Scotland to the Max

by Grace Burrowes

  Max felt besieged, but no well of self-restraint was fortifying his dungeons, so to speak. “Water is fine for me.”

  She filled a glass for him. For herself, cold milk, and for Henry, watered-down berry juice in a sippy cup.

  Max got through the meal because he was hungry, and he was determined. Determined to avoid brushing Jeannie’s hand when reaching for the salt, determined to keep his gaze above the level of her chin, determined not to cancel his trip to Maryland for the simple pleasure of rattling around under the same roof as Jeannie for two straight days.

  “Are you packed?” She set half a romaine leaf in front of Henry, who used it to make a hat for Bear-Bear.

  “I’ll only need my backpack. I can pack in five minutes. Ready for mousse?”

  Jeannie gave him a look that said she heard the forced joviality in his question. “I’ve missed you, Max.”

  “Mah, mah, mah, mah.”

  Max resumed his seat at the table. “We see each other dozens of times every day.”

  She rose and took the plates. “That’s not what I mean. You might as well be in Maryland, for all the effort you put into avoiding me. In another two weeks, your recordkeeping will be up to date, and you can hire Mrs. Hamilton’s granny to do my job.”

  Henry gave Max a curious look. Why does Mum sound unhappy?

  “Is that what you want? To bail me out and then go back to Perth?”

  She set the mousse on the counter rather firmly. “Has it occurred to you that it’s my castle you’re mucking about in? I was married in that castle, as were most of my cousins. My parents were married there. Queen Victoria paid calls there. If I’m repairing a few spreadsheets and making sure we have enough trash bags, that’s in part because that castle means something to me and my family.”

  Max hated that she was upset, but he loved what happened to her accent when she was emphatic about her words.

  “That castle means a lot to a lot of people, I get that. Dinty and his canoodling ghosts, the lavender border along the countess’s walk that dates back to the first earl, Hugh’s unwillingness to open the postern gate after sunset because that invites the fairies in… It’s important.”

  Max kept a list of these features in his phone, because they all had something to contribute to the eventual presentation of Brodie Castle to the public. Maura would love these fanciful aspects of the castle, though she’d never have a chance to enjoy them.

  Jeannie jammed a spoon into the mousse. “At least assure me that keeping your hands off me is as hard for you as keeping my hands off you has become for me.”

  Henry was merrily flinging cereal all over the kitchen. Max’s heart was similarly aloft, heading for a hard crash on the kitchen floor. He knew that leaving intimate dealings with Jeannie behind was the wise, sensible, professional thing to do. He also knew he’d hurt her, and she did not deserve the pain.

  He took the spoon from her and set it aside. “I can give you that assurance, because if you’re having half the trouble I am, then… Jeannie, I’m sorry.”

  Standing this close to her was a mistake. Having this meal with her was a mistake. Leaning close enough to catch her fragrance was the worst mistake of all, because Jeannie leaned up at the same time, as if she’d rest her weight against him and take a momentary respite from sense. Instead, her mouth brushed his. The kiss caught, held, and burst into flames.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Baby, I know. I was supposed to be up at the project site last week, but the realtors…” Pete paused, because mentioning his wife’s house-hunting agenda to Shayla Walters was a bad idea. Making this call while the missus was in the shower was a really bad idea, but Shayla was not a patient woman.

  “What realtors, Pete? And don’t call me ‘baby’. That’s egregiously inappropriate during business hours.”

  Shayla was not using her kitten voice. That was her I am a Professional Engineer used to kicking stupid male butt, and you’re next voice.

  “I’m trying to get a feel for comparable venues,” Pete said. “Newsflash: Americans don’t have country houses or castles, not like they do here. Every one of those venues will compete with the Brodie project, which Max Maitland failed to take into account when he got all lathered up about this job.”

  Hearing Maitland insulted should settle Shayla’s feathers, though Max had included plenty of comps in his project presentations. No two castles were alike, though, and none of them had been built to modern engineering standards.

  “That’s what I can’t figure out,” Shayla said. “Why did Max Maitland, who is notably slow to lather, get so enthusiastic about this job? Max isn’t flashy, but he’s thorough and shrewd, and I thought he had one foot nailed to the Maryland State Bar Association.”

  That unsolved riddle bothered her, clearly. Shayla was flashy. Nearly six feet of smart and sexy in her heels, equal parts ambition, curves, charm, and brains. Pete had taken one look at her and started rearranging his schedule. The next step had been to suggest Mrs. Sutherland might enjoy a little shopping in Paris or Singapore.

  “Max is bored with housing developments,” Pete said. “So were some of the guys looking to invest, and the project has potential to make bank, even for Max.”

  A slight hesitation ensued on the other end of the line. “He negotiated a percentage? That’s in the project manager’s contract now? Max gets a percentage of initial revenue?”

  Shit, shit, shit. The cost of bringing Shayla onto the Brodie Castle team had just quintupled. “He gets a token amount, but we also threw in a few treats if he finishes the build-out ahead of schedule and under budget, which I assure you, he will not do.”

  “Because he screwed up the site plan. Some guys are better off sticking to HVAC schematics or tree-save plans. So when will you show me around the site?”

  The water stopped running in the bathroom. The current Mrs. Sutherland didn’t wear a lot of makeup, didn’t take forty-five minutes to choose which pair of designer jeans went with which scarf. She had a natural flair for looking good, and once upon a time, Pete had loved how easily she got herself together.

  She didn’t keep a guy waiting, didn’t mind if he mussed up her hair in the course of exchanging a little marital affection.

  “Peter, I asked you a question.”

  “We’ll be in Scotland by the end of the week.”

  “We?”

  “I’m hoping some of the other investors can join me. Explaining the situation to Max will be easier if he realizes he faces a united front.”

  The bathroom door opened. “Peter! Can you bring me my hairbrush? It’s in my purse.”

  Good God. “Gimme a minute. I’m on the phone.”

  “I want a copy of Max’s contract, Pete. You offered him something that pried him loose from Outer Cowplop, Maryland. Did you know he has a sister?”

  As if one more nagging female made a difference in a man’s life? “I don’t know if I can disclose his contract. In fact, I think that might qualify as egregiously inappropriate, to use your phrase. I’m pretty sure there’s a gag clause, and Maitland’s a lawyer. If he finds out I’ve been bending the rules, he’ll make it hurt.”

  Would this phone call never end?

  “You own enough shysters to make him regret his mistake. Send me the contract, Peter.”

  Another waft of humid air crossed the hotel suite, bringing with it the scent of roses. “Petey dear, my purse is in the closet, and I need that hairbrush if I don’t want my hair to dry all frizzly.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, Shay. I’m off to meet another realtor.”

  “You’re in the UK?”

  “I’m in London.”

  “That’s lovely, Peter. So am I. I’ll expect a copy of Max’s contract by close of business tomorrow, and I’ll be ready to fly up to Aberdeen any time after Thursday.”

  Jeannie had started dropping hints earlier in the week, implying to the carpenters that the glaziers were pulling ahead of schedule. She’d let the welders know the glaz
iers were poised to beat their next deadline, and she’d casually mentioned to the masons that the carpenters might soon run out of work if the other trades lost any ground.

  A tacit competition had begun, and the week had ended with everybody either on schedule or ahead. She should have been pleased with herself.

  “Will you stand up with me?” Dinty asked. “Assuming wee Henry doesn’t mind sitting out for a reel or two?”

  The Friday night ceilidh was just getting under way, meaning the dance floor wasn’t crowded, and the noise wasn’t yet deafening. Hugh and Fergus were having a good-natured argument over football teams—no fists thrown yet—and Mrs. Hamilton and her mum were getting out the cards.

  Another week happily concluded. So why did Jeannie feel like yelling bad words and stomping out the door instead of turning down the room?

  “Are you sober enough to stand up yourself, Dinty?”

  “Never been drunk a day in my life,” he replied, which was probably true. Dinty was a connoisseur of the Scottish single malt, and the best whiskies were for sipping rather than guzzling. “What’s he doing here?”

  Max Maitland walked in, looking delectable and relaxed in jeans and an unbuttoned Black Watch plaid flannel shirt. A black T-shirt hugged his ribs, and scuffed cowboy boots completed the picture.

  “Tennent’s for you, Mr. Maitland?” Fern called.

  “Tennent’s will suit me fine.”

  “I thought he was flying back to the States this weekend,” Dinty said. “Some people will go to great lengths rather than face me on a shinty pitch, you know.”

  “Here,” Jeannie said, passing him the baby. “Whisper all your secrets to my son. Henry has a great sense of humor.”

  Dinty cuddled Henry to his chest. “Come with me, young man. I’ll show you how to build a perfect pint for them such as yonder Yank who lack the refinement to appreciate our national drink.”

  Henry walloped him one in the sternum, and Dinty kissed his head. “The lad will be a goalie, or my name’s not Dinsmore MacTavish MacFergus Dundee.”

  Jeannie let Henry be taken on a tour behind the bar, leaving her free to admire Max’s backside while Fern was building his pint. When he sauntered over to Jeannie’s perch on the raised hearth, she admired the front view just as much.

  “You’re supposed to be at thirty-seven thousand feet, heading west at about five hundred miles an hour.”

  He took the place beside her. “Bumped myself to an evening flight tomorrow.”

  “Won’t Maura be upset with you?”

  “Should Henry be behind the bar?”

  “This is a ceilidh, not a hard-hat area tidied up for inspection.” And yet, Max had on his best, guarded poker face.

  They’d avoided each other for the past three days, since the Kiss in the Kitchen. Henry had saved Jeannie from making a fool of herself—a worse fool of herself—by hurling Bear-Bear at her head. Max had caught the stuffed animal just short of landing in the mousse, then made a hasty exit from the kitchen with a muttered promise to do the dishes “later.”

  Jeannie had done the dishes, tormented all the while by thoughts of creative uses for chocolate mousse.

  “Morgan stopped by the Baron’s Hall to make sure I knew I was welcome here tonight.”

  A bit bold, even for Morgan. “Everybody is welcome at a ceilidh, though sometimes it’s best to leave the team jerseys at home.”

  Max passed Jeannie his beer. She took a sip and passed it back. Dinty might have done the same with a dram of the Speyside, or Hugh with his ale.

  Except they never had.

  “Morgan’s cottage is booked this weekend,” Max said, drinking from the same place Jeannie had, though he probably didn’t realize it. “A Mr. Pete Smith, whose credit card tracks to one Peter Sutherland, Baltimore address. Morgan thought it an odd coincidence that two Americans from Maryland should both end up in this corner of Royal Deeside at the same time.”

  “Is it an odd coincidence?” Was it a coincidence that Max was having this discussion with Jeannie in public rather than over another shared meal, or when they passed in the Hall’s corridors?

  “She smelled a rat,” Max said, sharing his beer again. “Sutherland is my twitchiest investor. He pulls this crap. Thinks he’s doing discreet reconnaissance, gathering intelligence by skulking around in the weeds with all the subtlety of a drunken rhinoceros. Is Dinty giving that baby a taste of beer?”

  “Oh, probably. Sutherland worries you.”

  “Worries me enough that I put my flight off for a day, but I can’t cancel the trip. Maura would not take that well when she’s already struggling.”

  His posture was relaxed, his voice quiet, his tone casual. His gaze remained on Dinty and Henry, which was why Jeannie loved him. Henry would always be safe with Max on hand, the castle would be safe, while Jeannie would be in big trouble.

  Though at the moment, Jeannie was also feeling peevish toward the object of her fond regard. “The fiddlers promised to open the next set with a waltz. Will you dance with me, Max?”

  “Fergus warned me about Scottish women.” He set his beer on the mantel and held out a hand.

  More couples shuffled onto the dance floor while Fergus and Hugh—drinks in hand—scooted toward the restrooms, or toward the back exit at the end of the same hallway.

  “Cowards,” Jeannie muttered. “They’re afraid Mrs. Hamilton’s mum will get hold of them.”

  Max wrapped a hand around Jeannie’s middle. “I don’t think that’s the issue. Do you have plans for this weekend?”

  Missing you. Except that’s what a pathetic, lovesick teenager would say, and Jeannie had never been one of those.

  “I’m supposed to take Henry to see Millicent. Should I vacate my apartment in Perth, Max?”

  The first fiddler began the introduction, then the concertina drifted in. If Max said yes, she should leave Perth behind, then Jeannie’s future with him had been sacrificed for the good of the castle. If he said no, then her position on the project was temporary and, presumably, her future with him less temporary.

  She could think of compelling arguments in favor of both options, though neither was ideal.

  “Do you want to vacate your apartment?”

  He remained standing with her at the edge of the dance floor, in waltz position, but not moving as other couples moved off to the music. His gaze was on her—nowhere else—and the look in his eyes said he wasn’t fencing, wasn’t being a lawyer. Her wishes mattered to him.

  Jeannie was sorting through possible replies when an odd ripple went through the room. She heard the words Morgan’s holiday cottage and felt Max not tense so much as focus.

  “Sutherland is making an entrance.”

  An older man who might once have been handsome stood near the door. He took off a woolen newsboy cap—Harris Tweed would be Jeannie’s guess—revealing thinning brassy blond hair. His coat was tawny corduroy with suede elbow patches, and about his neck was a bright red Royal Stewart plaid scarf—in high summer.

  “Is he trying to look like a local?” Jeannie asked. For certain, Mr. Sutherland was trying to look as if that extra twenty pounds wasn’t doing battle with his belt buckle. He nodded to the musicians, though Jeannie would bet Bear-Bear that they’d never seen him before in their lives.

  Then his gaze lit on Max, who was still holding her.

  “He’ll try to dance with you,” Max said, sounding none too pleased.

  “Then let’s not give him that opportunity.”

  “You never did answer my question, Jeannie.”

  “I’m considering my options. You know—the tram, the covered walkway, the escalator. I don’t like any of the ones you’ve proposed.”

  Max smiled, which Jeannie guessed was a mistake, because Sutherland saw that smile and started moving toward them.

  “Come on.” Jeannie got a good grip on Max’s hand. “We’ll show him some Highland hospitality he won’t soon forget.”

  Sutherland was beaming his harmless,
good-old boy smile around at Max’s employees, their families, and the village merchants. From Henry right up to Mrs. Hamilton’s mum, Max didn’t think a single person in the room considered that smile trustworthy.

  Max certainly didn’t.

  Sutherland’s gaze lit on Fern, who was building pints with one hand and holding Henry in the other arm.

  Keep your filthy hands off of her begged to be shouted across the dance floor, but that sentiment presumed Fern wasn’t capable of speaking for herself, which, of course, she was.

  “Max,” Jeannie said beneath the soft shuffle and thump of feet and the lilt of the violin. “You’re not alone here. We’ll deal with him.”

  She was looking forward to dealing with a man who had little conscience and fewer scruples. On previous jobs, Max would have considered Pete’s dodgy morality merely a site hazard, but since coming to Scotland…

  “People here don’t cheat,” he said. “They don’t regard making a profit as an excuse to abandon morals.”

  “Some people here do cheat,” Jeannie replied patiently. “They just haven’t cheated you.”

  Sutherland nodded to Max and struck out—right across the damned dance floor—for the bar. That display of cluelessness helped settle Max’s battle instincts. Sutherland didn’t own this bar, though he did own Max’s future and Maura’s security.

  “We’ll stand our guest to a pint, Fern,” Jeannie said when she’d all but dragged Max to the bar. “Mr. Maitland, some introductions are in order.”

  Remind me to listen to Fergus when he’s holding forth on the subject of Scottish women.

  “Pete, good to see you.” Max stuck out a hand.

  Henry, who had been deposited back in Dinty’s arms, blew a raspberry.