Hot for the Scot

by Janice Maynard

  He stood suddenly and shoved his hands in his pockets. His clothing had been as soaked as mine but was drying rapidly. I thought of suggesting that he drape his damp shirt over a chair by the fire. The urge to see more of that broad, bare chest was understandable. The man’s body was a work of art.

  Angus stared at me. “Is there someone I should notify? Travel companions, perhaps?”

  “No,” I said calmly. “I’m on my own.”

  His frown was dark. “You shouldna’ be tellin’ me that. What if I mean to do you harm?”

  I stared at him, my heart beating so fast I could barely keep my body still. “You don’t seem all that dangerous to me.”

  There is a certain rhythm and cadence to the dance between the sexes. I had initiated the first move. Rashly, but inescapably. Men did not like to be called safe. Flirtation was not in my skill set. I was ready, however, to try my wings.

  Angus’s dark eyes narrowed, his brows gathering over a hawkish nose. “It isn’t a good idea for a young woman to travel on her own,” he said sternly. “Most people are good folk, but on occasion you may run across a blighter…or worse.”

  “I appreciate your concern.”

  Our gazes locked. My breathing slowed as if I had been anesthetized. Were there fairies at work in this small dwelling?

  He scowled. “I’ll feed you some soup and take ye home.”

  Leaving me to my own devices, he opened a wooden box and removed a handful of vegetables. With skillful movements, and far more quickly than I had ever managed, he peeled the carrots and potatoes and onions. An iron pot, suspended over the flames, was the receptacle for the ingredients. Soon, delicious smells filled the air.

  My stomach growled audibly. I had brought a cheese sandwich with me, thinking I would eat it in resplendent solitude. But a hot lunch would be infinitely more satisfying.

  Suddenly, I regained my senses. “My bag,” I cried. “It was on the rocks.”

  Angus looked over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. He cocked his head. “In the corner there. I scooped it up.”

  “Thank goodness.” In my addled state, I hadn’t even been aware of him doing anything other than rescuing me. I stood up and nearly tripped over the tartan that cocooned me. Shuttling across the room, I unzipped my backpack and fumbled for a comb. Unfortunately, I found it impossible to tidy my hair and remain modestly covered at the same time.

  After a couple of minutes, I abandoned my chore, resigned to looking like a waterlogged mess. During my brief foray, Angus paid me no attention at all. He finished his task of peeling and dicing, and disappeared behind the screen, presumably to wash his hands, judging by the sound of water splashing.

  When he returned, I broached the subject causing me some distress. “Do you by chance have a commode in the other room?”

  His lips twitched, giving me the first inkling that he might actually have a sense of humor. “There’s a privy out back. It’s not much, but you’re a long way from anything more civilized.”

  I squawked in surprise when he scooped me into his arms and matter-of-factly carried me outside. “I’m okay now,” I said.

  “You’re not wearing shoes,” he replied calmly.

  He strode to the wooden structure at the back of the house. Before setting me on my feet, he opened the door with one hand and beat on the wood.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Scaring away any creepy-crawlies.”

  I shuddered. “Oh, lovely.”

  “You’ll be fine,” he said, ignoring my sarcasm. The sun beamed down on us benevolently, a much kinder star than the one whose rays were currently cooking my hometown.

  Angus still held me, looking into my eyes with a steady gaze that made the back of my neck tingle. I was naked…wrapped in a blanket. The most gorgeous, masculine man I had ever met had his hands on me. But for a span of cloth, our position would be that of lovers.

  I shivered from nothing more than the delicious sensation of muscular arms holding me against a broad, warm chest. Whatever labor this man did to earn a living had the enviable side effect of making him strong and healthy and hard-bodied.

  “I can handle it from here,” I muttered.

  He put me down and nodded. “I’ll tend to the lunch.”

  I appreciated the privacy, because I was forced to abandon my covering in order to take care of business. When I was done, I stepped outside and found my host waiting. “I can walk,” I said. The grass actually felt soft beneath my feet.

  “No need. Wouldn’t want you to cut your foot on a stone.”

  I nearly pointed out that centuries of Scots had wandered these hillsides barefooted, at least during the summer. But since he seemed to have a need to carry me, and I an inclination to be carried, I swallowed any further protest.

  Chapter 6

  Inside the cabin I washed my hands and then watched as Angus ladled the steaming soup into pewter bowls. He had cut the vegetables into such fine pieces they cooked down quickly. This was a culinary technique I had already noted while in Scotland. The night before, Mrs. Pottinger served me leek and lentil stew, a thick, creamy broth that was both flavorful and filling.

  Belatedly, I realized the challenge of eating while clad only in nylon undies and a blanket. “I’ll see if my clothes are dry,” I said.

  Angus held up a hand. “I already checked. They’re not. This is easy to eat. You’ll be fine.”

  I was beginning to see a pattern. Angus Munro was the kind of man who naturally took charge of a situation. While that was an admirable characteristic when it came to fetching a drowning woman, it might get old in day-to-day life.

  My frown must have punctured his aura of command. “Dinna fash yourself, Hayley from Georgia. See if this helps.” He rummaged in a leather pouch and held up a thin nail. “Hold still.”

  I realized he meant to puncture the soft wool. “Don’t do that,” I cried, aghast. “You’ll ruin the cloth.”

  One eyebrow went up. Quickly, he fastened the small piece of metal in the folds of my makeshift garb, slightly brushing the slopes of my breasts as he did so. “It’s no’ a great loss,” he said. “That plaid is older than I am.”

  “All the more reason to preserve it.” I was indignant that he didn’t care more for his heritage. But it was too late. The damage was done.

  At his bidding, I moved toward the small table beneath the window. Though it was clear his resources were few, Angus had been taught social etiquette somewhere along the way. He held my chair with all the courtliness of a polished gentleman. And his tweaking of my garment worked. Now that I didn’t have to worry about dropping my guard or my modesty, I was able to reach for the spoon and bowl without incident.

  I ate with more enthusiasm than grace, famished suddenly from the events of the past few hours. Angus ate as well, but he studied me in between bites. “Tell me about yourself,” he said finally. “Why did you come to Scotland?”

  Was he bored, or genuinely curious? I shrugged mentally. “Why does anyone come to Scotland? For the scenery, the history, the mystery of the stones, the call of the wild open spaces.”

  When he took a sip of water, I saw the muscles in his throat work. “You’re a bit of a poet then, are you?”

  “I scribble the occasional verse. But only for fun. The Scottish Highlands have inspired me.” I licked a drop of soup from the edge of my lip. Angus had not given either of us a napkin. And I surely wasn’t going to inflict further damage on my temporary clothing. “I’ve always wanted to visit the British Isles,” I said. “My great-grandmother was English…a teenage war bride. My great-grandfather brought her to America in 1945.”

  “Ah,” Angus said. “You’re a Sassenach.”

  My stomach fluttered. My heart bounced hard in my chest. “So you’ve seen the television show? Or read the books?” I couldn’t believe it.

  A frown appeared between his eyebrows. “I don’t know what you mean.” He looked at me du
biously, as if now wondering why a mentally unstable woman was allowed to roam free in the neighborhood.

  “You called me a Sassenach.” Even the word conjured up images of bedroom scenes from my beloved drama.

  He nodded slowly. “Aye. We Scots refer to an English person as a Sassenach. Though I have to admit, the term is a bit derogatory. I meant no offense.”

  “None taken,” I said automatically.

  The day lost its sparkle. Here I was weaving daydreams about myself as a modern-day Claire Randall, when Angus Munro had no clue what I was imagining. He was oblivious. Disappointment settled in my belly, threatening to curdle my soup.

  “I should go,” I said. Without waiting for permission, I shoved back from the table and went to fetch my clothes. When I returned, Angus shot me a glance but said not a word as I stepped behind the curtain and put on my damp shirt and bra and pants. The socks were still too wet to be comfortable, so I slid my bare feet into the hiking shoes. “Thank you for rescuing me and for lunch,” I said. For some odd reason, I was close to tears. Perhaps a delayed response to my ordeal.

  Angus stood and stretched. He folded his arms across his chest. “Are you afraid of animals?”

  An odd question for sure. “Not unless we’re talking grizzly bears or sharks.”

  “We’ve no’ got many of those in the Highlands.” A blinding grin lifted the corners of his mouth, turning him from merely handsome to ridiculously sexy and masculine.

  I wanted to smile back at him, but my emotions were wobbly. “What did you have in mind?”

  He shrugged. “I have a horse. I’ll take you back to town.”

  I’m generally neutral when it comes to equine adventures, but I was definitely not neutral about Angus Munro. Sharing a horse with him was too much togetherness. “I walked over here,” I said. “I can walk back. But thanks for everything.”

  “Don’t be prickly, Hayley from Georgia. You’ve had a traumatic experience. Now that the adrenaline has faded, you’ll be exhausted. I’ll have you home in a flash. Where’s your hotel?”

  I bit my lip, staring at him. He was right. Suddenly, I could barely hold up my head, and my legs were like spaghetti. But I was afraid of Angus, afraid that his wonderful rumbly voice and amazing body were going to ruin me for other, tamer adventures.

  “Drumnadrochit. I’m staying with Annis Pottinger,” I muttered, still tempted to run if only I’d been able.

  “Old Lady Pottinger?” He was clearly shocked.

  “What’s wrong with that?” It was my turn to frown.

  “Half the kids in town are afraid of her. She’s a bit dottled, don’t you think?”

  “Dottled?” I didn’t know that one.

  “Confused. Senile.”

  I was incensed on behalf of the woman who was trying to make ends meet with a new business venture. “I think she’s very sweet.”

  Ignoring my defense of Annis, Angus stacked the empty bowls and shoved them into a burlap sack. He scattered the embers in the fireplace and looked around the small room. “Let’s go.”

  He hustled me outside. On the side of the cottage opposite the privy was a very small corral that housed a very large horse. I had read about the sturdy Highland ponies. They were work animals, hardy and perfect for their environment. But this magnificent creature with the shiny black coat and white blaze on its face was far more regal. His head tossed as if to indicate disapproval of my presence.

  Angus grabbed the bridle and stroked the stallion’s neck, speaking softly in Gaelic. If the Scotsman had used those honey-soft words on me, I’d probably be melting in a puddle on the ground.

  “I’d rather walk,” I insisted. I didn’t know what Angus did for a living. Surely it would be wrong to take him away from his work. Perhaps he was a farmer…or a shepherd. Either way, I had seen no evidence of such activity.

  “No more arguments,” Angus said. “Meet Lamri.” He swung into the saddle with easy grace. Like the cowboys of the Old West, he was one with the animal.

  I hesitated. “What does the name mean?”

  “Legend has it that one of King Arthur’s horses was known as Lamri. I liked the sound of it.”

  “So another Sassenach?”

  “Touché.” He laughed and held out a hand, leaning down to me. “Put your foot in the stirrup, Hayley. I’ll pull you up.”

  Chapter 7

  I had never been this close to a full-grown man who made me feel both sensual and excited in every definition of that word. My bottom nestled between Angus’s powerful thighs and my back rested against his chest. His arms came around me to grip the reins.

  “Hold onto the pommel,” he said. “At least until you learn the rhythm.”

  Rhythm? Everything the man said sounded like sex.

  I tried to keep my spine straight. I really did. But when Angus urged the horse into a gallop, I lost my balance and ended up splayed backward against him like a rag doll.

  Perhaps I should have been afraid. We were far off the ground and moving rapidly along the loch. The wind stung my face. My hair was now damp and tangled. All I could think about, though, was how good Angus smelled and how much I wanted to turn around and kiss him.

  It was a moment of pure bliss and sheer exhilaration. If I closed my eyes and let myself believe in the whimsy of time travel, I could fancy myself a brave woman flying to freedom with a Highland warrior.

  I knew I would likely never see Angus again after today. But I had begun my adventure on a high note. I couldn’t regret a single moment, even if my near-death experience had precipitated everything that followed.

  As we drew in sight of Drumnadrochit, Angus slowed the horse’s pace. Beneath a tree, we stopped. I wasn’t sure why we weren’t going any further, but it was clear the journey was over. Maybe horses were not allowed on the streets of the village. Angus jumped down and reached up to grasp my waist. He lifted me easily, sliding me along his chest until my feet touched the ground.

  I looked up at him, my heart aching with regret. Why were none of the men in my real life as exciting as Angus?

  “Goodbye,” I said.

  Before I could persuade my feet to move, he brushed my cheek with his thumb. “I hope you enjoy Scotland, Hayley from Georgia. Be careful. Don’t talk to strangers. And stay away from the water.”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  For a moment, something shimmered between us. I was sure of it. An odd look flashed in his eyes…interest, at the very least. Maybe even wanting.

  The connection broke when I remembered what I must look like. Men like Angus had their pick of available women. He probably even had a girlfriend. I was embarrassingly mistaken to think he had any interest in a bookish, wild-haired, unkempt schoolteacher from America.

  Abashed, I dropped my gaze, focusing now on my own two feet.

  He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Safe travels, Hayley.”

  And then he was gone…

  I watched him gallop away, his silhouette growing smaller and smaller in the distance. Deliberately, I turned my back on my short-lived romantic tryst. Except nothing had really happened today. I nearly drowned. A man saved me. End of story.

  Mrs. Pottinger was full of exclamations when she opened the door at my knock. The key was zipped somewhere in my backpack, but I didn’t have the energy to fish it out.

  She took my arm and pulled me inside. “What happened to you, lass? You look like ye’ve been dragged through the bushes head over tail.”

  I summoned a smile. “My walk today turned into more than I bargained for. I fell in the loch and a stranger fished me out. But I’m fine.”

  Lucky for me, my landlady had a nurturing streak. “Oh, you poor wee bairn. Come away in wi’ ye and let’s get you tucked up proper.”

  After a quick bath, I put on my comfiest jammies and let myself be escorted to the seat of honor, the lumpy recliner where Annis sat to watch her stories. Her concession brought home to me how wretched I must have
looked after my ordeal. In the bathroom, I had been too scared to look in the mirror. I didn’t want to see what Angus had seen.

  Now, clean and dry, I began to recover. I rested my head on the lace doily at the back of the chair and let my landlady’s quavering voice wash over me like a sweet benediction. I was only a few days into my wonderful vacation. I refused to let today ruin my expectations. Yes, I met a man. And yes, he was amazing. But he wasn’t a Highland clansman waiting to sweep me off my feet.

  He was only a Good Samaritan, and I had many more adventures to come.

  I must have dozed off, because at some point, I awoke with a start when Annis asked me a question.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, reaching for my cup of tea. “What did you say?”

  Annis wagged a finger at me. “This stranger. What did he look like?”

  My cheeks heated. “Um…well…young, I suppose. And athletic. I think he may have a farm or some sheep. I didn’t really ask. After he rescued me, he took me to his cottage and fed me lunch.”

  “Very tall? Reddish brown hair? Brown eyes?”

  “Yes. His name was Angus Munro.”

  Annis clapped her hands together and chortled. “Ah, you met Himself.”

  I blinked. Both of us spoke English, but it was very different English at times. “Himself?”

  “Our famous hometown lad. Little Angus grew up here.”

  Little? “Is he a war hero?” I was fuzzy about Scotland’s participation in the Iraqi conflicts and elsewhere, but it was the only connection I could make.

  Annis scooped up the kitten that was rubbing her ankles. “Och, no. He’s a football star.”

  My synapses weren’t firing on all neurons. “Football?” I like to think if I had been a hundred percent, I would have followed the conversation more easily.

  “Football,” she said firmly. And then, as if divining my confusion, she clarified. “You call it soccer, don’t ye? Angus is famous…not quite the level of David Beckham, but close. Our boy is known as Angus the Angler. If ye’d ever seen him in the midst of a game, you’d know what I mean. The lad has a memorable kick.”