The Trouble With Kilts (The MacLarens of Balmorie)

by Kam McKellar

  The night seemed to be a showplace for love and marriage. One new, one broken beyond repair. And one about to happen if Kate and Devin were any indication. "He looks at you like that," Riley said, making Kate stop again with a question in her eyes. "The way Ian looked at Lucy today. Devin. He looks at you like that."

  Kate stared up at her with the dopiest look on her face that Riley had to laugh. "And, yeah, you look at him the same way," she said passing her cousin on the stairs. "All this love in the air is going to give me indigestion."

  Kate laughed behind her, quickly catching up. "I don't know. Maybe it'll rub off on you," she said, eyes going right for Jamie as he stood in the hallway with Devin.

  She leaned close to Kate. "Don't even think about it." The secret smile spreading across Kate's face made Riley concerned. "I'm serious, Kate."

  "What? I'm not talking about Jamie. No. He's all wrong for you."

  "Really."

  "Well, look at him. He's too . . . much."

  Riley snorted and bumped Kate with her shoulder, rolling her eyes. "The trick to reverse psychology is not to be so obvious about it."

  They found Mark in the Great Hall, eating. Jamie and Devin followed her in and were joined by Liam, Liam's older brother Ross, and two of their American cousins. Word had obviously gotten out. And Mark was oblivious.

  Riley couldn't help but compare Mark to Jamie and the rest of the men in the room. There was no comparison, really. Mark was tall and built nicely, but he was missing the raw aura of masculinity that surrounded the others. Would Mark take care of his own at any cost? Maybe. Maybe Marta brought that out in him. Maybe love was all it took. But Jamie and Devin, they didn't need love to risk life and limb for others. They had strength and honor in spades. Something Riley was pretty sure Mark lacked—in spades.

  Riley stopped in front of her ex and held out the envelope. It felt momentous to her—sad and utterly heartbreaking. She was physically handing over the final tie that bound them, all the hopes and dreams she once had gone. Just gone. It hurt, but at the same time a sense of anticipation gripped her. She could start over. A fresh start. A new direction. She wouldn't make the same mistakes twice.

  Mark took the envelope and for a moment his eyes turned grateful and sad, almost apologetic. But the expression passed as quickly as it had come. "Thank you."

  An awkward silence descended, accentuated by the laughter and music coming from the reception.

  Mark cleared his throat. "Looks like I missed a wedding."

  "Lucy's wedding," Riley said.

  "No kidding." The half smile on his face looked genuine. "Good for her."

  "Yeah. She married one of them," Riley said, gesturing toward the MacLarens who stood there with arms crossed over their chests, feet apart, looking like Scottish warriors of old in their kilts and dress shirts.

  "Riley…" Mark began. "I want you to know with Marta . . . I'm sorry. Neither one of us could control it, or ourselves. It's too strong, too—"

  "Thanks. Really. I get it." Anger rose in her chest. Only Mark could roll an apology and an insult together. They'd certainly never experienced anything that 'out of control'...

  Whatever.

  She was done. She couldn't stand another second around him or another second at the reception. Overwhelmed and needing to get out, she marched to the bar and went behind it, swiping a bottle of whisky, wanting to smash something. Wanting to bash the bottle over her ex's head.

  And she wasn't about to go hide in her room. She just needed out.

  Leaving the bar, she passed Jamie and said, "Get me out of here."

  He fell in step beside her. She could feel Kate and Devin staring at her back, but she didn't care, she just lifted the bottle up in a wave.

  "Where to?" he asked quietly as they crossed the hall and neared the main door.

  She turned the knob. "Anywhere but here." She faced him and pushed open the door with her rear end.

  And came face to face with a blizzard.

  Chapter 5

  "Shit," Jamie murmured as they stood under the eaves, the cold biting at his skin. He could barely see his truck in the heavy snowfall. "Looks like our options are limited."

  She turned to him with a challenging look. Anger radiated from her, a sense of recklessness he was all too familiar with. "You have four wheel drive don't you?"

  "Aye. You want to go for a drive," he said, not lost on the irony—usually he wasn't the voice of reason. "In this?"

  "Where's your truck?" Her breath made a cloud in front of her. He pointed. She took a swig from the bottle. "Awesome," she muttered and headed out into the snow.

  Jamie shook his head. Apparently, she was in charge. And after what she'd just gone through, he wasn't going to be the wrench in her rash plans. He ducked his head and followed, pulling his keys from his coat and hitting the unlock button. The cab lit up, making it easier for Riley to find. She was in, with the door shut, by the time he got there.

  Once the motor was running and the heater on, he turned to her, not sure how to voice what was going through his head without sounding like an ass. But he didn't want to be her one-night stand, her sexual distraction. Which, given his history, was also ironic. The night was just full of ironies.

  Riley turned suddenly and eyed him shrewdly. "Here's the deal, MacLaren. We're not sleeping together. I'm going to get drunk and I'm not doing it back there. I don't want Kate feeling sorry for me. Don't want to deal with my grandmother. And I don't want to be the pathetic girl who goes to her room and drinks alone." Something he did quite often so her words stung a little. Was he that pathetic? "You're my option," she went on, making him feel like chopped liver. "You won't feel sorry for me or patronize me or coddle me. You don't talk a lot so that's good. Misery loves company, isn't that what you said?"

  He winced. Aye. He had said that, hadn't he? He put the truck in reverse, slid his arm over the back of the seat, and glanced over his shoulder through the back window. "This should be a fun night," he said in a dry tone.

  Riley made face at him. "Shut it and drive."

  Jamie took it slow, his truck easily navigating the snowy road to his farmhouse. By morning, however, he wasn't sure they'd be going anywhere.

  Riley took another drink and then leaned forward and messed with the heater. "Doesn't seem to be working. It's freezing in here."

  "Been meaning to have it looked at."

  She stared at him, then down at his lap for an uncomfortably long moment. "So what do you have under there anyway?"

  Laughter barked from his lips. Was she serious? Her raised brow told him she was and she was waiting for an answer. "You're not cold?" she asked.

  He'd never admit it if he was. Which he wasn't. "My junk is fine, thanks," he said with an eye roll.

  Riley laughed and sat back in the seat, seeming to let go of some of her anger. "So is mine."

  Jamie nearly choked. He glanced over and met with sparkling eyes and a wicked grin.

  "That's the trouble with kilts," he said without any conviction whatsoever. "All the ladies checking you out, wondering…"

  "Yeah. I'm sure it's horrible. I'd lay money you've used it to your advantage more than once."

  "Plenty of times, New York. Plenty of times."

  After he drove down the driveway to the farmhouse and parked near the front door, Riley handed him the bottle. "Here. Since we made it safe and sound."

  He took the bottle and drank. The alcohol stung his throat, but warmth spread in its wake, traveling down into this chest. Riley hopped from the truck and entered the house without waiting for him. He stood there for a second in the snow, wondering how the hell this was supposed to go and just knowing he was in for a memorable night.

  Riley ended up on the couch, legs tucked under her while he removed his dress shirt, leaving his T-shirt underneath, and then built a fire in the massive stone fireplace. He loved the old house, had ever since he was a boy. When his grandfather had died and left them the estate, Jamie and Devin had no tro
uble with Ian taking the castle—he was the oldest after all. Jamie had his sights on the farmhouse, and Devin had always loved the old lodge by the creek.

  Once the fire was lit, he sat on the opposite end of the couch in the corner so he could face Riley. He had no TV, no games, and nothing to offer, except food and booze. Both of which, she'd already helped herself to, currently digging into a bag of shortbread cookies.

  "You'll bounce back you know," he finally said without a doubt.

  "I'll have to." She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes going to his arm over the couch and the tattoo that had been revealed as the T-shirt sleeve was stretched up. She glanced away. "What about you? You bouncing back?"

  He reached for the bottle and took a drink. "Wouldn't say I'm bouncing back. More like limping." Bad joke. But he couldn't seem to help himself. With a sigh, he dragged his fingers through his hair and gave Riley a helpless look. "Forget I said that. Out of practice with the ladies."

  She snorted. "I'd hate to see you when you're in top form."

  "A force of nature," he said with a confident smile.

  Her gaze raked him with appreciation. "I'll bet. So no one since you've been back?"

  "I thought you wanted to come with me because I didn't talk much."

  "Changed my mind. So?"

  "No one since I've been back. What about you?"

  "No one since I've been in Scotland." She leaned her side against the back cushions like him so that she could face him. Her arm rested on the back, and her hand played in her hair, twirling a strand around her finger.

  He rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."

  "Fine. No one since Mark. I'm sure there are plenty lassies around here. So what's stopping you?" She took another drink. "Is it your leg?" she asked with concern.

  She was pretty matter-of-fact, pretty nosey, but he didn't mind her question at all. His occupational therapist and prosthetist had said on more than a few occasions that talking about his injury and being upfront about it would help not only him, but it would help others be more comfortable, alleviating some of the confusion they might feel—should they not mention it, should they make light of it, should they offer help…

  Jamie rested his head in his hand. Could be the alcohol talking. Or could be more. But tonight, it felt like he could lay bare his true thoughts. They shared a common thread. They were both hurting, both had suffered, albeit differently, but still. Hurt was hurt. Pain was pain.

  "Haven't really had any offers. But if I did and turned a woman down, it wouldn't be because of my leg," he answered honestly. "And if a lass wants me, she'll have to want me for what I do have and not what I'm missing. That's on her, not me." He had thought about it, how it'd be. Thank God he still had his knee, could still kneel, brace himself over a woman and—

  Jamie stopped that train of thought since the woman under him, in his sudden fantasy, was Riley. He cleared his throat. Nice lass that she was, Riley handed him the bottle. "Thanks." Her cheeks were flushed and it made him wonder if she'd been thinking about the same thing. He decided to test that theory.

  "Would you have a problem with this?" he asked, curious, gesturing to his leg. "Being with an amputee?"

  She eyed his leg for a long moment. Usually people looked away, like being caught looking at something they shouldn't. Usually they avoided the subject and never spoke about it, or asked about. Sometimes he wished they'd just ask, just speak their mind. Like Riley was doing now.

  "It'd depend on the guy I guess," she said, meeting his gaze.

  The fire spit and cracked in the ensuing silence.

  "You're doing okay though?" she asked quietly after a while and he was struck by the genuine concern in her voice. Her tone and the look in her eyes, so big and hopeful, made his chest hurt. She really wanted him to be okay. Somehow, it made him feel guilty for all the shit he was putting himself through, the drinking, the depression, the way he'd pulled back from his family.

  "Aye, New York. I'm doing okay." He leaned over, feeling a little nervous for the first time in ages, and knowing he'd have to do this in front of a woman sooner or later. Might as well rip the proverbial Band-Aid off now. He removed his leg from the socket, and placed the limb on the floor, then rubbed his knee through the liner he wore, kneading the flesh and the sore muscles. He never in a million years thought he'd be sitting here with Riley Brooks and doing something so personal. "Some days, harder than others. The new leg fits better, the foot has more flexibility."

  "Saw all the bottles in your kitchen." She bit her lip and he could tell she was wondering if she'd gone too far.

  He shrugged. "Been pissed off. Drowning out the memories, dulling the pain." He gestured to the bottle in her hand. "Same as you."

  "Must have been hard in the beginning. You must be happy to be back here on the estate with your brothers."

  Happy in ways. Pissed in others, as the bottles in the kitchen attested. "Was supposed to come back and work the farm," he said trying to keep the edge from his voice. "But now it's slow going." Total understatement.

  "You'll bounce back," she said, and he had to smile at her turning those words around on him. "I've seen guys who run, kayak, mountain climb, do all sorts of things. It's just a matter of time. Then you'll be milking cows and baling hay or whatever it is you do," she waved a hand.

  "Baling hay, aye. Raising cattle and sheep. But milking a hairy coo, no."

  Riley laughed at his Scottish accent. "Yeah. Can't quite imagine you sitting on a bucket doing that."

  "Oh, I've done it. Plenty."

  Riley nodded thoughtfully. "Well, for what it's worth, I'm sorry for what happened to you."

  "Thanks. Knew the risks going in. They say one day it'll be a source of pride. For now my biggest challenge is navigating the shower." At her wince, he explained, "That was a joke. Sort of. Have a no slip liner and a bar to hold on to. Learned my lesson."

  She laughed. "I'll bet."

  "Same goes, by the way." He was sorry about what had happened to her too. He'd never been betrayed like that. He'd never given his heart, so he'd been safe, and he hoped to hell he never found out. He could only imagine would it would do to Ian if Lucy ever broke him like that. His brother wouldn't survive it.

  "Part of me wishes I never met him," Riley admitted.

  "And the other part?"

  "I don't know. Now I have something to measure it against, I guess. I thought I understood love, what it felt like, what it was…" she shook her head, frowning. "I'm not sure I ever really knew. I mean I loved him. But it wasn't like it is with my cousins."

  "Lucky sons of bitches, my brothers," he said saluting her with the cookie he'd taken from the bag.

  Riley grunted in agreement, then let out a hefty yawn. It had been a long day and night. He felt an affection for her he hadn't expected to feel, a camaraderie. Tonight they'd broken some kind of barrier and found a connection, an intimacy that was new to him.

  Jamie set the cookie bag on the coffee table and decided to take a chance. She'd either laugh at him or shoot him down. He lifted his arm off the back of the couch and beckoned her. "Come here, lass."

  She didn't hesitate, and it gave him an amazing amount of satisfaction. It felt good and right as she crawled over the cushions and tucked herself up under his arm, laying her head on his chest. "You're an okay guy, Jamie MacLaren."

  He scooted farther down into the corner of the couch and brought his leg up so that they could both recline. "Just don't tell anybody," he said, smoothing back her hair and kissing the top of her head.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning Riley woke with a dull headache, her arms around Jamie, her leg thrown over him, her body pressed between his side and the crease of the couch. The fire had died sometime during the night, but the big Scot radiated so much heat it didn't matter. Her hand lay flat over his abs, the cotton T-shirt he wore doing little to hide the fact that the body beneath was rock hard. She lifted her head from his shoulder and glanced down.

&nbs
p; Oh.

  His kilt had ridden up in the night, revealing muscular thighs and the edge of black boxer briefs. She had to smile. Guess he didn't go commando after all. Didn't surprise her. He was turning out to be a sensible guy. She had a love of kilts before, but Jamie MacLaren in a kilt took that love to a different level entirely. He'd said the things were trouble, albeit jokingly, but he couldn't have known how right he was. Her leg pressed against the juncture of his thighs and she felt an unmistakable bulge warm against her knee. The way he was splayed, legs apart, one arm thrown over his forehead, the other wrapped around her back, made her heart begin a hard, heavy beat. She didn't want to move. He smelled so nice, was so warm, she just wanted to stay like this all day. Hidden from the snow and personal drama.

  Riley put her head back down, closed her eyes, and just let herself enjoy the moment. Who knew how long it'd be before she found a man to snuggle with, a man who made her feel safe, and at ease. She wondered what it would be like to wake up like this every day, held tightly, connected. Mark never cuddled. Sometimes they did, after sex. But they sure as hell never woke like this. She wanted that. Wanted to find someone who wanted to be connected to her even in sleep.

  Sleep wasn't coming back to her, though. And soon she'd have to rise and face Jamie. He'd surprised her last night. Being open, humoring her as she drunkenly invaded his home and asked one inappropriate question after another.

  "Morning, lass."

  Butterflies bombarded her stomach at his sleep-roughened voice. She lifted her head and looked down at him. His eyes were closed, but there was a faint quirk to the left corner of his mouth. A sigh wanted to purr out of her, but she held it back. The man was too good-looking for his own good. "Good morning," she replied.

  He cracked one eye open, squinting against the white light pouring in from the front window. He removed his forearm from his forehead and rubbed his jaw. She couldn't help but notice the way his bicep flexed nor could she ignore the military tattoos.

  She didn't need to notice anymore. Enough was enough.