by Kam McKellar
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Author Note
Other Works
Quick Links
ANY SCOT OF MINE
ANY SCOT OF MINE
Copyright © 2014 by Kam McKellar
ISBN: 978-0-9885225-5-8
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, uploaded, shared, or transmitted in any form or means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Cover Design: LLewellen Designs
CHAPTER ONE
Today was the day.
Nerves skated along Harper's spine as she went down the wide stairs and into the breakfast room at Balmorie Castle. A nice spread of homemade fare waited on the sideboard, but her stomach was too twisted with anxiety to eat. Since she'd made the decision to come to Scotland weeks ago, random bursts of fear, anticipation, and butterflies had been a regular occurrence, and it was really starting to tick her off.
She'd had twelve years to get over Ross MacLaren.
Twelve years and an ocean apart to forget, to mend the heart that had been broken at seventeen, and move on. The time should have been enough, but deep down Harper knew it hadn't been. Obviously, she hadn't moved on at all because she was right back where she'd started—the feelings she was experiencing now, the anxiety, the nerves, the excitement, were all too familiar.
Just like before.
Just like every time Ross had walked into a room, looked into her eyes, and smiled that bad boy smile of his, the one that held secrets and intimacies only they shared...
She forced a smile at the few guests already eating and went for the coffee station. Her hand trembled as she poured and it made her mood dark as she stirred in sugar and cream, grabbed a piece of dry toast, and then found a small table by the window.
Sitting there, frustrated tears stung her eyes. She was strung so tight and hadn't felt normal in weeks. Not since her father had died. Not since she agreed to his plan...
Ross would certainly be shocked when he saw her.
Would he act like nothing had happened? Would he apologize?
No. Ross MacLaren had walked away from her twelve years ago and never looked back, not an explanation or a single word. He didn't see fit to apologize then and it was doubtful he'd apologize for it now.
A heavy sigh breezed through her lips as she gazed at the loch through the tall windows. He'd have a family by now, a bunch of Ross look-a-likes running around the pretty Highland hills. No doubt they'd all be gorgeous little things.
Harper had imagined more than once how the years might have shaped him. At eighteen, he'd been the stuff of teenage dreams—tall, wide shoulders, black hair and gray/blue eyes. He'd been magnetic, a bad influence, and a tortured soul all rolled into a sexy package and tied with a Scottish-accented bow.
Kind of hard to resist all that.
And even though they'd been about to become stepbrother and sister, it had been impossible for her to look the other way. But then, maybe that had added to the attraction. The forbidden. The impossible romance. The risk.
Of course, the marriage between her father and Ross' mother never happened. And the MacLarens had left the States suddenly—twenty-four hours after she gave her virgin self to Ross.
Well, it was more like twenty-two. But who was counting?
"Looks like it's going to be a sunny day. Refill?"
Lucy MacLaren stood by the table with a pot of coffee. Harper moved her cup to be filled. "Thanks."
"Perfect weather for sightseeing," Lucy said with a friendly smile as she poured. Lucy had checked Harper in yesterday evening and Harper instantly liked the pretty, down-to-earth American transplant. During their conversation, Harper learned Lucy had married Ian, one of three MacLaren brothers who owned Balmorie Estate.
"Actually I'm here on business. I'm looking for someone."
Interest flashed in Lucy's round eyes. She slid into the empty seat and put her elbows on the table. "I'm still pretty new to the area, but between me and Ian, and the Grahams..." Lucy flicked a look at the elderly woman who was clearing a vacated table nearby. "Fran. Harper is looking for someone," she called, and Harper cringed. She hadn't wanted an audience. Just a little info.
Fran wiped her hands on her apron and came over. "Good morning, Miss Harper. Sleep well?"
She'd slept horrible. But Harper smiled. "Fine, thank you. The room is lovely." Which was true. It was huge, with stone walls, a fireplace, and a view that overlooked the loch. Very romantic.
Harper had chosen Balmorie Estate as her base of operations since it was close to the home Ross had once shared with his mother. She was pretty sure, well hoping, that he still lived in the area. He was a MacLaren. Lucy was a MacLaren through her recent marriage, and Harper hoped they could point her in the right direction. The sooner she got this over with the better.
"I was hoping you might know Ross MacLaren. He'd be about thirty now. Has a younger broth—"
"Liam," Lucy said with a bright smile. "Oh yeah, we know them well. They're first cousins of my husband. Ross lives up the road past the old distillery."
"Would be no trouble to ring him if you'd like," Fran offered.
"Oh no." Her heart dropped. "I was hoping more to . . . surprise him."
She could tell by the looks on Lucy and Fran's faces that they thought there was some romantic possibility between her and Ross. Surprise wasn't her goal, of course. She just wanted to face Ross on her terms.
After Fran and Lucy gave her directions, Harper left the castle on foot. The walk would be a few miles, but it was a beautiful, warm day, and it gave her time to think, to prepare, to run through the words and scenario yet again.
She'd dressed in jeans and a snug T shirt, hiking boots, and had tied a light jacket around her waist. Her long hair was twisted up like usual, and she hadn't troubled herself too much with make-up—just a light dusting of powder, some mascara, and lip balm. She wasn't going to try and impress him. He'd used her and dumped her, and there was no part of Harper Dean that was going to revert back to that seventeen year old lovesick dummy she'd been.
He deserved nothing from her. Nothing. Hell, he'd already done enough damage, leaving her with trust issues that ran so deep that Harper could never fully accept love. Or give it in return. She knew. She'd tried.
He'd said he loved her.
The memory came through so clearly it made her chest hurt and her throat thicken. His heavy weight pinning her to the bed as he stilled inside of her, the heat of his skin, the whispered, ragg
ed words. The conviction in his voice had rang so true.
And yet, in the end, it had meant nothing.
The old distillery finally came into view, pulling her from her thoughts. Ross' family had owned the place, had made whisky there for over a hundred years.
Years after Ross' father had died, his mother, Mary, had met Harper and her father during their tour of Scottish distilleries. Even then the place was declining. But it had been beautiful to Harper—the old stone buildings lining both sides of the road, the rushing creek behind the still house, the entire complex reminding her of a tiny village.
Mary MacLaren had cut her losses and moved with Ross and his younger brother Liam to Kentucky to be with Whitney Dean, third generation bourbon-maker. Dean's was a name known around the world. A bottle of it would cost you eighty dollars and up. Bourbon-making had been in Harper's family for as long as Scottish whisky had been in Ross'. And, like Balmorie Distillery, Dean's was now in decline. The economy had had a terrible impact on luxury items.
Her father was gone, and so it had fallen on Harper to save the family business.
Ross MacLaren owed her. Big time. And she wasn't above cashing in. He'd taken something from her, and now she'd come to collect something from him. Simple as that. She'd get what she came for. After all, stubborn was a gene inherent in the Dean family.
Harper kept moving, past the distillery and up the road as it curved between two hills before leveling out again. The stone bridge was up ahead. She crossed it, taking a moment to admire the creek rushing beneath her.
In the distance was the house Mary MacLaren had lived in. Harper had been in that house—once, when she and her father first met Mary and were invited to dinner after they'd toured the distillery. The same stone used on the bridge made up the house's walls. The yard was nice and neat and there were old trees dotting the landscape.
Her heart was already beating faster and knots were forming and un-forming in her stomach. Twelve years, she reminded herself. She'd moved on. Totally moved on.
And she hated him, so there was that.
Harper pushed open the iron gate and walked up the path to the front door. A few nerves were to be expected, of course. No big deal. With a steady inhale and squaring her shoulders, she lifted her hand and knocked, and listened for the sound of little feet and voices.
But no one came.
She knocked again, then peeked through the front window before walking around the side of the house. The driveway was empty, but there was an old pickup truck parked at the far end of the yard, near a stone shed, and the constant familiar thud told her someone was chopping wood.
As she drew closer, a red-haired old man tossed a log in the back of the truck with a laugh.
Her mouth started to go dry and she could hear her pulse pounding through her eardrums. There was another voice, this one deeper and richer and . . . oh God. She couldn't do this. Stupid, stupid idea.
He was on the other side of that truck. Just hearing his voice, packed with so many memories, was like a kick in the gut.
As the old man tossed another log into the bed of the truck, he made eye contact, surprised to see her standing there. "Ye need some help, lass?" he asked, smiling through a russet-colored beard shot with gray.
Harper couldn't answer. She tried, but nothing came out.
And then he appeared, casually walking toward the back end of the truck, coming around the old man, the ax resting on his shoulder. Big. Sweaty. Devastating. Ross MacLaren. An old, light blue T-shirt, streaked with dirt and sweat clung to his form, the arms tight around his biceps. That black hair she remembered, the way it waved and never really conformed, was dampened from hard work. His features were the same dark beautiful ones she remembered, but now he was harder, bigger, and tougher-looking than she ever imagined.
And one look at him destroyed her.
The half-cocked smile on his face died at the sight of her. If it was possible, his features went harder and his eyes took on the glint of hard steel.
Harper did what any level-headed country girl would do when faced with insurmountable odds. She cut her losses and ran like hell.
"Harper!" Ross' deep voice boomed out like some sonic wave.
A quick glance over her shoulder made her stumble. Oh Lord. He was coming after her.
"Harper, stop!"
She didn't. He cursed, closer now. A man that big shouldn't be able to run that fast.
"Goddamn it. Don't you run away again," he muttered just as he reached her.
His words hit her hard. She slid to a stop and spun around. Ross nearly collided with her. He grabbed her upper arms for support as he slid past her on the gravel. He held on, almost dragging her down.
When he straightened, he stared down at her like some godforsaken angel of judgment. It was a look Harper took a serious disliking to.
"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" he demanded.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, her goal lingered, but all Harper could see was red. "Get off me." She shrugged out of his grip.
He let go immediately as if stung, as if not realizing he'd been holding onto her in the first place.
Like she was some kind of snake.
What the hell?
CHAPTER TWO
Ross stepped back and swiped a hand through his hair. One minute he'd been chopping wood for Hamish and the next his past was standing in the middle of his driveway. He let out a heavy breath, trying to wrap his mind around it, unable to take his eyes off her. Unable, despite the shock, to keep from drinking in the sight of her.
She hadn't changed much. All that honey-blond hair twisted up, pieces falling in waves around her face. Warm golden brown eyes, pert nose, and full lips. Harper Dean stood there like some divine vision in a white shirt that hugged breasts he'd practically canonized in his brain. And those low slung jeans outlined hips he remembered grabbing as he...
He took another step back.
No, not a vision. A bloody nightmare, because even as he was slammed with the memory of her, the love he thought he felt, he was also slammed with the memory of her rejection.
"Go home, Harper."
He wanted none of it. None of her. He didn't care why she was here now.
His chest was tight. Pain squeezed his heart as he walked around her and back to the truck where Hamish watched with those sharp blue eyes of his.
"Go home?" she repeated in a rising voice, one that made him stop and put an end to any argument she was about to give.
"Aye. I don't want you here."
Hurt flashed across those golden eyes, but then her mouth curved into a sarcastic frown. "Nice, Ross. No need to twist the knife in farther. You did that plenty good the first time."
He paused, not really understanding, but he wasn't going to delve into her version of whatever truth she told herself to make her rejection of him better. Nor did he care why she was here now. "Goodbye Harper."
"Wait a goddamn second. You just ran after me, yelling at me to stop. And now you tell me to go?"
He paused again. True. Chalk it up to the shock of seeing her. Of that small moment before reality set in. He could see now that time had taken the softness, the innocence from her—well, he'd taken the innocence... A moment burned into his memory for all time.
"And what the hell was that don't run away from me again thing? I never ran away from you the first time."
"Funny. I remember things differently."
Anger flushed into her cheeks and her eyes sparked flame. "Of course, you would," she accused. "Anything to make yourself feel better about leaving, right?"
Indignation blew through him, hot and swift. "Aye," he said in a flat tone, "I felt pretty fucking fantastic when I left." The words were like acid on his tongue. In reality, he'd felt like part of him had died when he left.
Harper went pale and for the briefest second Ross felt confused by her reaction. His words shouldn't make her look so . . . devastated. She'd made her choice.
She recovered
quickly, however, lifted her chin, and leveled a glare so cold, his skin pricked.
"Ah. Now, who do we have here?" Hamish hurried over, his words jovial, and his look at Ross filled with parental scolding.
Ross shook his head and let out a heavy sigh, paced a bit, trying to cool down, and then parked his hands on his hips as Hamish introduced himself to Harper. The old man would have harsh words for him later for his behavior. Never in his life had he spoken to a woman like that. But then Harper wasn't just any woman.
"Oh, right," Harper was saying, shaking Hamish's hand. "You're Fran's husband,"
Hamish put a friendly hand on her shoulder and turned to Ross. "Please forgive Ross' manners," he said with a glare at Ross. "Lad's been alone for some time. Rarely does he converse with females, outside of the family."
Ross suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Apparently Hamish intended to get his point across now. Brilliant. Even worse, Harper's lips spread into a satisfied smile of approval. Her eyes met his and Ross shot her a smart look, his heart feeling a pinch—he remembered her smiles all too well, remembered when she'd smile at him and her eyes would go soft...
All he wanted was for this to end, so he drew in a deep breath and lied through his teeth. "Welcome to Scotland, Harper. Enjoy your vacation." With that, he strode off, hearing her about to object when Hamish cut in and began talking about the estate.
Harper's sudden appearance had one good benefit. It made him chop wood like a man possessed. By the time he was done, his muscles were shaking, sweat dripped off the tip of his nose, and his hands were blistered. Hell if he cared. It felt good. To strike the wood. To get out the memories and leave them on the ground.
Hamish finished stacking the last of the wood and hopped off the bed of the truck. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. "Pretty lass."
He was wondering how long it'd take Hamish to bring Harper back into the conversation. Hell, he was surprised it had taken him this long. The fact that the old matchmaker had gotten through the job silent had been a miracle.