Some Like it Scot

by Suzanne Enoch

  Bear immediately caught hold of her hand. “He didnae frighten ye away, I hope.”

  “He was very polite,” she returned, taking in his large fingers wrapped around her smaller ones. “He gave me three thousand pounds to settle myself elsewhere, and said the MacLawrys didnae want trouble with the MacDonalds.”

  His gaze held hers. “The rest of the MacLawrys might be happy with letting things happen that shouldnae. They have bairns and tea parties and go shopping and chat aboot London, now. This MacLawry likes a bit of a brawl, and I’m looking forward to one. But keep the money; I’ve said my piece, and whatever I may want of ye, the decision is yers.”

  That was circumspect of him. “I will keep it, then.”

  Tugging her forward, he walked them up to the cart as Peter hopped to the ground. “Did ye get what I asked fer?”

  “Aye, m’laird. Every bit of it. And a note from yer … other party,” the servant said, digging into his sporran and pulling out a well-folded missive.

  Munro unfolded it, running his gaze along several lines. A smile touched his mouth, and he handed the letter to her. “My sister sends her kind regards, and a few things we might find useful,” he said, and pulled back the tarp to reveal a large trunk, several boxes, and the unmistakable shape of a full-length mirror beneath a heavy blanket.

  “What’s all this for?” Catriona asked, hopping onto the cart and unlatching the trunk. Silk spilled out into her hands. Yards and yards of silk and muslin and cotton, all formed into what looked like a dozen lovely gowns. “Oh, dear.”

  “Aye.” His grin deepened, and he leaned in for a kiss. “This MacLawry and this MacDonald are aboot to gear up fer war. Are ye ready?”

  She couldn’t help meeting his smile with one of her own. No one made her feel as he did, and she had the distinct feeling that no one ever would again. “This is what ye want, Munro? Truly? Very truly?”

  His slow, wicked smile made her heart flip-flop. “Ask me as many times as ye wish, my lass. I want to be with ye. I want to tell Glengask that he doesnae get to dictate to me any more than he could to Arran or Rowena.” He sighed. “They find me useful to have aboot because I’m a big, intimidating lad. I want to know what they’ll do now that I’ve decided to be big and intimidating fer myself.”

  This was for him, as well as for her. And that made it … easier. As he’d said before, he didn’t seem to be a man who could be forced to do something against his own will. Which meant he did want all of this. And her. Wordlessly she handed the billfold over to him. “Then I’m nae going anywhere. Aye. I’m ready.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Can I open my eyes yet?” Munro asked, trying to decide whether Cat was being missish, or coy. He’d seen her naked and he’d touched her bare skin enough that he could say she was teasing him now on purpose, except that where dresses were concerned, he could damned well believe Catriona was genuinely nervous. As for him, just the thought of seeing her in proper lass’s clothes made his kilt tent up again. Apparently thinking of her at all aroused him.

  “Wait a bloody minute,” she grumbled, her voice strained.

  “What’s amiss? I told ye I could help ye with the buttons.”

  “But then ye’ll see me before I’m ready.”

  He stifled a grin that would likely have gained him a black eye. “I can button ye with my eyes closed. Just come over here and guide me.”

  She sighed audibly. “Open yer damned eyes, then. Ye’re supposed to be showing me how to do this, anyway.”

  “Ye’d have a maid to help ye, lass. Did ye nae have one growing up?”

  “Nae. I almost had a valet, but I think my father realized that would be going too far.”

  After giving her a moment or two to change her mind about whether he could look at her or not, he opened his eyes. And stopped breathing. Catriona and his sister were of a size, though Cat’s bosom was more generous. And the way she filled out the soft green silk with its lace sleeves and neckline stunned him. “Well, now,” he breathed.

  The already high color in her cheeks darkened. “Stop that. It isnae helpful.” She stomped her foot. “And I thought ye said ye liked me in trousers.”

  “I do like ye in trousers. And I like ye in a dress, and I like ye in naught but what God gave ye.” He shrugged, resisting the urge to touch her. If he pulled her out of the dress now, she’d likely never put one on again. “Ye look different, is all. And splendid.”

  The corners of her mouth dimpled. “Fine, then. Help me button this thing up. Why they dunnae put the buttons in the front, I have nae idea.”

  Standing, he stepped forward to tug the edges of the gown together across her back. “Because this dress is aboot showing off. If ye can afford to wear it, ye can afford a maid.”

  “That doesnae take into account the option of borrowing the clothes.” She’d pinned her hair up in a messy tangle of scarlet, the sight of which didn’t help his concentration at all. He’d fastened—and unfastened—a lass’s gown before, but he couldn’t remember ever feeling so mesmerized by such a simple, ordinary task. When he’d made her his once and for all, he wasn’t certain he wanted her to have a maid. He wouldn’t mind doing this every day for the rest of his life.

  Three buttons from the bottom, Munro leaned down and kissed the nape of her neck. The delicate shiver that went through her made him hard. Perhaps a wee bit of undressing wouldn’t do any harm.

  “Stop that, giant,” she grumbled, before he could undo the progress he’d made. “Yer family’s already seen me and decided I’m a mannish clod. I want to make a better second impression. And I dunnae want them to think ye’re the fool for choosing me over Elizabeth.”

  Well, he couldn’t argue with that, even if he didn’t see anything mannish about her. Whatever she said, this wasn’t about him and whether his family thought him foolish. This was about her, and how she saw herself. He meant to do whatever it took to help her see the lass she wanted to be when she looked in the mirror. Not one she was embarrassed by and ashamed of.

  Clenching his jaw against his lust, he finished buttoning the wee, delicate ivory buttons that trailed down her back to her waist. “All secured,” he announced when he’d finished, and stepped back again. “Turn around and let’s see ye.”

  Blowing out her breath, she did so. With her chin in the air and her hands on her hips she was clearly daring him to comment, but he didn’t know which would get him in more trouble—admiring her, or saying he preferred her more accustomed attire. “Ye look like a lass stepping oot fer a soiree,” he said after a moment, mentally crossing his fingers. “Ye’ve nae grown an extra arm, and ye havenae fallen doon. How do ye feel?”

  “Naked. And with a cold breeze going up my legs.”

  Munro risked a grin. “As ye’re talking to a lad wearing a kilt, ye’ll get no sympathy from me on that account, wildcat. Take a walk aboot the room. And dunnae stomp; ye’re in slippers, and ye’ll hurt yer feet.”

  The glare she sent him at least had a touch of exasperated humor in it, and that was more than he’d expected. Neither had she tried to justify her man’s attire as being more practical or comfortable, though he knew that it at least was warmer. All in all, standing there she looked like a lovely lass in a dress that hugged her curves like firelight.

  “Walk,” he repeated, gesturing her toward the doorway.

  She walked, moving to the door and back to the table, then stopping to face him again. “Well?”

  “Yer steps are too long.” He eyed her for a moment. “Pretend ye’re walking through a puddle and trying nae to make a splash.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “And look in the mirror,” he pressed, ignoring her protest.

  She shook her head. “I dunnae want to.”

  “Then walk into Glengask as ye prefer; it doesnae make any difference to me.”

  That made her grimace, but she walked the path again, this time taking more care to place her feet. “I feel like I’m about to fall over,” she mut
tered, digging her hands into her skirt and lifting so she could see her shoes. “And aye, I know I cannae walk with my gown hiked up to my knees. I’m practicing.”

  “Ye’d see me doing the same thing if I was to wear those wee bits of scrap. Aside from that, I like looking at yer legs.”

  Finally she meandered over to the corner where he’d set the mirror. For a long moment she stood glaring at him, as if it were his fault that she wanted to wear a gown, then with an audible breath she turned around. “Oh.”

  “Ye see? Ye look like a lass in a gown.”

  Reaching up, she tugged the neckline up a bit, then scowled at the reflection of her hair. “This doesnae look like me.”

  “It is ye, so argue with yer own reflection if ye want to.”

  She turned this way and that, swishing the gown about her legs. However many lessons she still needed in etiquette and propriety, the view kept his attention well enough that the roof could have caved in without him noticing. His family would laugh if they knew he’d taken on the task of teaching a lass how to act like a lass, but for God’s sake, someone needed to do it—and he didn’t want anyone else looking at her askance.

  Then she tried a curtsy, and nearly fell into the mirror. “Damnation,” she muttered, holding on to the wood frame to right herself. “I cannae do this, Bear.”

  Munro straightened, walking over to take her hand and stand facing the mirror beside her. There he was, unruly hair that badly needed a barber’s attention, a clean white shirt and waistcoat with a faded kilt starting to unravel along the bottom edge, a giant famous for his muscles and his fists. What a pair they were.

  “Try it again,” he said aloud, holding her fingers firmly. “I’ll nae let ye fall. And move yer hind leg back a bit, so ye’ve a sturdier base.”

  With a frown she sank down again, wobbling on the shoes’ low heels. Once she became his wife there would be very few people to whom she would ever need curtsy, but if she wanted to learn how to do it, he would do his damnedest to show her.

  “That was better,” she said, watching herself assessingly as she tried it a third time. “All I need is for ye to hold my hand so I dunnae topple over.”

  “Then I’ll hold yer hand,” he returned. “Whether or nae ye decide to curtsy.” When that only made her smile, he ran the forefinger of his free hand along her skin just above the low neckline. Soft and warm, she was, and his in everything but name—whether she was ready to admit it yet or not.

  Someone rapped at the door. Immediately Cat clutched onto her skirt and went to hide behind the corner of the fireplace. Interesting, that. In her trousers she was fearless. Whether she didn’t feel as … strong in a gown or if she truly thought she looked hideous, the change in her character was obvious. And in his, as well. After Ranulf and then Arran had come calling, he’d found that his willingness to do anything to protect his lass, even if she might claim she didn’t need him, had grown by leaps and bounds.

  “Who is it?” he asked, moving up to the door.

  “It’s Peter, m’laird. I’ve brought ’em.”

  Munro lifted the bar and pulled open the door. “How many?”

  “Once they realized they’d be laboring fer a MacLawry, I couldnae keep ’em away,” the servant returned. “A dozen fer today. I could double that tomorrow, if ye wanted.”

  “Let’s see how the twelve do,” Murno returned. “Cat, I’ll be back in a moment. Keep practicing.”

  Peter managed a glance past him, a swift grin touching his craggy face. “I had occasion t’wear a gown once, lass. Laird Arran said I needed to move my hips more.”

  “Shut yer gobber, ye heathen,” Munro countered, grabbing the footman by the jacket and towing him up the hallway. “Cannae ye see she’s nervous?”

  “I’d be nervous, too, if I had to put on proper attire fer the first time and act like a blue-blooded Sassannach or someaught.” Peter narrowed his eyes. “Ye mean to bring her to Glengask, then? But nae to hand her over to the viscount?”

  “I’m nae handing her over to anyone. She’s mine, Peter.”

  “That isnae going to make Laird Glengask or the MacDonald happy.” The servant sighed. “Why is it when ye and yer brothers decide to wreak havoc, ye always throw me into the middle of it with ye?”

  “Because we trust ye, Peter Gilling.”

  “Aye, I ken that. Sometimes I think I should be a shiftier fellow, though. Someone nae fit fer mad adventures and beginning wars.”

  Hiding his grin, Munro clapped the servant on the shoulder. “Ah, ye’re too steadfast and trustworthy. A MacLawry, through and through.”

  “I suppose so. It’s a burden I have to carry.”

  The dozen men outside were already pulling down the rubble at the rear of Haldane Abbey, separating stones that could be used again from the ones that would need to be carted away. They were polite enough to him, though he didn’t have to be clairvoyant to catch the sideways glances and crossed fingers they sent toward the abbey every so often. The place had been rumored to be haunted for over a hundred years, after all, though neither he nor Cat had seen or heard anything they couldn’t put to shifting timber and tumbled bits of stone.

  “I reckon ye should put old Sholto Landers in charge, being that he and his athair were in the crew that built that pottery works fer yer brother. But then again ye may nae want him aboot, since his boy Sorley is set to marry Miss Bethia.”

  Munro slowed. “Bethia Peterkin?”

  “Aye. Owen said Sir Alpin called on Glengask a few days ago to announce the betrothal. Apparently he was worried, Sir Alpin was, that ye’d be angry aboot it.”

  The image that came to his mind was a wicked tongue and a great deal of yowling. An evening’s entertainment when he had nothing better to do. Those evenings, though, were gone now. And surprisingly enough, he hadn’t even given them a second thought until this moment. Apparently he’d grown up without even realizing it. Only one lass kept his interest now, and he enjoyed her as much for the way she kept him on his toes as for the way she made him feel in bed.

  “Are ye? Angry, I mean.”

  Shaking himself, he gestured Peter to continue toward the tall, white-haired Scot currently jotting down notes on a much-folded piece of paper. “Sholto,” he said, offering his hand.

  The older man stood up, wiped his palm on his jacket, and shook hands. “Laird Bear. It’s aboot time someone made use of this old place.”

  “Do ye think ye might be willing to meet with an architect and take charge of putting the abbey back together?”

  Color touched pale cheeks. “Aye? Aye, I mean. I’d be honored.” He cleared his throat. “I thought ye might be a wee bit … angry over my Sorley winning Bethia Peterkin. He’s made a good life fer himself, though. He went to school, and now he’s a physician. He’s—”

  “I’m nae angry, Sholto. I reckon yer Sorley will be a good husband to Bethia. I lost her to the better man.”

  Sholto seemed to grow an inch or two. “That’s very kind of ye, m’laird. And I’d be pleased to meet with yer architect.”

  “Thank ye. In the meantime, I’ll be relying on ye to get this ruin ready fer restoration.”

  “I’ll see to it, m’laird.”

  As Munro turned back for the front of the house, he caught one of the other workers making the sign against the evil eye and spitting, while several others had stopped working to stare up toward the second floor of the abbey. “What’s amiss, lads?” he asked.

  Immediately they went back to work amid a chorus of, “Good day, Laird Bear,” and “There’s a chill in the air today. I reckon we’ll have snow by the end of the week.”

  Given the reputation of the place, he couldn’t blame some of the lads for being nervous around it. He didn’t feel it, of course; Haldane Abbey had been nothing but a place of blessings and surprises since he’d stumbled across Catriona MacColl. Even so, he sent a quick glance up toward the roofless second story as he left the garden. Nothing caught his gaze but the stack of lumber they’
d left up there to keep the tarp in place.

  When he returned to the kitchen, Cat was walking in a large circle, her steps overly cautious but better than the stomping she’d done when she’d first donned the walking shoes. Leaning back against the door frame, he took a moment to just look at her. Perhaps it was her sister who had the finer, more delicate features, the soft, honey-colored hair, and the trimmer waist that a man’s two hands could span. But Cat … that flaming hair, those delicious curves, the stubborn determination to have the life she wanted—she shone brighter than firelight in his eyes, and he never wanted to look away.

  For the first time, though, he wondered if he was the best choice for her. She wanted to learn how to be more refined, more of a lady, and he barely warranted the title gentleman. Perhaps Bethia Peterkin was the sort of lass he’d earned for himself, good for a tumble and not much caring about anything else. The thought of a lifetime of that made him shudder, but a few months ago that was the trail he’d been pursuing.

  Even the idea that Torriden could help his wildcat better than he could made his jaw clench and sent ice through his chest, but God help him, he wanted her to be happy. “Cat,” he said, hearing the growl in his voice and trying to shove it back. “I need to ask ye a question.”

  She lifted her head, the slight, amused smile at the corners of her mouth dropping as she looked at him. “What is it?”

  “I keep … bringing ye things ye say ye dunnae need, making changes to the abbey ye say ye dunnae require, and now I reckon it’s because of me that ye’re wearing a gown and learning to walk in dainty shoes when I ken ye’re happier in boots and trousers. I’m loud, I like brawls and punching things, and I only started reading Shakespeare’s sonnets because ye said ye enjoyed them.” He swallowed. “Is this—am I—what ye want? Truly? Because if I’m nae the one fer ye, ye need to tell m—”

  Halfway through his rambling she dropped the hairbrush she’d been carrying and strode toward him. She didn’t stop until she yanked his face down for a hard, fierce kiss, tangling one hand into his rough coat and sliding the other around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet and pulling her close against his chest.