by Vonnie Davis
“Wow, this is some spread for a cup of tea.” Gram settled into the pale-green love seat and handed Paisley a small plate. “I’ve always wanted to try a cucumber sandwich.” There were a few seconds of chewing and moaning. Like a child, she plucked a salmon sandwich from the bottom tier and sniffed the meat. “Is this stuff cooked?”
Paisley took a sample of each, enjoying the crisp crunch of the round cucumber sandwich decorated with a spring of watercress and a sliver of pimento.
“Now that it’s just you and me, tell me what you think of the house.” Gram plucked pumpernickel topped with asparagus and sliced hard-boiled egg from the middle tier of the crystal dish and bit into it. “Oh, heaven,” she moaned.
“Five bedrooms and six bathrooms is a lot, Gram.” She poured what the housekeeper said was blueberry-fields tea and inhaled its rich, sweet bouquet.
“I think I like the cucumber ones the best.”
Paisley reached for a piece of what Isobel called Highland toffee. “The house is huge. Very stiff and masculine. It’s not you at all.” She bit into the concoction of syrupy oatmeal topped with a layer of chocolate and nuts. “Oh, wow. These are great.”
Gram sipped her tea. “Do you think you could live here? After we did some redecorating, of course. You could have that lovely suite of rooms with the turret made into a little poet’s corner. We could have Internet wired in and upgrade the electrical to accommodate computer and fax machines for your animal business. Would make you a lovely private office. There’s a dressing room next to it we could make into a sitting room for you to use as a secluded area to entertain Creighton when he comes calling.” She waggled her eyebrows.
Gram and her matchmaking. “Just what do you mean by living here? Are you thinking about traveling to Scotland a couple times a year for a vacation? I bet spring and fall would be lovely in the Highlands.”
“No. I’m thinking of moving here. I want to return to my roots.” She set her cup and saucer down and reached for a piece of toffee. “Besides, at my age I’d like having servants to do the cooking, cleaning, and laundry. To say nothing of the yard work. I might even try my hand at writing, something I’ve always wanted to do.”
“You can’t be serious!”
Gram grinned in that determined way she had. “As a heart attack.”
“Why? So I have another chance at romance?”
“Pahhh, you never had a romance.” She waved her toffee at Paisley. “I wager Creighton will romance you like Alex never did. He’s the man for you. I can feel it. I can see it in his aura. There’s so much passion there.” She waggled her silver eyebrows, pressed a hand to her heart, and exhaled a loud sigh.
Paisley pressed fingertips to her temples to ease away the headache brewing. Gram and her damn auras. “You’re reading too much into Creighton’s attentions. We’ve only known each other a few days.”
Gram wiped a linen napkin over her fingertips. “I disagree. You’ve known each other forever. I feel it in my soul. That’s why the attraction exploded the minute you two set eyes on each other. I’m betting that’s why you can hear his thoughts—and only his. You two are the beats of each other’s hearts.”
Chapter Fourteen
Rush-hour traffic in town moved at a snail’s pace. Creighton was thankful his tasks were completed and pleased with the purchases he’d made. Everything was set for tomorrow night. If Paisley decided to return to the States, her time with him at the dance would be one memory seared into her heart. He’d see to it.
His thoughts floated back to the meeting he’d had with his cousin, Kendric Matheson, and an investigator at the local police department. Creighton had asked for an extensive background check done on both Effie and Malcolm. She claimed she had no previous knowledge of her inheritance, which made sense. Creighton had been good friends with Angus most of his life, yet he’d known nothing of the stipulations and bequests in the architect’s will. So, how had Malcolm learned of the will and Effie’s plans? Plans she claimed never existed? Did Malcolm really have a reliable source, as he claimed, or was he blowing cold smoke up Creighton’s kilt? One of them was being dishonest … and he was determined to find out which one.
Because of Paisley, he was prone to believe Effie’s version. In fact, his inner bear insisted on it. If Effie was lying, then chances were good the woman he’d fallen in love with was being dishonest too. Would he be able to get beyond her deception? The heart he’d guarded so well all these years wouldn’t recover. Not with the way he loved Paisley. Not lying. She’s pure of heart.
A traffic light turned red and he braked, staring off into nothingness. In the past, he’d dated, but never the same woman for more than four or five months. The responsibilities of his clan weighed heavily on him, and had since the death of his father when Creighton was a mere lad of ten. Angus Iverson, temporary clan chieftain, trained him to take his rightful place as laird when he turned sixteen. Although the position was in many ways an ancient title, he’d taken it to heart, giving his clan—the sleuth of secret bears—his full attention and affection. Horns blared and he snapped out of his reverie, driving through the intersection.
Part of his obligation to the clan was to provide an heir. He ground his molars together. Truth be told, he’d resented the pressure to marry and breed for the sake of his lineage. Elders strongly suggested he marry within the clan, but what if he couldn’t find a woman to love? A lifetime with such a person could be a miserable eternity. Too much passion flowed through his blood to tie himself to a woman he didn’t desire—or worse, a cold wife.
Minna was a quiet, docile young woman in his clan. Although she was plain looking, a mere month ago he’d considered the shy lady. Her good and generous heart pleased him. Yet in casual conversation, no attraction sparked between them, and so he’d never asked her out. Now, after seeing Paisley’s zest for life and her spunk, a shy woman would never do. A smile spread. Aye, his Paisley could cut him to shreds with her tongue, and Lord knew the things he wanted to do to her with his. His cock nodded its agreement.
He turned off the main highway onto a smaller road. There was one stop he wanted to make before he picked up Paisley and Effie. At the weather-beaten sign that read Una Matheson, Weaver and Witch, he made a right and slowed going over the many ruts in the old woman’s lane.
Minutes later, after inquiring about Una’s health and making a repair to her loom, he chose a scarf for Paisley. “Mum said she called with Effie and Paisley’s sizes and ordered items for the two ladies to wear to the dance tomorrow.”
“Aye, she did. The things ye requested will be ready.”
“Ye have always done excellent work.” He tugged his wallet from his back pocket.
Una nodded, her wrinkled lips pinched. “Any job worth doing is worth doing well. Is this scarf for the Norse woman, then?” She narrowed one eye and waited for his reply.
“ ’Tis a present for the young American and, aye, she’s part Norse and part Scottish.”
She fingered a spool of yarn. “A marriage to her would end the curse.”
He’d been trying not to think of that damnable curse. In the darkness of night, voices of doubt niggled his mind, asking if his attraction to Paisley wasn’t somehow connected to it. Did he subconsciously see her as a boon to his clan, to his lineage? Then in the light of day when the sunshine of her countenance warmed his mental landscape, those doubts vanished.
“Aye, but I don’t want her used. She’s too precious for that.” Ours. She’s ours.
“Signs tell me she has magic within.” Una reached for an ancient teacup and showed him the dried leaves. “I made ye a love potion to deem ye irresistible in her Norse eyes.” She set a jar of red liquid on her tiny counter and favored him with a snaggletoothed smile. “I brewed it this morning when the dew drops told me ye were coming today.” She jerked her chin toward the jar. “ ’Tis a recipe from the goddess of nine.” She tugged a rolled and ragged piece of aged vellum from the knot of hair at the crown of her head. After unrol
ling it, she flicked a finger over the print and squinted to read the ancient writing.
“Nine leaves of basil, rose petals, and sweet berry wine.
“Nine pieces of ginseng root, a handful of needles of pine.
“Grind nine seeds from the fruit of Eve, juice of strawberries, numbering nine.
“Boil for nine minutes when the clock strikes nine and the love ye seek will be thine.”
He eyed the jar and his stomach cramped with disgust. “Do ye expect me to drink it?”
Her phlegmy cackle bounced off the walls of her old cottage. “Nay, ye rub it on yer neck and between yer legs.”
“The devil ye say!” Bloody hell. He would do no such thing. He slid the jar back toward Una with his finger. “If I canna woo Paisley and win her love on me own merits, I’ll not use some ancient witchcraft.”
Una leaned toward him, her eyes narrowed and her breath foul. “Dinna be using yer stubborn male pride ’round me. Dinna ye steal the memory of the woman ye love? What was that, if not witchcraft?”
A bead of sweat trickled down his spine. Just how the bloody hell she kent that he dinna want to know. “How often must I rub this stuff on me skin?”
* * *
When Creighton eased the lodge’s Land Rover to a stop in front of the Iverson manor house, Hamish jogged toward the vehicle and rapped on the passenger-side window. Creighton unlocked the door and Hamish slid in. “What’s up? Ye look troubled.”
“We’ve got a bit of an uprising in there.” He jerked his thumb toward the house.
“Dinna tell me Effie’s been at it again. I thought when she didn’t wear her pelican baffies, she’d be on her best behavior.”
“Bloody hell. I nearly swallowed me tongue when she showed up for the reading of the will in those pink monstrosities. Ye never know what’s going to tumble from her lips. Isobel is in a righteous snit. Claims the American wants to toss out all of Angus’s furnishings and antiques.” He covered his eyes with a hand and slowly shook his head a couple times. Turning his face slightly in Creighton’s direction, he fought back a smile. “Isobel says she overheard the auld pink-haired woman talk about writing sex stories. Aye, she wants to write about men naked beneath their kilts, their fukin’ dicks flappin’ in the wind.”
Creighton laid his forehead against the steering wheel and laughed until tears ran down his face. The walls of this manor would never be the same with Effie’s bawdy sense of humor bouncing off them. Sour-faced Angus would be rolling over in his grave if he knew. This pink-haired woman was quickly becoming one of his favorite people, a surprise since she’d put him off the first time he set eyes on her. Who could resist her spirit? Please, God, don’t let her be a liar.
Hamish shifted in his seat and crossed his arms. “I dinna ken what’s so bloody funny. Especially when it’ll probably be yer feckin’ dick flappin’ in the Highland wind she’ll be writing about.”
Once he stepped inside Iverson Manor, the sensual timbre of Paisley’s voice lured Creighton down the hallway toward the solarium. When he turned to enter the room, he raised his telepathic shield so Paisley couldn’t hear his thoughts. He had to protect her from all the turmoil in his mind regarding the honesty of Malcolm and her grandmother—and his guilt for erasing her memory. He wanted to trust Effie, he truly did, but to protect his sleuth, he needed evidence of her innocence. His uncertainty would only cause Paisley distress.
Yet wasn’t Angus’s will ironclad? When Creighton stopped at the lawyer’s office this afternoon, James Aiken assured him there was no way the stipulations could be broken. If these two women had plans with the oil companies, they certainly didna seem upset that their plans had been foiled by one clever auld Scot and his lawyer.
Paisley’s warm smile unknotted the tense muscles in his shoulders as he crossed the threshold into the sun-drenched glass room. He walked behind her chair and placed his hand where her slender throat met her shoulder. The rapid pulse near her collarbone kissed his fingertips. Her body’s silent response to his touch pleased him … and so did the sight of her slim skirt riding high on her thighs. Beautiful. Ours.
“Ladies, how was yer tour? What do ye think of the house?”
“Gram’s been making plans.” Paisley pushed her owlish frames up her nose. “She loves to redecorate.”
“Does she now?” He inclined his head and brushed a kiss over Paisley’s lips. She tasted of blueberry tea and chocolate and—God help his bear—honey. Sweet lips. Ours.
“Indeed I do.” Effie patted the empty spot next to her on the love seat. “Come sit here and give me your advice. Maybe you know of some people to recommend. I’m going to need a good wallpaper hanger, a painter, Internet access, and new furniture. Oh, and a man to oversee all the remodeling.” She poured a cup of tea and extended it to him. “Do you know of anyone honest who could help?”
He sat next to Effie and added several spoonfuls of honey to the steaming brew. “I do. Let me make some inquires among my clan members.” His nose twitched at the delicious aroma of smoked salmon. Eat. Hungry. To satisfy his inner bear, he piled salmon sandwiches on his plate and tucked into the snack. By the time he’d finished what remained of the Highland toffee, he’d somehow agreed to hanging all of the wallpaper himself. Between the food and Paisley’s shapely legs ending in those feckin’ red stilettos, how could a man concentrate on what he was hearing or saying?
Their ride back to the lodge was so full of chatter, Creighton could have sworn there were eight people in the SUV instead of three. Effie provided animation while Paisley oozed serenity. Would he be able to erase the blonde’s composure tomorrow after the dance, hold her close and touch and kiss every part of her delectable body? He couldna wait to make love to her again.
“Paisley, would ye be up to a stroll when we return to the lodge?” Time alone with her would lift his soul.
“I’ll need to change clothes first, but I think I’d enjoy that. Would you show me the moat up close?” She pushed her glasses up her nose and aimed her blue eyes at him, full of questions and wonder.
God, she was adorable. Whoever said men didn’t make passes at girls who wore glasses was an asinine fool. Obviously, that person had never met his Paisley. Had she asked for the moon, he’d have found a way to give it to her. He wrapped his hand around hers and brought it to his lips to kiss her knuckles, her skin so soft he wanted to touch every part of her. “Aye. I can, if ye wish.”
* * *
Fiona met them at the door with a message for Gram to call her solicitor. Creighton’s mother led Gram to her office so she could use the lodge’s phone.
Creighton tugged Paisley into his arms and inclined his dark head to brush his lips along the sweet spot beneath her ear. A shiver of delight danced over her skin. How he knew she had a sensitive area there when she’d been ignorant of it all her life was beyond her. She fought the urge to snuggle against his solid frame and lost. His warmth blanketed her, seeping in so deep even her heart roused from its emotionless sleep.
Something about him—and she’d yet to determine what it was—attracted her and made her experience a longing she’d never had with Alex or the other men she’d infrequently dated. What was it about this man whose strong arms enveloped her and whose lips did glorious things to her neck? Yes, he was handsome. He had a commanding air, as though he assumed his wishes would automatically be fulfilled—something that both irked her and turned her on at the same time. He also had a caring side, and a dash of wicked humor. To her surprise, she responded to all facets of his personality, especially his very masculine element that summoned the power of her femininity.
His lips, soft and persuasive, covered hers and absorbed her sigh. Yet, for all the excitement he stirred in her soul, his embrace was like coming home after a long and rough journey.
“Change yer clothes, leannan. I’ll meet ye right here.”
She was eager for some time outside near the animals and, yes, with Creighton too. “Okay.”
Once in her room, she
exchanged her skirt and stilettos for jeans and boots.
Before she headed downstairs, she checked her voice mail. “Look, Paisley, I’m sorry I was so abrupt yesterday.” Alex. “Don’t be taken in by a Scot who only wants to add an American to his line of conquests. There’s no way he could understand your … ah … uniqueness the way I do. You know I’ve always had your best interests at heart. A gift like yours is rare and should be used to everyone’s advantage. Especially yours. Please call me back.” She thumbed the delete function.
There hadn’t been one mention of his missing her, nor one word of love or hint of affection. Only her gift. Would it ever end? She powered up her laptop and opened her email. After writing a letter officially resigning her position as head veterinary assistant of Alex Bristol’s Veterinary Services, she hit Send and breathed a sigh of relief. She’d just severed all ties with the man who’d sought to use her gift for his gain. How had she allowed their working relationship to transform into a loveless engagement? What a simple fool I’ve been.
So fearful of others’ reactions to her gift, she’d nearly isolated herself from the rest of the male gender. How would she explain it all to a man? “Yes, I’m a veterinary assistant. I live with my grandmother and I travel frequently to talk to animals.” During the three years she’d worked for Alex, she’d slowly clued him in, and he’d been receptive to her gift. Somehow, his sudden proposal seemed her one chance at having a husband and family. She shook her head before opening the door and leaving her suite. What a cold marriage she would have had with Alex. Thank God all that was behind her.
Creighton met her at the bottom of the steps, and his wide smile ignited a matching one of her own. “Here’s something to help keep ye warm while we walk.” He wrapped a plaid scarf around her neck, the wool as soft as a baby blanket.