The Great Scot. Donna Kauffman
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I would say I’m sorry I intruded.” She glanced up at the house one last time and a smile stole across her face that snagged his attention in a way a pleading speech never would have. “But I’m not.” She pressed the card back in his hand. “If you change your mind, I’m going to stay in town tonight. Please contact me.” The sharp gleam returned to her eyes. “The lease agreement we’d offer would top whatever your guests would be paying. And we’d happily absorb the cost of relocating those who aren’t willing to reschedule until after we’re done shooting. Of course, it goes without saying the free publicity will likely keep you booked up for some time to come after the show airs.”
He took the card without thinking. She was really something. And it hadn’t escaped him that she’d gotten her sales pitch in anyway.
“Thanks again,” she said, then turned and walked back to her car with a last glance at the house, but not at him. He watched her, his attention split between being somewhat dumbfounded by her moxie…and the way her rolling gait made her hips sway in a manner that wasn’t remotely enticing, especially in the baggy khakis she wore, but had his full attention, regardless. Forthright and determined, if not overtly feminine. So why he found himself wondering just what the curve of her bum looked like beneath those shapeless trousers, he had no earthly idea.
She paused just before rounding the front of her little car and looked back at him. “Oh, and thank you for the rescue earlier.”
He lifted a hand, gave her a nod…and wondered at exactly what moment he’d lost his mind. Because it took considerable control not to issue the invitation that was presently sitting on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath, waiting to see what she’d say next, until she waved and climbed in her car without another word. And, on a short sigh, he realized he was disappointed.
Maybe his brothers were right after all, he thought, watching her depart. Maybe it was time he got out, socialized a bit more. He’d been back almost two years now. But it wasn’t as if he wasn’t holed up out here, still wallowing in grief, much as they all suspected. There was simply too much work to be done to waste time frittering about in town. He’d get to that again. At some point. After the B & B was up and running most likely. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know how. He hadn’t always been Dylan Chisholm, grudging clan chief and widower. Back in Edinburgh, he’d been Dylan Chisholm, stock trader, society darling, husband. Aye, and in that order, unfortunately. Of course, Maribel’s priorities had been laid out much the same. But that was nobody’s business but theirs.
He was back now, that was all that mattered. And he took his role quite seriously. He hadn’t been in favor of throwing the doors of Glenshire open to paying guests, but he hadn’t had a better idea, either. So it had come down either giving it a go, or being the one to lose the family heritage after four centuries of steady ownership. So he was giving it a go.
Dylan watched as Erin’s taillights disappeared down the drive, then turned his back on her and her interesting, if completely insane proposition, and trudged back into the house.
Hours later he was still wedged under the sink, swearing quite creatively while trying to loosen an ancient, rusted-over pipe fitting, when the phone rang. He debated the relative merits of letting the machine pick up the call, but decided he could use the break. It was that or take the wrench to the entire project like a cricket bat.
He made it out onto the third floor landing where the phone table was positioned for use by the guests who’d be put in the upper floor dormer rooms, and snatched up the receiver on the fourth ring. “Hallo,” he barked, then immediately followed with a slightly less caustic, “Glenshire, may I help you?” They’d been taking bookings for the past several months and he still had a devil of a time answering his own damn phone like the receptionist in a bloody hotel.
“Ye can start by tellin’ me why you didnae at least give our lovely lass Erin here the chance to tell you how many bloomin’ zeroes were goin’ tae be on that check you so blithely turned down. Ye foofin’ arse.”
Oh, for Christ sake . Getting chewed out by his brother was about the last thing he was in the mood for at the moment. “I’m doin’ the work of ten men here and have little time for your dramatics, Brodie. Tell Ms. MacGregor that if she’d like tae lease the place in the fall or winter when bookings are slim, we’d love to reconsider. Now, if we want our guests to be able to take a piss while they’re stayin’ here, I need to get back to replacing the pipes in the loo.”
“No need to get, well, pissy,” Brodie said, far more amused than abashed by his eldest brother’s outburst. Damn his perennial jovial heart to hell.
“Glad I can entertain. If ye’d really like tae help, get Marta to take over the bar and get your foofin’ arse out here. Preferably with a wrench in your hand.” He hung up the phone without waiting for a reply. It wasn’t entirely fair to jump Brodie like that, he and Reese had pitched in more than their share when they could get away from their own businesses, as had Tristan, when they could drag him in from the fields. But Dylan wasn’t much in the mood to be fair and impartial at the moment.
He stomped back into the WC, forcibly pushing aside any concern save the recalcitrant pipes he was trying to replace, and once again positioned himself beneath the sink. Only to find his thoughts wandering immediately to a pair of dancing green eyes and a lively, confident smile. Other than being a female, of which he’d seen few enough of late, there was nothing particularly fetching about the Yank. Ms. Baggy Bum, with that off-kilter gait and hair cut off all short and shapeless.
He sighed and positioned the wrench back around the offending fitting. But when he bent his will back to the job at hand, it was exactly those khaki clad hips that refused to leave his thoughts. And then there was the way her mouth kicked up at the corners, as if she was in on some amusing bit of news of which he was the last to know.
Frustrated by his inability to shut the Yank from his thoughts, he vented his ire a bit too heavily and snapped the corroded section clean in two, sending a spatter of rusty gunk spraying across his face and neck, and a stream of foul language spewing from his mouth.
“My, my. Have a bar of soap handy? Looks like your face and mouth could both use a good swipe.”
Dylan squeezed his eyes shut and worked mightily to keep his tongue under control as well. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Hallo, Mrs. Dalrymple. I didnae hear you come in. My apologies. These pipes are proving a wee bit of a test.”
“So, I see. I rang, but with all the clanging and swearing going on, ’tisn’t a wonder you didn’t hear me. I didnae want to drag ye away from your work, so I thought I’d let myself in.”
I just bet you did , he thought unkindly, not particularly sorry for the sour sentiment. Letitia Dalrymple ran the bakery in the village with her daughter, Sally. Letitia and her good friend, Doris, who, along with her husband ran the butcher shop just off the square, were two of the busiest bodies in Glenbuie. They’d formed a knitting club some time ago with several other women of their generation—more of a gossip club if you asked him—and no one in Glenbuie had had a moment’s peace since. He’d only had to deal with it for the past two years, and that with the added buffer of living way out here. Through a miracle of patience, Brodie and Reese handled the lot of them without much concern and he’d as soon leave them to it.
But with all three of his brothers either newly married or about to become so, Letty and her cackling horde had set their sights on him. The puir widower Chisholm. Naturally Reese, Brodie, and Tristan found this highly amusing and did their best to assist the women in their endeavors whenever possible.
Letty scooped a rag from his tool chest and dangled it over his head. He forced a tight smile as he took it and wiped it over his face and neck. “Thank you.” He shoved himself out from under the sink. At this point he’d have to tear the whole damn thing out, which he’d been afraid of, the cost of which he’d been hoping to avert with a few replacement parts. Why he’d thought anything he might do around here would actually save a few pounds, rather than cost him a whole pocketful more of them, he had no idea. It never seemed to work that way. Now he was out valuable time as well as money.