My Scottish Summer

by Connie Brockway

“Where’s Birdie?” Toni asked.

  “Birdie wouldn’t be caught dead at a Highland fair. She disapproves of them on principle.”

  Birdie probably wouldn’t be caught dead admitting to making those scones. Toni sure wouldn’t. She took a sip of lemonade. It was watery. “She doesn’t have anything against making a buck off the tourists though.”

  “Of course not. She’s principled but practical.”

  Toni nodded with grudging understanding. In spite of having spent every last dime on T-shirts, treacle pudding, and tartan throws on her way to picking up her prize pooch before heading back to Grim Reality—aka Hopkins, Minnesota—she considered herself acutely practical.

  A voice distorted by a bullhorn and distance called out for the next set of contestants to take the field for the hammer toss.

  “Hey,” Toni said, peering up at the gorgeous Scot. “Am I keeping you from something important like dancing under a flaming sword or something?”

  He bit his lip. “Nah,” he said seriously. “I heard they scratched the limbo from the program.”

  “Oh.” She smiled.

  “Look,” he said. “You can’t get behind the wheel in your present state. Let me drive you to your inn.”

  She shook her head fervently. “No. I couldn’t ask. You’ll miss the hammer heave or whatever it’s called.”

  “Hammer toss, and I’ve already competed in my weight class.”

  “Ah!” she said, liking the picture her imagination conjured up of this man bronzed and gleaming with non-smelly sweat, flinging a manly-sized hammer yards beyond his puny competitor’s range. “Did you win?”

  “Didn’t even place.”

  “Well, there’s probably some other sport you need to be here for.”

  “Rugby. But not for a couple hours. Where are you staying?”

  “Strathcuddy Inn.”

  “I know it well. It’s only five miles or so up the road. I’ll drive you there and trot on back here in plenty of time forthekickoff.”

  She frowned peevishly. Somehow she’d gotten the idea that if she made all the appropriate noises about not imposing on him and he made all the appropriate noises about it being no trouble, they’d eventually end up back at the inn eating haggis in the moonlight and gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes. Or engaged in other, equally interesting, pastimes.

  Apparently he hadn’t shared her vision. He was just being polite.

  “So where’s the auto?”

  She jerked her thumb in the direction of the car lot. “There.”

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to go back to the inn just yet. She’d been having a grand time. Scotland was everything she’d dreamed it would be—except for the food.

  High, barren moors and pine-shrouded mountains, purple heather and leathery burgundy gorse, the west of Scotland embodied the romance of a hundred Hollywood movies. She’d lunched on terraces overlooking shaggy Highland cows placidly grazing the banks of lochs— lochs, by heavens!—followed the paths purportedly traveled by cattle-thieving clansmen and border lords, quaffed tepid beer and gnawed on castle rock, toured the haunted ruins of a dozen abbeys, and today, on her way to Oronsay Kennels, stumbled on a real, live Highland fair.

  No. She didn’t want to go back to her inn. But she supposed if she insisted on staying now, she’d only look like a pathetic American, hanging around hoping to spend more time with Laird Luscious. Which was true, of course, but a girl had her pride.

  “Come along then,” he encouraged her. Heaving a resigned sigh, she allowed him to lead her to the parking lot, where she pointed out the tinny little Volkswagen van she’d rented.

  He helped her into the passenger seat before going round and sliding in behind the wheel. He turned the ignition, and the beast grumbled to life. “Ach, love, I see you went all-out renting the sporty model.”

  She studied him suspiciously. The full effects of the scotch had begun to fade a bit. “Was that ‘ach’ for my benefit?”

  He gave her a charming, heart-tipping grin. “Busted. Now, sit back, relax, and enjoy the scenery.”

  Somehow she avoided making the obvious comment.

  She would have been heartened if she’d known that Dev was biting his own tongue to keep from making a similarly cheesy remark.

  He looked over at the tall, willowy Nordic princess, and he didn’t want to play rugby. He wanted to stay with her and see what odd, funny, and disconcerting bits would next escape her lips. As long back as he could remember, he’d never ditched out on a rugby game. But if he didn’t have a dozen of his mates counting on him to return, he sure as hell would now.

  One thing was for certain; if the ride to the inn was half as interesting as the last half-hour had been, he’d be heading back to Strathcuddy Inn first light tomorrow. He pulled out of the parking lot. “So, darlin’,” he said, trying to sound offhand, “might your driver ask your name?”

  “Toni,” she said. “Antoinette Olson.”

  “Part French?” he asked sardonically.

  She shook her head. “Nope. In America you don’t have to have an ethnic background to have an ethnic name. We’re very democratic.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  She hiccuped and blushed. When was the last time he’d seen a girl blush? She was lovely.

  “My middle name is Chosposi,” she continued. “It’s Hopi for ‘Bluebird Eye,’ and before you ask, I’m not Hopi, either.”

  “Good God,” he blurted out.

  “Mother went to Berkeley,” she said primly.

  “It’s a charming name. So… unexpected.”

  She nodded, sending the curtain of blond hair rippling. “Thanks. Tit for tat. What’s your name?”

  “Devlin Montgomery. Dev for short.”

  She gave a short guffaw that she immediately covered with her hand.

  “What was so funny about ‘Devlin Montgomery’?” he demanded.

  “Nothing,” she said, keeping her face turned forward. But her lips kept twitching with irrepressible humor.

  “What?”

  “Well… come on! Devlin Montgomery? I couldn’t have named you better myself.”

  “I must be missing something.”

  “Well, look at you!” she declared, giggling. “You look like you should be on a billboard advertising Loch Liquor or something. You know. The kind with a dark, craggy mountain looming in the background and you in the foreground, a bottle of whisky in one hand and a sword in the other.”

  “Sounds a mite hackneyed.”

  “Yeah. Well, that’s my point.”

  All right, perhaps it had occasionally occurred to him that his name had a certain romantic quality to it. But what most interested him was her previous words. “And what do you mean, ‘look at me’?”

  She blushed again. He bet she wasn’t nearly so forthcoming when she was sober. She blushed too easily and too readily to be in the habit of saying whatever came to her mind. And what an interesting mind it was. Malt whisky billboard, indeed.

  “You must know you are gorgeous.”

  “Must I?” Sure, in the last five or six years he’d grown accustomed to a certain amount of female attention. But he still found it unsettling, as if any day he might wake up and discover his mum was paying the girls to do a bit of fawning.

  He glanced at Toni. He bet this tall, stately creature wouldn’t have spared him a passing glance ten years ago. Then he’d been nothing but a scarecrow with braces. He hadn’t even gone to the local deb ball, and that in spite of the invitations that came with being the school’s rugby captain.

  She still hadn’t answered. Probably thought he was fishing for a compliment, which he was. He wouldn’t mind being fawned over by Toni Olson. He wouldn’t mind doing quite a bit with Toni Olson, he thought.

  “Are you ogling me?” she asked. But he had her mark now, and nothing that popped from between her lips was likely to catch him off guard.

  “As it happens, I was.”

  “Oh.” She opened her mouth, shut
it, turned, and stared straight ahead again. He grinned.

  “What? You can blurt out candid comments, but I can’t?”

  She swung around to face him. “That’s not it,” she said. “I was trying to decide if you were pulling my leg.”

  “Not without an invite.” He leered at her. “My mum raised me to be a gentleman.”

  Out of the corner of her eye he saw her swallow. A tad bit of an innocent, then, in spite of that eight-inch comment.

  “I was rather hoping you might burst out with a hearty ‘damn’ at that particular juncture,” he said.

  “I like gentlemen,” she replied. “I’d hate it if you turned out to be just another guy with notches on his bedpost.”

  He chuckled at the idea. “No worries there, luv. My bedpost is sadly unmarked.”

  “So you say.”

  “We can take the next turnoff, and I can show you,” he suggested.

  “No. I mean, no, thank you,” she said, suddenly prim. But she kept stealing glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, and the color in her cheeks stayed high.

  “Another day, then.” They passed through the village, and in a few minutes they were rolling into the Strathcuddy Inn’s yard. A chicken squawked at their arrival, and a white cat scooted out from under a wooden bench beside the front door.

  The sun was just kissing the tops of the mountains to the north. He got out of the car and went round to Toni’s side, opening the door and holding out his hand She clasped it gratefully, and he pulled her up and out. It was a unique pleasure to be able to speak to a woman without getting a crick in his neck. She was just the right height. Just the right height to…

  He leaned in and kissed her.

  His lips touched hers, and her world tilted right back out of orbit. He settled his mouth more firmly, putting his arms around her to draw her closer, steadying her, holding her upright. His kiss was firm and heated and hungry.

  His muscular length tensed, his arms tightened, and the kiss deepened even more. Her thoughts spun, whirled, senses clamoring for attention. He drew back a little, their lips clinging sweetly, so gently, his polishing, coaxing… Her mouth opened.

  His tongue slipped into her mouth and found hers. Little sparks shattered against the back of her eyelids. She sighed a surrender to pleasure as her hands slipped around his waist, bringing their hips into contact. With a deep urgent sound, he tipped her back, his strong arms supporting her, and bent over her, kissing her even more deeply, his fingers tunneling through her hair…

  A lamb bleated nearby, penetrating her fast-fleeing thoughts. Lamb? Her eyes flew open. Lamb. Scotland. Scotch.

  This wasn’t Minnesota. Sure, she could take him up to her room and make love until the sun rose above the western edge of the Grampian Mountains. But he wouldn’t be calling the next day. Or any day after, for that matter. He’d be a souvenir.

  Or she would.

  He felt her hands on his chest and then, suddenly, she pushed herself away, breaking off their ardent kiss. She braced her arms straight, her palms flat on his heaving chest. Her own chest was doing a fair amount of heaving itself, and her eyes were dilated, bright with trepidation and arousal. Abruptly he realized he was still holding her, pulling against her push. He released her.

  Her lips looked full, bruised. Had he done that?

  “What was that?” she asked breathlessly.

  Chemistry, he thought blankly. He’d heard about but never experienced it, instant electrifying sexual attraction set to blaze by any contact. Even a simple goodnight kiss. Good-night, not good-bye. It couldn’t be good-bye.

  “I don’t know.” He tried to make his tone light. “But I want to find out. How about you?”

  He waited for her answer, willing her to say yes.

  “I don’t know,” she said, her gaze searching his face. “I’m leaving Scotland in a few days, and I have some business I have to take care of before I go.”

  He mustn’t scare her, which is just what he was doing. He could see the uneasiness in her eyes.

  “Let me write down my number,” he said. “If you have time after you’re done, please call me.”

  “Really?”

  Dear Lord, did she think he was kidding? “Yes. Really. I’d love to… I want to… Geez. Why do you have to leave in a few days?”

  “Plane ticket. Nonrefundable.”

  “Damn it.”

  “I thought you were a gentleman.” There was a little note of amusement in the breathless admonition.

  “I am. Sorry. When? Two days? Three?”

  “Four.”

  “Damn it.” He raked his hair back, casting about for some way to keep her in Scotland longer.

  “Look, it’s been a while since we left the fair,” she said. “Your friends’ll be expecting you.”

  Was she trying to get rid of him? “Da— Sorry.” If she wanted him gone, he’d best go. He strode over to the van, rummaged around in the glove compartment, found a piece of paper, and scribbled his number down on it.

  “You’re right, of course. I’d best be off.” He couldn’t give her some hackneyed phrase. “It was fascinating meeting you, Toni Olson. I hope you call. Please do.”

  And then he did something that in the coming years he would look back on and be impressed by. He started down the road, and he did not look back. At least not until he was fairly certain the darkness concealed him. Then he did turn. But she’d disappeared.

  2

  “Ouch.”

  The road beneath the van had more ripples in it than Dev Montgomery’s stomach, and that was saying a lot. Each time the van hit a rut, it jumped like a jack-hammer, driving pain straight into Toni’s temples. She deserved it, both for drinking too much and for making a complete ass out of herself.

  She touched her hip pocket where she’d stashed the scrap of paper with his telephone number. She’d never use it How could she?

  “I’ve an extra eight inches on Mel.”

  “Where?”

  She winced. And then she’d said, “You must know you’re gorgeous.”

  And had she really said she wished she could “do” Sean Connery? And she couldn’t have tried to—please God, let this memory be wrong!—peek under his kilt!

  And then to cap it off, there’d been that kiss.

  She could still feel the rising pitch point of desire, the heat of lips, the fierce pull of attraction… She was lucky she hadn’t woken up in the same bed with him.

  Or maybe that was unlucky. She wasn’t sure.

  That was the problem. Everything she’d done since she’d fallen off that damn fence made her look like an easy American girl on the prowl. But in truth, she’d never been promiscuous, not anything even remotely like it. Dev Montgomery, however, had made her want to toss a lifetime of caution aside and leap feetfirst into his bed. It was unnerving, and that alone, she decided as she rolled up the van window against the chill air, was an excellent reason for not calling him this morning.

  Along with her aforementioned shamelessness.

  No, she wouldn’t be calling him, now or ever. Just the thought of facing him again drove the blood boiling to her face.

  She was so immersed in her thoughts she nearly missed the battered sign on the side of the road that said Oronsay Kennel was about ten miles east. She stopped the van, reached into her purse, and pulled out a bottle of Tylenol, dumping three capsules into her palm before popping them into her mouth. With a sense of getting her due, she chomped down on the bitter pills.

  No more mooning over Dev Montgomery. Her life was about to change; she was on the cusp of taking possession of the finest dog in the world, a dog she’d longed for since seeing his image on an Internet video loop last year: Grand International Champion Nolly’s Black.

  Nolly’s Black would be the basis not only for her own business, but for a program of introducing European bloodlines into her dogs’ pedigrees. If things went as well as she had every reason to believe they would, she would live the life she’d alw
ays dreamed about—May through November in two of the world’s most gorgeous “summer” cities, Minneapolis and Saint Paul, and the rest of the year traveling in warmer climes.

  Several companies had already offered her lucrative contracts for her and her dogs’ talents. Nolly’s Black would increase the snob appeal immensely among the higher-end suburban companies.

  She stepped on the gas, lurching onto the pitted road, her headache fading with her anticipation, thoughts of Devlin Montgomery usurped by the image of a glossy, black-and-white blue-eyed Border collie. By the time she pulled to a stop in front of a neat stone building bearing the Qronsay name, the throbbing in her head had subsided to a dull ache. She got out of the car, looking around with interest.

  It was small. She’d expected a large facility with shining kennels set in rows behind modern buildings. Instead the famous Qronsay kennels looked like someone’s converted garage. No more than a dozen runs extended from the side of the building, and only half of these contained dogs—two bitches with litters, a couple of young dogs, and an old campaigner snoozing on a rug. At the far end of the building an old Volvo station wagon stood with its hood wide open, a light rain anointing its automotive innards.

  She walked around the side of the building. Behind it, hidden from the road and a short distance up a narrow lane, she saw a small—a really small—castle. Half of it was tumbled in picturesque ruin; the other half was pockmarked with new brickwork and large modern windows. On the renovated side a drift of smoke rose from a thoroughly modern smokestack. She grinned, the romantic part of her nature elbowing aside her practical—and most often louder—side.

  It really was a castle, no matter how diminutive, and people really did live in it. Amazing. She’d toured roughly a hundred castles since arriving, castles being something of an obsession with her, but she hadn’t been inside one where the heirs of the original occupants still lived. They were probably associated with the kennels. Probably the owners.

  She wondered if there was any chance of her getting inside. Maybe if she played her cards right and hinted to Mr. McGill, the kennel manager with whom she’d corresponded, that she’d like to meet the laird or lairdess—was there such a thing?—she’d be invited up to the castle for an introduction. And a scone. Maybe they even knew Devlin Montgomery.