepped past him and walked a few paces toward the house, her stride confident, as if she was certain he’d follow. A determined sort, this Erin MacGregor.
She stopped next to the fountain, her gaze taking in the house in its entirety, her expression one of both awe and almost palpable excitement. “It’s amazing. I don’t know how you manage it.”
“Mostly I don’t.” He had no business standing about, having a chat, yet he made no move to dismiss her. Five minutes ago he’d been wrestling with a particularly stubborn spot of plumbing, before noting his visitor from the central window above. He still wasn’t entirely certain this wasn’t one of his brother’s practical jokes. Or worse, another matchmaking scheme. “Mostly it manages me.”
“I can well imagine. Quite the restoration project. Brodie told me,” she added by way of explanation. “Which, I understand, is partly why you’re opening the bed and breakfast.”
Dylan scowled. Didn’t his brother have anything better to do than flirt with Yankee lasses? The man was newly married, and shouldnae be consorting about. Of course Dylan knew full well that Brodie was naturally gregarious and equally affable with all who entered his pub, and totally besotted with his new wife. But that didn’t give the man license to spout on about personal family business with every straggler who wandered in the door, now did it?
She glanced over at him. “You’re the oldest, right? The clan chief?”
“Aye, that I am,” he answered absently, his thoughts momentarily diverted by the lecture he was plotting to deliver to all three of his younger brothers the first chance he got. It was one thing to nudge their lone, solitary sibling back into the land of the living, and, truly, he had arrived there some time ago now, but it was up to him when and if he chose to delve into a new relationship. They had no business tossing women in his path, no matter how well intended. Not that any lecture he delivered would likely stop them. Or any of the villagers for that matter. Bloody hell. He just wanted to be left alone to get the place into shape for his upcoming guests. Was that so much to ask? He looked at the smiling face of the woman before him. Apparently it was.
“I can’t imagine what it’s like,” she went on, “being responsible for maintaining the collective assets of your entire ancestry.”
“If ye only knew the half of it,” Dylan muttered. He stared at the crumbling heap, trying to see it as she must, and no doubt failing.
He’d grown up inside those moldering walls, feeling the pressure of all those eyes staring down at him from the endless rows of portraits hung in every available nook and cranny, knowing very early on that no matter what he did during his lifetime, the place would never be restored fully. Though his grandfather, Finny, had done his best to maintain a positive outlook, the burden would overwhelm even the most optimistic of souls. He’d tried to teach Dylan how he focused only on the most dire of Glenshire’s maintenance needs, and no’ the whole pile at once, or it would drive a man mad.
Unfortunately, Dylan had never been good at compartmentalizing. Perhaps he’d have been a better partner, a better husband, had that been the case. Perhaps he’d have better handled the sudden loss, too.
He swallowed a weary sigh, knowing it was indeed a talent he still sorely lacked. Exhausting as his birthright was, he’d long since come to the conclusion that maintaining the physical remnants of the Chisholm clan legacy was still a whole hell of a lot easier than overseeing the human element that came along with the title of clan chief. Which was more truthfully why he avoided the latter on most occasions.
“I know nothing about my ancestry,” she said, still taking the measure of the place.
Her easy confession startled him out of his ponderous musings. “Never traced your heritage?” As unimaginable as his burden was to her, likewise he couldn’t imagine that kind of absolute freedom.
“Nothing to trace,” she said with a shake of her head, causing her hair to dance a little in the early evening breeze.
He generally wasn’t a fan of short hair on women, nor did he care much for that messy just-out-of-bed-look. Sleek and elegant, with an eye toward sophistication, had always been what turned his head. Not that it mattered. If she really was who she said she was, she wasn’t here to turn his head. Which suited him just fine.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, more as a polite response, so he was surprised to discover he meant it. He might envy her freedom a wee bit, aye, but at the same time, he couldn’t quite imagine not knowing where he came from, who his people were.
She shrugged, smiled, her green eyes alight with a gleam that could only be described as impish. How was it he hadn’t noticed them earlier? They were quite striking, actually, enlivening her otherwise plain face.
“Don’t be,” she assured him. “I didn’t tell you that to play on your sympathy, I was just trying to convey how otherworldly this seems to me.”
He hadn’t forgotten she wanted something from him—his home, to be exact—so it would bode him well not to let her charm him in any way. He doubted that she’d forgotten for one second why she was here, and moreover, he was fairly certain despite her claim to the contrary, that this was all a rather calculated attempt to soften him up, or at least get him to let her linger long enough so she could make another sales pitch.
“When I was younger, I used to make up stories about my family,” she went on. “But even on a really good day, I could have never come up with something like this.” She turned back to the house, but not before he saw something that looked like yearning in her eyes. “Would it—?” She broke off, shook her head.
“What?” he asked, despite knowing he should end this now.
“I was