The front door opened and closed several times and then the dorm became quiet. Sadie rose, padded into the kitchen, and helped herself to one of the boxed scones and coffee in the carafe. After filling up, she went back to her room, propped herself in bed, and pulled out her novel to fuel her soul. Just as she settled the book in her lap, she heard a noise. Or at least she thought she did. But when she heard no more, she went back to reading. Two seconds later, she realized she was being stared at . . . by Moira.
“Sorry,” the woman said. “I stopped to check in on you. I was quiet in case you were sleeping.” Moira’s brow slightly rose when her eyes landed on the novel.
Sadie scooted farther under the covers. “I’m not feeling well . . . I thought I should rest.” She hated not being completely aboveboard with this nice woman, but sometimes a girl had to look out for number one.
Moira gave her a shy smile as if she understood.
Sadie shrugged, grinning back.
“I’ll make ye a cup of tea,” Moira said.
“You don’t have to. I had some coffee a little while ago.”
“I’ll fix ye a cup of green tea just the same.” Moira gestured toward the novel. “You have to keep up yere strength.” Before Sadie could respond, she left.
Sadie went back to reading and became so engrossed in the story, she almost missed Moira slipping into the room and setting the steaming teacup beside her.
“Thank you.”
With a smile, Moira nodded and departed.
Sadie was immediately back in the story—a romance set in medieval Scotland with a gorgeous alpha male and the strong woman who tamed him.
The front door opened and closed again. What was it with Gandiegow? Could she not get a moment alone? This time the footfalls down the hall weren’t Moira’s. Sadie jammed her bookmark in place and shoved the novel under the covers as Bethia appeared in the doorway.
“Are ye well, lass?”
Slowly Sadie cracked open her eyes as if just waking.
“Moira said ye’re a bit under the weather.” Bethia chewed her lip as if two seams didn’t meet up properly. “Is there anything I can get for ye? I’m a healer, a certified herbalist. Moira said she’d made ye some tea, but if there’s anything I can do, I’d like to help.”
Sadie sat up a little, trying to assure the woman with a smile. “I only need to rest today.” She would have to come up with another excuse to get out of quilting with the gray-headed ladies tomorrow.
Bethia still looked concerned. “Should I get Doc MacGregor?”
“Heavens, no. It’s only jet lag.” Though Sadie had weathered the worst of it with Ross by her side. “I’ll lie down for a while and then I’ll be fine.”
Bethia fussed with her covers, felt the teacup to make sure it was still warm, and pulled the blinds shut. Sadie would have to open them after she left. With a few more assurances that she would be fine, Bethia finally departed, leaving her alone.
Sadie breathed a sigh of relief as all went quiet again. As she pulled her book from its hiding place, the front door slammed—hard—and familiar heavy footsteps marched down the hallway.
She groaned, no need to even look up to see who it was this time. “Hi, Oliver.”
He frowned at her, the opposite of Bethia’s concerned ministrations. “Why are you in bed instead of at Quilting Central?”
Bethia must’ve gone straight to Oliver and ratted her out. Maybe the elderly woman wasn’t so sweet after all.
Sadie had seen this side of Oliver often since her diagnosis—angry—and at first it’d taken her off guard and had hurt deeply. She had spent a lot of time worrying what she had done to upset her brother. She touched the novel under the covers. Gigi was the one who told her to look in her books for the answer. Men are basic, Gigi had said, with only a few emotions. They can get angry waiting on a red light, angry over being hungry, or angry over heaven only knows what. Between Gigi’s advice and her favorite novels, Sadie had figured out that Oliver was missing the gene that would allow him to exhibit his true feelings: fear.
“It’s no big deal. I’m taking it easy today,” Sadie said.
With his eyebrows pinched together, he ran a hand through his blond hair, making his perfect cut stand on end. “The trip was too hard on you. Maybe we shouldn’t have come.”
Now there’s an idea. But it was best to keep it to herself.
The front door opened again, her ears picking up the slight squeak of the hinges and the whoosh of the door sweep on the hardwood floor. Oh, good grief. Will I be holding audience all day?
“Lass?” Deydie hollered. “I’ve come to talk to ye.”
Oliver seemed relieved to hear the old woman’s voice. Sadie wasn’t.
Deydie materialized in the doorway with her hands on her hips. She scrutinized Sadie for a few seconds. “As I suspected, ye’re only playing at being sick.”
Sadie smoothed down the quilt. “I’m resting.”
“I’m not a numpty. Ye look better this morning than ye did last night. And I expect ye were fine then, well enough to come quilt, too.”
Sadie didn’t say a word, her gaze going from one accusing face to another. She felt taxed for real now. She scooted down and yanked the quilt up. “Shut the door on your way out.”
Deydie harrumphed.
Yes, they were brave words, considering the daggers her brother and Deydie were shooting at her.
Oliver pulled himself up straight. “I’ll be back to check on you.”
A promise or a threat? The two finally left, closing Sadie’s bedroom door behind them.
She stared at the far wall for a long time.
A rap sounded on her bedroom door.
“Please, leave me in peace,” she said to the hard oak.
“Lass? It’s me—Ross.”
Relief washed through her. “Come in.”
He cracked the door open only a little and peered inside. “Are they all gone?”
“Yes.” She smiled at him, understanding that constantly crossing Deydie could lead to dire consequences. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be fishing?”
“Aye. I’ve already been out and back from the morning run. We’ll go out later this afternoon.”
“What’s that in your hands?” Sadie asked.
“Oh, aye, the reason for the visit.” He held up a shirt with a tear in it. “I need a favor.” His eyes sparkled with mischief as if they were back in the breakfast room at the B and B and he was pulling the wool over the owner’s eyes.
“What kind of favor?” Surely he didn’t want her to play his bride again.
He shook his head. “At great peril to myself, I snuck a sewing machine out of Quilting Central when I saw Deydie heading toward yere dorm.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I set it up at our cottage—ye know, the one I share with my brother and his family.”
“That doesn’t explain why.”
“Oh. I need ye to repair this tear.” He had such a forlorn expression on his face that it was comical. “It’s my favorite shirt. And you owe me.”
“Owe you?”
“For all the trouble ye got me into with Deydie and the quilting gaggle before.” He seemed embarrassed. “I mean, quilting ladies. They think I coerced ye into running out on them. I’m happy to take the fall”—he lifted up his torn garment for emphasis—“if ye’ll fix my shirt.”
From where she sat, the shirt’s demise looked suspicious—more calculated than accidental. “I don’t believe for a second that that shirt is your favorite. It looks brand-new, with the folding creases still in it.” Why had he ripped his shirt on purpose?
Pulling a dramatic face of mock hurt and disbelief, he glanced at the garment as if she couldn’t possibly be seeing the same shirt that he did. “’Tis my favorite.” He held up his rig
ht hand. “Promise.”
She noticed his other hand was behind his back.
“Then how did you tear it? With your pocketknife?”
“I caught it on a nail. On the boat,” he added as an obvious afterthought. “Will ye get out of bed and come to the cottage? I want to show ye where I live before I have to go back out on the water.”
“But why didn’t you bring the sewing machine to me so I could work on your shirt here?”
Confusion crossed his face, the first bit of honesty she’d seen from him since he’d come into her bedroom. “I dunno.”
She smiled, shaking her head at him. “Okay. I’ll fix your shirt. But I’ll be a while. I need to shower first.” After her running-away adventure and her crying jag last night, she needed to wash away some of the grit of life.
“I’ll wait in the living room. Don’t be long.”
“I know what you’re doing,” she said pointedly.
“What?” he asked, all innocence.
But she couldn’t work up any real indignation over it. He wanted her up and moving around, and he was willing to slice a hole in a brand-new shirt to get her to do it.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Go on. I’ll be out soon. So I can fix your shirt.”
He laughed. “Bring yere book along with ye. Ye’ll have a few minutes to read while I dig out those dungarees I need hemmed.”
She glanced down, and sure enough, the corner of her book peeked out from under the covers. What could she say? She’d been found out. She waved at him as if her hand was a paintbrush. “There’s no way you need your pants hemmed.” If anything, he would have to have them let out, as tall as he was.
“Ye get ready. I’ll be waiting in the other room.” He sauntered out, chuckling deeply to himself.
Sadie sighed, thinking how Ross had come to know her so well, and at the same time, she knew she would have to watch herself with him. He was getting to her. Her life was in enough upheaval as it was without her becoming a victim of a broken heart, too. Around Ross, she felt herself slipping into a kind of gooey mess, part butterflies, part hormonal, and part wishful thinking. A girl like her had no business getting dreamy-eyed over a man like Ross. She wasn’t Jane Eyre, where everything worked out in the end with Mr. Rochester. She was plain Sadie Middleton, and had enough to worry about without troubling herself with a crush over a kind, gentle Scotsman.
* * *
Ross strolled from her bedroom, feeling as if he’d bested the prize fish. In his gut, he knew Sadie should get back to sewing as soon as possible . . . even though he had promised to get her out of Quilting Central. Back on the damned horse and all. If he had to, he’d face off with the quilters of Gandiegow to keep his end of the bargain with Sadie.
And for some reason, he didn’t mind the thought of her and her sewing machine being at his house. Though how he’d come up with the plan seemed more like fate than brains on his part.
As if it was meant to be, he’d run into Father Andrew, who asked Ross to deliver a message to Moira, his fiancée. Then, when Ross stopped at Quilting Central to see Moira, she told him about Sadie lying in bed. Moira had pointed out the sewing machine assigned to Sadie, and then turned away, perhaps even blocking everyone’s view as he’d unplugged the cord and walked off with it. As if Moira had given him the suggestion telepathically with her soft voice and incline of her head. The town might think Moira was quiet, but she had a cunning streak in her that was sure to keep her future husband on his toes.
Waiting, Ross paced the floor of Thistle Glen Lodge, grabbing a periodical from the stack on the coffee table as he passed by . . . a quilting publication. A fishing magazine would’ve been preferable, but the quilt on the front looked like the one his mother had made for his confirmation. His mum had called the pattern a Mariner’s Compass.
How he missed his mother. She’d been in Glasgow with Aunt Glynnis for two years now. He would go see both of them soon, and maybe take his nephew Dand along. John and Maggie could use the time alone, except they wouldn’t exactly be alone. Baby Irene was seven months old and had yet to sleep through the night. She was a handful, but the cutest little bug he’d ever seen, and she loved to cuddle with her Uncle Ross.
His thoughts turned to Sadie and he glanced down the hallway as she came out of the restroom all trussed up in a long robe. His pulse kicked up. A normal, natural reaction, he told himself. Everyone thought they’d been irresponsible, sneaking out of town the way that they had, but they were two unattached adults, and he’d gotten her back to Gandiegow safely, hadn’t he?
Funny, spending time with the lass was the most interesting thing he’d done in a long while. Even more interesting than working on his truck.
A minute later, she appeared from the bedroom in a purple sundress, the color of foxglove in full bloom, making her brown eyes stand out like a lone thistle in the glen. Remembering to breathe, he sucked in a lungful of air.
He felt damned uncomfortable. As if he was wearing a vise instead of a loose polo shirt. “Are ye always this slow getting ready?” He tried for teasing, but his voice was a mite strained.
She gave him a sideways glance. “You didn’t have to wait that long. Besides, I hurried.”
“Well,” he groused congenially, “I would hate to be waiting on ye when ye were taking yere time.”
She snatched the torn shirt from the back of the couch. Hell, good thing she remembered it because he’d forgotten all about it. He prayed John wouldn’t notice that his new shirt had gone missing, and that Ross had taken the fillet knife to it.
He walked with Sadie through town, the pathways empty this time of day, for which he was grateful. Not that he was embarrassed to be seen with the lass . . . quite the opposite. He just didn’t want to explain why he wasn’t taking her to Quilting Central as expected. Her eyes darted everywhere, taking in his village.
“I can’t imagine living here,” she said on a sigh. “The North Sea out your front door. Do you know how relaxed I’d be if I had all this?” She gestured to the ocean, the cottages, and the bluffs.
“I’m pleased ye like it.” It was an odd thing for him to say, but he meant it. He pointed to his family’s white cottage, not the last cottage in town but nearly. “This is it.” He sauntered up the walk with Sadie trailing behind. He opened the door for her, trying to see his home through her eyes. The big, open living room, their everyday things scattered about—fishing magazines, Dand’s box of Legos, a pile of clean cloth diapers neatly stacked on the counter near the washer.
When John got married, they’d all worked together to update and expand the cottage. Da had built a new bedroom for John and Maggie and an extra bedroom that was now Dand’s. After his mother moved to Glasgow, Ross had moved out of the bedroom he and John had shared growing up and taken his parents’ old space. It had been strange at first, but now the room was all his own. Ramsay’s old bedroom was now a nursery for Irene.
“This is lovely,” Sadie said to him. “It’s so welcoming.”
“Maggie runs a tight ship. We all help out.” Ross transferred his wellies to the boot mat, their proper spot.
Sadie gestured at the sewing machine. “For me?”
He nodded. “Ye can use thread and whatever ye need from Maggie’s sewing things.” He went to the wooden cabinet near the hallway, lifted it by the handle, and brought it over to Sadie. “This was Maggie’s gran’s. Open it here.” He raised the lid on one side. “The shelves pull out at both ends.” Completely opened, it looked like stairs on each side, bursting at the seams with sewing stuff—scissors, thread, buttons, patches, and ribbons.
Sadie’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure she won’t mind?”
The door to Maggie’s bedroom opened and out she walked. Ross cringed; he hadn’t known his sister-in-law was home. He was fairly certain Maggie wouldn’t take it well that Sadie was here, that she’d see the America
n lass as a threat. The moment he was no longer engaged to Pippa, Maggie had been suggesting rather strongly that he marry one of her sisters.
She came farther into the room, her eyes darting to Sadie, the sewing machine, then to Ross holding her gran’s sewing cabinet in his hand as if he was holding little bug’s baby carrier.
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “This is new, Ross. Are ye needing thread to whip yereself up something from me sewing basket, or were ye showing off yere muscles for our guest?”
He glanced down to see his taut bicep. He raised and lowered the cabinet as if getting in a few reps like the lads on the telly. He set the cabinet down.
“Little bug sleeping then?” he asked.
“Aye. I heard ye come in earlier.” Maggie eyed the sewing machine in front of Sadie again. “I didn’t realize Quilting Central was moving here. Does Deydie know?”
Ross caught the downturn of Sadie’s features.
“The lass has promised to mend a few things for me.”
Before he could wave her off, Sadie held up John’s ruined shirt. “I’ll do my best, but it’s not ripped on the seam.”
Maggie’s face turned leathery with anger as if the reality of what he had done was hard to chew. Surprisingly, though, she held her tongue, gluing on a hard smile instead. “Ye’re welcome to the dining table but, Ross, ye’ll have to clear it away for the supper. Ye can set it on the treadle machine over there when she’s finished.”
Sadie eased into the chair in front of the machine, keeping her eyes on Maggie. “Will the noise bother the baby?”
Maggie snatched the clean diapers from the counter. “Nay. We’re a loud household. Less so, though, since Ramsay moved into his cottage with his bride, Kit.” She nodded to the cabinet. “Help yereself to what ye need. Ross, can I have a word? Outside by the burning barrel?”
Aw hell. Maggie had held it together for Sadie’s sake, but she looked ready to cut him like the knife that had sliced through John’s new shirt.
The Trouble with Scotland Page 6