Tall, Dark and Kilted

by Lizzie Lamb

  That seemed to ignite a new fire within them and she parted her lips and touched his tongue with her own. She felt his stubble graze along her jawline as her hands cupped his buttocks and she pulled him against her. Giving a deep rumble of regret Ruairi pulled away from her, fastened his shirt and tucked it back in his trousers.

  ‘God, Fliss - I.’ He appeared unable to form words, let alone form them into a sentence that would express his feelings.

  Aware that she’d acted uncharacteristically, Fliss came to her senses and touched her hot cheeks with the back of her hands. What must he think of her? Get her on the island and she loses all her inhibitions, practically rips his clothes off him and offers herself up on a plate. When he turned round, he had the dazed expression of a man who’d been struck by a coup de foudre and had found the experience unnerving, yet strangely pleasurable.

  ‘I think I’d better warn the each-uisge just what he’s up against. He won’t stand a chance,’ Ruairi gave a throaty laugh as he folded up the rug and gathered the picnic hamper together. ‘We’d better head back for the Heart of the Highlands - otherwise, I can’t guarantee my behaviour.’

  ‘I’m sorry - of course,’ Fliss bent over the apple box containing the samples to hide her embarrassment.

  ‘Don’t be sorry, Fliss.’ Taking her by the arms, he raised her to her feet. ‘I’m not. It’s just that,’ he took a deep breath and rushed on. ‘Look I’m not sure where this is going; so let’s not force the pace. Okay’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Up until last night we couldn’t stand to be in the same room as each other and …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, all this has been a bit … unexpected.’ Evidently reading her expression, he hurried to qualify his statement. ‘Not that I have a problem with that. It’s simply that we both have a lot on our plate at the moment. You with the therapy centre - me with a fundraising trip planned to raise money for the regeneration of Kinloch Mara’s natural environment. I’ll be going back to the Far East in a just over a week and I’ll be away for a couple of months. I don’t want to start anything I can’t finish. Or,’ he continued sombrely, ‘make promises neither of us, ultimately, will be able to keep. Understand?’

  She didn’t, not really; but she nodded anyway and her heart turned over. Just over a week? No sooner had they found each other than it would all be over. She was sensible enough to know that by the time he returned, things would have changed - their lives would have moved on. She’d be returning to London and he’d be preoccupied with his conservation work and - as was his duty - finding the next mistress of Kinloch Mara.

  All they had was here and now.

  She must have looked thoroughly cast down because he tipped up her chin with his forefinger and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘You have conquered the water horse, quite unmanned him. Let that be enough for now.’

  He framed her face between his hands, gave her one last kiss and then started packing up the picnic things. Taking his lead, Fliss knelt down to help, taking care not to brush against him - even accidently. Carrying the picnic basket in both hands and with the apple box of scientific equipment hoisted on Ruairi’s shoulders they made their way back to The Heart of the Highlands and the real world.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Half an hour later, with the taste of Ruairi still on her lips and the scent of him in her hair, Fliss skimmed through her emails on the laptop in the therapy centre with a dreamy smile on her face. The latest email was from Becky and had a hyperlink attached to it; so, unable to settle or to concentrate on her ‘to do’ list after the interlude on the island, she opened it. The link took her straight to a YouTube viral entitled: A Farewell to Notting Hill and showed Isla and Cat in an empty tube carriage, decked out in tartan and plainly up to no good.

  Isla was first to speak, her eyes bright with mischief. ‘I’m Kurr-ssty and this is -’

  ‘Morag,’ Cat cut in. They bowed solemnly to each other and then nodded to the camcorder operator.

  To the strains of “Scotland the Brave”, Isla performed a sword dance with two crossed pokers in lieu of claymores and Cat danced a highland fling. Although they executed a faultless sequence of steps, the overall effect was marred by Isla’s hiking boots, oversized badger pelt sporran and a kilt long enough to trip up Murdo Gordon. By way of a contrast, Cat’s kilt was so short her knickers were visible - unsurprisingly, they were in matching Urquhart tartan.

  ‘So far, so predictable,’ Fliss murmured, recognising the brass pokers as the ones which had fallen out of Isla’s rucksack and onto the hall floor the morning after the party. Then the track ended, they bowed solemnly to each other, moved the pokers to one side and spoke directly to camera.

  ‘This next dance is entitled A Farewell to Notting Hill. It’s dedicated to our stepbrother who’s infringed our human rights by denying us the right to party. To paraphrase Braveheart: You can take away our allowances; you can send us back to Scotland. But,’ continued Isla passionately, ‘you’ll never take away our …’

  ‘FREEDOM!’ Cat interjected, punching the air.

  Some amateurish editing followed, after which the sisters reappeared in killer heels. To the opening bars of The Pussycat Doll’s: “Don’t You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me?” they whipped off their kilts to reveal thongs, hold-up stockings and tshirts emblazoned with the family crest. A lion holding a sword in its paw above the motto: Wha’ Dares?

  Clearly, the point of the viral was to prove to Ruairi – and the rest of the world - that they did.

  Using one of London Transport’s poles - better designed for clinging to in the rush hour, they bumped and ground their way through a routine that wouldn’t have been out of place in some sleazy lap dancing club. Then, off camera, someone shouted: ‘Oi! What you gels doin’ in ’ere?’ and the video ended.

  ‘Oh - My - God,’ Fliss enunciated slowly.

  Her chilled out, loved up mood evaporated as she realised they’d kept her out of the loop and purposely hidden the existence of the viral from her. Becky had been right - they were the Spawn of Satan and not to be trusted. It was the night of the police station all over again. Plainly, despite everything she’d done for them - bigging Cat up to Ruairi, supporting her efforts to become a veterinary nurse; and the pains she’d taken to avoid doing Isla an injury every time she queened it over her, counted for nothing in their eyes.

  They were the daughters of the house, the Laird’s sisters and she was an employee - evidently not worthy of inclusion to their circle of trust. She’d been a gullible fool to consider them her friends, she seethed. Naively, she’d allowed the romantic setting of a castle in the highlands - with its attendant sexy laird, and her appointment as manageress of the therapy centre, to blind her to the reality of how things stood on Kinloch Mara.

  Perhaps they thought - if they’d told her about the viral - she’d grass them up to Mitzi and spike their guns before they were ready to spring their surprise on Ruairi. Well, whatever their reason, this was her wakeup call, and she heard it loud and clear. Feeling thoroughly used and sick to the pit of her stomach, she slammed down the lid of the laptop and sat fuming in her seat for several minutes. However, as her anger subsided, she began to see things in a different light. Had Cat and Isla - albeit unintentionally, done her a favour by casting her relationship with Ruairi into relief, forcing her to ask the question: was he out of her league, too?

  She’d lowered her defences and allowed him get closer than any man had in a long time. But was she punching above her weight? Could their relationship ever be more than midsummer madness; a highland fling? As she saw it, there were two Ruairis. On Shingle Beach, there was Ruairi the man - who could turn her boneless with one blistering kiss. But once on his estate, he morphed back into Sir Ruairi Urquhart, Laird of Kinloch Mara, bowed down by responsibilities, duties and obligation.

  Which one was the real Ruairi? Ultimately, would he let her down, exactly as his stepsisters had done?

  Once t
he flood gates opened, the doubts began to crowd in, thick and fast. He was right - so much had happened between them, possibly too quickly for it to be real. She let out a groan of frustration as a gamut of mixed emotions washed over her. Wrapping her arms around her to ward off the twin demons doubt and indecision, she walked into the hall and straight into Ruairi.

  ‘Hey, you,’ he greeted her, ‘time to come clean.’

  ‘C-come clean?’ her voice wavered. Had he come to tell her that what had happened on the island was a big mistake?

  ‘My desk is bowing under the weight of papers I should be sorting through. Murdo’s waiting for me by the shooting butts, I have a host of calls to return, but …’ He stopped and looked at her questioningly, as if sensing she’d taken a step away from him.

  ‘But?’ she prompted, preparing herself for the worst.

  ‘All I can think about is you.’ Showing none of her hesitancy, he pulled her into his arms and buried his face in her neck. Giving her no time to protest, he searched for her mouth and then kissed her long and hard, as if trying to recapture the magic they’d shared on the island.

  When they finally drew apart, Fliss felt light-headed, as if she’d just stepped off a merry-go-round. She knew she had to put distance between them if she was to reassess her feelings in the light of what had just unfolded. With a supreme effort, she walked unsteadily towards the kitchen, calling over her shoulder: ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Coffee?’ he repeated, as though the last earth-shattering kiss had robbed him of the ability to think straight.

  ‘Yes. A drink made from grinding the roasted beans of a certain African bush before turning them into -’ He strode purposefully into the kitchen and cornered her by the island unit, leaving her with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

  ‘Aren’t we a bit old for kiss chase?’ he grinned, drawing her back into his arms. ‘I don’t know how you expect me to drink coffee when what I really want is …’ He didn’t finish the sentence but his passionate look said everything. ‘May I?’ For one heart-stopping moment, she thought he was asking permission to kiss her again. Instead, he moved her aside and reached in the cupboard for the biscuit tin.

  ‘What do you want?’

  She knew it was time to take up a defensive position and not fall for this disarmingly open Ruairi who seemingly delighted in simply being with her. She reminded herself that he’d come down to sort things out, and as it stood - they’d probably end up making love over the granite island unit with nothing resolved.

  ‘May I have a Hobnob?’ he asked, taking her by surprise and opening the biscuit tin. It was as if he sensed her hesitation and uncertainty and wanted to bring a little humour and normality to the situation.

  ‘It falls to the lady of the house to offer biscuits to a guest. Not for the guest to help himself,’ she said, willing to play along even though her brain was in turmoil.

  ‘You see yourself as the lady of the house, do you?’ he asked, suddenly, deadly serious.

  ‘For now,’ she replied quietly, just in case he thought she was getting ahead of the game and imagining herself as the next Lady Urquhart. She quickly filled two mugs with coffee and when she passed his mug to him, he curled his hand round her fingers before letting go. Then he settled down on the bar stool and reached out for one of the Hobnobs.

  ‘You wanted to talk,’ Fliss prompted.

  ‘Yes. I wanted to apologise …’

  ‘You’ve already done that.’

  ‘I know; but I wanted to apologise properly for my attitude and behaviour towards you. If we’re to go forward, we need to clear the air, be honest with each other. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ she said quietly, although her heart leapt when he said If we’re to go forward.

  ‘Okay - cards on the table. I thought you were a honeytrap. Someone Isla had brought up from London to distract and compromise me. Make me lose focus and not ask awkward questions about what’d happened in the police station, Cat being excluded from another boarding school, Isla maxing out on her credit cards - and the advisability of Mitzi re-opening the centre.’

  That was quite a list. ‘I see.’

  ‘And why Isla thought - even for a moment - that it was fine to open up the Notting Hill house without my permission and use it like some student squat. My mother died in that house …’

  ‘I know.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘I’ve seen the bench in the garden and the inscription on it; that must have been a terrible time - you were no more than a boy … I was sitting there when I answered Cat’s phone and the Klingon conversation took place. You must have thought you were talking to a crackhead.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Klingon. I was so stressed out that night! Shipstone, our next-door neighbour, had already rung me several times to complain about Isla’s partying … I think I might have behaved quite objectionably towards you.’ He looked so rueful that Fliss took a slug of scalding hot coffee to hide how affected she was by his mea culpa.

  ‘That night seems a lifetime away. So much has happened since then, especially in the last twenty four hours.’ She trailed her fingers along the back of his hand almost absentmindedly; innocent of the effect of her gentle touch until he removed his hand and sent her a long, steady look that almost melted the marble worktop that separated them.

  ‘I’ve come to realise,’ he began, ‘that maybe the therapy centre isn’t such a bad idea, after all. It’s brought Mitzi back to Kinloch Mara when she usually spends as much time away as she possibly can. You’ve helped Cat find her work ethic and won everyone over with your dedication and commitment.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said consideringly, ‘that you’ve realised the difference between what you thought I was - and who I am.’

  ‘Murdo’s been singing your praises since day one, telling me what a fool I’ve been,’ he pulled a rueful face. ‘Although you’ve got to admit, when you fainted in my arms it did seem like a sting.’ For a few seconds they were lost in thought and Fliss remembered how safe she’d felt in his arms. Like she belonged there.

  ‘Believe me, it wasn’t.’

  ‘I know that, now.’ Ruairi reached across and captured her hands. ‘Angus, Mitzi - and even Cat, have been your champions from the beginning. How you coped when you delivered Iona - no one could fake that. I saw your competence and steadfastness - and I was in awe of you. Perhaps I should take Murdo’s advice, lighten up and let the family get on with their lives without me. Now, what’s made you smile?’

  ‘The night of the party my friend Becky advised me to lighten up and get -’. She didn’t finish the sentence; she didn’t need to because he got the gist of it.

  ‘Maybe they’ve got a point,’ he said. ‘Forget about friends and family, it’s us I’ve come down here to discuss.’ Putting his mug aside, he got up and starting pacing the kitchen. ‘I can’t get you out of my head, Fliss. You’ve been there since the moment you stood under the rose arch, tugged at the sari cloth and petals cascaded around you - and you refused to let me help.

  ‘Surely that should have told you I wasn’t a honeytrap?’

  ‘At the time, it seemed like you were playing hard to get. I’ve been such a fool.’ He struck his forehead with the palm of his hand, turned and gave a self-deprecatory grin. The fact that he was man enough to admit his mistakes only served to make him dangerously more attractive.

  Now it was her turn to fess up …

  ‘There have been times when I’ve felt like packing my bags, walking out and thumbing a lift all the way to Inverness. But I know that when I do leave Kinloch Mara I’ll be leaving part of me behind.’ She was taking an enormous risk in dropping her defences and laying herself bare. It was unlike her to exchange prudence for recklessness but her gut instinct told her to trust him. Let him know not only of her desire for him, but of her yearning never to leave this place.

  In a moment of epiphany, she understood that the invitation to stay - as friend, lover, therapist, whatever - had to come from him. That would be his declaration of inten
t and she’d know then he was serious about her; and that what they felt for each other went beyond a quick fumble in the heather and stolen kisses in the kitchen.

  ‘Fliss I won’t lie to you. I’ve never felt like this about any woman,’ he said, as if reading her mind. ‘And, believe me, most of the girls in Wester Ross and beyond have been paraded past me in an attempt to get me to settle down and produce lots of little Urquharts.’ He laughed, but something deep within Fliss contracted at the thought of a nameless, faceless, woman bearing his children.

  She filed the thought away to mull over later and concentrated instead on what she said next. ‘Isn’t that your duty, your destiny? Doesn’t it come as part and parcel of - all this?’ She waved her hand to encompass the world outside the kitchen window. ‘Can you have one without the other?’

  ‘It’s common knowledge that there’s little or no money to run all - this.’ He walked over to the window and looked out over his estate. ‘That - coupled with the fact I’m out of the country for much of the year, deters prospective fiancées. Kinloch Mara is the most beautiful place on earth but it can be snowed in for weeks at a time. We’re miles from shops, access to Edinburgh and London; all the usual comforts a woman expects.’

  She slanted a look at him - was he really so unaware of his own attraction? Okay - so he came with baggage and a bunch of debt, but who didn’t these days? And, in any case, his concept of poverty was in a different league to hers. The right woman, the one meant for him, wouldn’t allow such things to drive her away - not if she really loved him. Her thoughts turned briefly to Fiona, the Bolting Bride.

  ‘Sorry, that sounded a bit self-obsessed,’ he apologised, giving a diffident shrug.

  ‘Snap.’ She laughed to lighten the atmosphere and then went on to explain. ‘Although, with me it’s more a case of: love you; hate your job. Few men are willing to put up with the long hours I work, or to play second fiddle to my determination to have my own business.’