Some Like it Scottish, page 7
“Why?” she asked without thinking first.
Davey stopped and faced both of them. “It’s no secret my father was an alcoholic. Because of his recklessness with his personal life and with the business, he nearly bankrupted the distillery and our family. I took over when I was just seventeen.”
She knew this, feeling stupid for asking. She recovered quickly. “From what I’ve read, you’ve built back your family’s empire and then some.”
Davey seemed to approve of her comment and studied her closely. “It’s taken thirteen years, but I think I can finally do something for myself.” He put his hand on the small of her back again and started walking them toward the house. “It’s past time I found a partner with whom to share my life.”
Ramsay caught up to them again and shot her an eye roll. “This is some property ye have here. How goes the fishing and the hunting?”
Davey stopped and looked wistfully off to the nearest mountain. “I have a ghillie who acts as gamekeeper. He’s the one who has the pleasure.”
“You can’t mean to tell me that you have access to this bountiful land and yet ye don’t enjoy it!”
“Whisky making is a twenty-four/seven endeavor.” Davey said it as if it pained him.
Ramsay clamped a hand on his shoulder. “What say we keep the distillery talk to a minimum and ye show me what your trout look like over at yonder loch?”
Excitement lit up Davey’s eyes. But then he glanced at his buildings, looking worried to leave his operation even for a few hours.
“You only live once,” Ramsay said. “Seize the day, man.”
“Right.” Davey pointed off to a small cottage. “Let’s get some gear.” The two men headed off.
Kit stood there, forgotten, confused, and irritated.
Only a minute ago, Davey had given her too much attention. Now, it was as if Kit had faded away, and there she was, left holding her damned wellies.
She ran after them. Maybe she could use this outing to her advantage, as she’d done in Alaska. She’d, gone fly-fishing, taken a harrowing flight on a bush plane during a storm, and even gone moose hunting in the name of getting bachelors to sign up. Besides, how bad could it be to spend a few hours with a couple of good-looking men who were trying to conquer the beasts of the land and water?
“Wait up.” She followed them to the ghillie’s cottage. Once there, she changed into her wellies while the men gathered what they needed for fishing. As they headed to the loch in the jeep, she tried to come up with an opening or at least an angle to use on Davey to get him to sign on as one of her clients. At the top of the steep hill, the view was breathtaking, with miles of water glistening below.
As the Scots unloaded their gear, Kit trekked down the near-perpendicular hill to get a closer look. Unfortunately, she didn’t make it very far before one of her boots lodged in a hole and she lost her balance. With breakneck speed, she rolled and tumbled, shrieking all the way, until she hit the loch with a splash. Frigid water went up her nose. The cold took her breath away.
Her feet found the bottom but she was shaking too hard to stand. Strong arms fished her out and held her close.
Ramsay moved her hair out of her face. “I’ve got ye.” Gently he laid her head on his shoulder. “I’ve never seen a more graceful fall. Are ye all right?”
“G-grand,” she said, clinging to his neck and shivering.
As he long-stepped it back up the hill, he rubbed his chin on her hair. “Though entertaining, the Highlands are too cold for a wet T-shirt contest.”
She looked down and groaned. Sure enough, her shirt was plastered to her breasts and her nipples were drawn tight as a tack. She slapped a hand over her chest.
Davey came up beside them. “She’s got to get out of those clothes right away.”
“You drive,” Ramsay said.
Surely, he didn’t mean to strip her on the way back to Davey’s.
Jostling her, Ramsay maneuvered open the back door of the jeep and slid inside. Now she wasn’t only in his arms but was sitting on his lap as well.
Davey got in the front and turned on the car.
“Do you have a flask in here?”
Davey produced a metal container from the glove box and handed it back.
Ramsay undid the lid and held it to her lips. She was really trembling now.
“Drink.” His voice sounded husky. “To warm yere bones.”
She took a shaky draw of the liquid fire. It did indeed warm her. She laid her head back on Ramsay’s chest and snuggled in.
He held her tight. “For God’s sake, man, get the heat going.”
She placed a hand on his chest and gazed into his eyes, waiting until he looked down at her. “I’ll be o-o-kay. It’s summer, for h-heaven’s sakes.”
“You don’t understand. It’s Scotland. She can be cold and unforgiving. You could catch yere death.”
She laid her head back on his shoulder. “Have a little faith.”
Davey turned the heat on high and put the jeep in gear.
The ride was bumpy. The way her backside bounced around on Ramsay’s man parts, she became aware that he was getting aroused. She was embarrassed, flattered, and intrigued. And in no way was she going to acknowledge what was going on between them.
Soon Davey was pulling up to the house.
“Bring her bag in from the SUV.” Ramsay was getting out before the jeep had fully stopped.
Toting her, he carried her over the threshold like he owned the place, opening doors until he found a powder room. He set her down and reached for the hem of her shirt.
Shakily, she tried to swat him away. “What are you doing?”
“We’re getting those clothes off you.” He reached for her again.
“I c-can do it.” But she couldn’t, she was shaking so hard. Frustrated tears came to her eyes.
He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “What if I promise not to look?”
“Okay.”
He yanked her shirt over her head—with his eyes wide-open!
He gave a low whistle. “Ye’re a stunner. Now turn around.”
Too shocked, or too cold to complain, she grabbed a towel from the rack and covered her chest. With her back turned to him, he unsnapped her bra.
Davey knocked on the door. “I have the bag.”
“Leave it outside the door.” He glanced over at Kit. “Are ye covered?”
She nodded, relieved he hadn’t exposed her nakedness to the household.
He opened the door, pulled it inside, and unzipped it. He pulled out an NYU sweatshirt and jeans. “Let’s get your shorts off next.”
“No way, mister. Give me my top. And I won’t put it on until you turn around.” For a second, she wondered if he was going to be stubborn and ogle her while she dressed.
He turned, facing the wall. “Let me know if I can help. I know my way around brassieres.”
“So you’ve demonstrated.” She pulled the warm top over her head, deciding that was the most she could handle on her own. A bra could wait until she was warmer. “And for heaven’s sakes, who says brassieres?”
He chuckled. “I’m an old-fashioned man.”
“Well, how about you give me some old-fashioned privacy so I can dress the rest of the way without an audience?”
He turned around and gave her a brazen stare. “If I say no, does that mean I can stay?”
“Out.” She tossed her wet shirt at him.
He picked up her soaked wellies from the floor. “Give me your shorts and skivvies and I’ll make sure they make it in the dryer, too.”
“You’re not touching my . . .” She faltered for a second. “My underthings.”
That cocky eyebrow of his lifted. “Wanna bet?” He took a step toward her.
She put her hand on his chest, stopping him. “Fine. Wait outside. I can manage now. I’m warming up.”
He surprised her by reaching for the doorknob.
“Ramsay?”
He looked back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Hurriedly she removed her remaining wet clothing and put on dry underwear, jeans, and her hiking boots. Not very attractive. But look what happened when she’d taken pride in her sailor outfit. Pride goeth before a fall. Literally. She looked down at her androgynous clothing. So much for proving to Ramsay that she was a woman and not a wee laddie, as he’d put it.
She wadded her panties up and buried them in the folds of her wet shorts before opening the door. Ramsay waited with his hand out. She begrudgingly transferred her things to him. He had the audacity to shoot her an arrogant look, as if he’d known it was only a matter of time before she stripped for him and forked over her clothes.
“You, sir, have a dirty mind.”
“Aye. I do.” He wasn’t apologetic in the least as he scanned down the length of her, undressing her again.
What a teasing rogue. She knew he was messing with her, but her insides zinged with heat as his gaze slid down her body.
“Go find the laundry,” she ordered, laughing. She intended to locate her messenger bag with the contracts tucked inside next.
As she went to the jeep, warmth settled into her chest. Ramsay could’ve given her a much worse time about being a klutz and tumbling into the loch. He could’ve laughed at her and called her a sad, wet selkie, or some such name. But instead, he’d been—she hated to admit it—kind of gallant. Convention said Davey should’ve been the one to fish her out of the loch; it had been his property, after all. But she was glad it had been Ramsay, more glad than she wanted to admit.
She pulled her bag from the jeep, banishing the knight- in-shining-armor image from her mind. When she went back inside, Davey was waiting for her with a cup of hot tea.
“Come sit in the parlor in front of the fire,” he offered.
She glanced around for Ramsay but didn’t see him. She followed Davey into a beautiful room with a huge fireplace, large paintings, ornate drapery, antique sofas, and a tall cocktail table in the corner with a dry bar nearby.
Davey ushered her closer to the fire with his hand once again pressed to the small of her back.
Ramsay cleared his throat at the door.
She turned around and tried to read his expression. He didn’t look nearly as playful as he had back in the powder room.
“I gave your things to one of the household staff,” he said. “Are ye feeling better?”
She felt her cheeks flush at his concern. “I’ve almost stopped shivering.” She inched closer to the fire.
Ramsay sauntered into the room and stood by Davey. “It’s a shame ye didn’t get to actually cast in a line and fish. Maybe we should leave ye to it and we should get back on the road.”
Kit wanted to launch the fireplace poker at Ramsay’s head. “But we haven’t had a chance yet to talk business.” She directed her comment to Davey.
“Aye,” Davey said. “Ye haven’t even had a tour of the distillery.”
She would much rather stay here in this cozy room and discuss what she could do for Davey in the relationship department. But the best way to get on the good side of a man was to let him talk about his work.
She stood, leaving the bachelor agreement lying on top of her messenger bag. “Sounds great.” Her forced cheerfulness got lodged between her fake smile and her teeth.
They walked around the compound, stopping in all the buildings, while Davey explained the process of forming the liquid gold. They would’ve been done in half the time, but Ramsay asked a million questions about everything from making the maltings, to the mashing, to the fermentation. He’d been pleasant, but she wanted to mash his time-consuming extraneous questions under his heavy black boots. As they were leaving the final building, Ramsay winked at her.
“Davey, I think our little matchmaker would like to have a taste. I doubt if she’s had any real whisky in her life. Real single malt.”
She started to protest that she’d had a drink from the flask in the jeep, but Ramsay gave her a pointed look. She got his meaning—he meant to help her convince Davey to sign a contract. Finally a little cooperation!
Davey gave her a dazzling smile. “I think I can accommodate that request.”
When they walked into the big house, Kit saw her dry clothes sitting on her suitcase. Unfortunately, her pink panties were displayed prominently like the cherry on top of a sundae.
“Excuse me.” She rushed to the bag to stow her things while the men went down the hall, deep in whisky conversation.
When she got back to the parlor, Davey and Ramsay were in the corner with their heads together, seated at the tall cocktail table. Three nose glasses—special whisky-tasting snifters, curved in at the top—and a thick glass bottle with amber liquid inside sat in front of them.
“Come, lass, sit.” Davey patted the tall barstool closest to him.
She ignored Ramsay’s raised eyebrow and tried to do as Davey bid. In the end, she needed a hand up from Davey to plant herself on the tall wooden stool.
Ramsay shoved her nose glass toward her. “Davey here is going to show us how to be official taste testers.”
“Aye.” Davey went into a lengthy discourse while pouring them each a whisky. When he was done, he showed them how to smell the whisky before tasting it. But he didn’t even take a sip.
Kit did, though. It was smoky and smooth. Davey had explained that since it was top-quality whisky and properly aged, it wouldn’t burn. It could be sipped and not knocked back like other whiskies.
“Very nice,” she said.
Ramsay gave Davey an exaggerated frown and put his glass down before taking a drink. “I won’t drink alone.”
Alone? Was she invisible?
Ramsay continued on, ignoring her pout. “Davey, man, ye’re sacrificing the finer things in life. You don’t fish. You don’t hunt. You don’t drink. Only moments ago, ye declared you’re going to turn over a new leaf, enjoy life more. Ye said you’re not going to get bogged down in business and let it suck the life out of ye. Not drinking yere own whisky is nearly as bad, if not worse, than having all this land and not using it.”
Davey seemed to mull over his words. “Perhaps ye’re right.”
This was the first time that Davey’s brogue had shined through, Kit realized. Up until now, he seemed to have tamed it into submission.
Smiling, Ramsay raised his glass. “To good living. Good times. And to good whisky.”
“Aye.” Davey clinked his glass and drank his Scotch.
Ramsay gave a low whistle. “Aw, now that’s good.” He clunked his glass down.
“Should be. It’s the best in the house.” Davey poured all three of them another. Even though the first drink had been very good, she didn’t have more. She wouldn’t break her two-drink rule. The slug of whisky in the jeep counted.
But the men didn’t notice her lack of imbibing. They drank and told fish stories, acting like they were at a men’s-only club. When the talk turned to hunting, Davey marched them off to his gun room to view his ancient weaponry. She followed but wasn’t needed. The round room was more of a museum than an arsenal. It was filled with swords, shields, and crossbows. Pretty soon, they were back in the parlor with a bottle of fifty-year-old Scotch on the coffee table now, the two men having a grand time.
Ramsay and Davey were old buds now, exchanging one story after another. A maid brought in a tray with sandwiches, which would’ve been useful three drinks ago, but now the men were too far gone. Kit checked her phone for the time and sighed heavily.
“Davey?” She tried again to get his attention. “Can we talk business now?” At this point, she didn’t care if she got his signature while he was drunk or not. The day was wasting away and her anger with Ramsay was growing. She thought he’d meant to help her.
Ramsay pounded the whisky-maker on the back. “Tell her, mate.”
Davey gave her a wobbly grin. “I don’t think I need a woman right now. I need to spend some time doing the things that I want to do first. I have to make up for lost time. When I’m done hunting and fishing and doing what a man damn well pleases, then maybe I’ll get a wife.” He nodded, looking as if those words had hit the spot. Both he and Ramsay collapsed into laughter.
Kit jammed her stack of contracts back into her messenger bag. “I see.” She glared at Ramsay. He grinned back. It wouldn’t do any good to say they should leave because her chauffeur was too stinking drunk to take her anywhere. “I’ll find a bedroom to settle into for the night.”
“Make sure there’s a double bed in it,” Ramsay hollered.
“In your dreams.” She stood and put her hands on her hips. “I expect you to be ready first thing in the morning. Hangover or not. Good night, gentlemen.” She marched out the door. It was only six o’clock.
The men broke into song; the tune followed her into the hallway. The maid gave her an understanding glance as she helped Kit carry her things upstairs and settle her into a luxurious bedroom for the night. The bed was a double, so Kit locked the door. She set up her laptop. Instead of working, though, she laid her head in her hands. What had she gotten herself into?
Chapter Five
Half asleep, Ramsay rolled onto his back as his wadded-up shirt hit his face.
“Get up,” Kit hissed. “If you think you’re sleeping the livelong day, well, think again.”
Something heavier hit him. His jeans. He opened his eyes. “Is this a habit of yours, kitten—coming into a man’s bedroom uninvited? Not that I’m complaining or anything.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Ramsay. You’re not that bodacious. Besides, real men don’t get drunk on the job.”
Oomph. His boots landed on his stomach. One bounced and almost took out his stones.
“Careful there, lass. My privates are sacred.”
