Meet Me in Scotland

by Patience Griffin

  He considered her hand, and for a moment, she wondered if he might not take it. Just as she was about to abandon her effort at being civil, his hand enveloped hers. It was callused and firm. Normally, she had a good read on a person in the first five seconds, male or female. But she wasn’t clear on this guy. He was gorgeous, if you liked rough-hewn and unpolished, which she didn’t, but that gleam in his eye hinted at more.

  He maintained eye contact with her and held on. “Ramsay Armstrong. Unfortunate brother to John Armstrong, who contracted services with you.”

  She dropped his hand and shifted her eyes away from his gray ones. “Why are you the unfortunate brother?” She glanced up at his face again. “Or maybe I don’t want to know.”

  He shrugged. “I’m a sea lover, not a land dweller. I understand that I’m to take ye all over the Highlands by auto. To do yere job.” He was indeed unhappy with her.

  “Yes, I need to fill my stables.”

  “Yere what? Is it man or beast ye’re after?”

  “Stables. It’s an expression. I’m after men.” Great! That hadn’t come out right. Her delayed flight had her rattled. “I need to find eligible bachelors to fill my database.”

  “Ye know, don’t ye, that what you want to do won’t work here?” He lifted one of his smug eyebrows.

  “What?” She couldn’t believe her ears; he’d given voice to her biggest worry. Her father used to say never let them see you sweat. But right now, Kit could use more Arrid Extra Dry. She went on the defensive. “You don’t even know what I do.”

  “I have a pretty clear idea.”

  The man standing in front of her might have a lot going on in the looks department, but he had a lot to learn about Kit and her tenacity. “I’m very good at what I do.” She had a high marriage rate to prove it.

  “Why are you even here?” he questioned. “If you wanted to fill yere stables, as you say, you could’ve done that with yere computer from the States.”

  She straightened her shoulders and stood as tall as her five-foot-two frame would allow. She’d endured some stubborn men in her time and now it looked like she would have her hands full with this one. She stood her ground with the Scotsman. “For your information, Mr. Armstrong, I do things the old-fashioned way. I interview my clients and their perspective dates in person.” It was the best way to get an accurate assessment of them. “Skype or FaceTime might be considered the face-to-face of the twenty-first century, but I believe in the personal touch.”

  He raised his eyebrows as if a crude comment was forthcoming.

  She put her hand up to stop him. “Computers are for storing databases, not for getting to know one another.” It was bugging her that she still hadn’t pinned down this Ramsay Armstrong. She decided it must be because he was all brawn and no brains.

  He had been leaning nonchalantly against the vehicle but pushed away from it, standing to his full height. He skimmed his eyes over her, from her summer sweater, to her designer jeans, right down to her new Doc Martens.

  She wasn’t intimidated. She’d learned from her Alaskan adventure to dress properly. For the weather and the culture. And the natives. It was best to try to fit in, but not to try too hard.

  When he was done with his perusal, he gestured at her like she was nothing more than a mannequin. “You don’t look like an old-fashioned kind of lass. You look to me like you saw this outfit in an outdoor magazine and ordered it online.”

  “Are you trying to provoke me, Mr. Armstrong?”

  He shrugged. “I think what you want to do here is a crock of . . .” He stopped himself as if he’d thought better of it and stepped forward. “I don’t believe in matchmakers. Haven’t ye ever heard three’s a crowd?”

  “All brawn, no brains,” she murmured. She wished she was taller, but her feminine stature was no match for him. He had to be six-two at least. She made sure her attitude made up the difference. “You’re arguing against history. Matchmaking has been around since the beginning of time. Look it up.”

  “If ye’re so good at this, then how would you match me?” he challenged.

  She maintained eye contact. She was going to enjoy putting this arrogant troglodyte in his place.

  “First, we’d have to discuss your assets. Do you own a manor house or an estate?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean not exactly?” It felt good to wipe that smirk off his face.

  “I live in a cottage.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Is it at least a nice-sized cottage?”

  “It’s the house I grew up in.”

  “You still live with your parents?” He didn’t look like he’d failed to launch.

  “I live with my brother, Ross. And of course John, and his wife, Maggie, and their boy, Dand.”

  Good grief. “That’s quite a crew.” She bet they were stepping all over each other. But back to the business at hand. She tilted her head back, trying to stare him down. “What about other property? A ranch? Any sheep? Cattle?”

  He looked riled, his neck and chest creeping with red. “My brothers and I own a fishing boat.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe if you owned a fleet of boats. Sorry, Mr. Armstrong, I won’t find you a bride.”

  His eyes narrowed. The great hulk of a Scotsman before her stood rod-straight, a warrior ready to make a scene here in the parking lot.

  He could bluster all he wanted. Tough guys like him needed to be brought down a notch. Especially if they were attacking how she made her living.

  She’d gone on the offensive; now, it was time to help the poor lout out. “I have a list of Marriageable Attributes. You should check out my website.” She reached in her bag, pulled out a business card, and slid it into the front pocket of his flannel shirt, patting it. She couldn’t help but notice he was rock solid, all muscle under her hand. She had the urge to pat a little longer. “Maybe after you review the list on my site, you can work at being a better catch.”

  He caught her hand before she’d fully withdrawn it, turning the tables on her. He oozed with latent sexuality. “I do fine all on my own. I don’t need help to find a mate,” he drawled.

  The word mate hung in the air. He let go of her hand.

  Gads. Her imagination raced into overdrive. She was either extremely jet-lagged or she needed a date herself. She hadn’t been out in ages, too busy bringing other couples together. From the beginning, she’d drawn a clear line. She chose rugged men for her clients and picked Wall Street suits for herself. That way she was never tempted to mix business with pleasure. She hadn’t found a man with the qualities she wanted, but one day she would. As it turned out, her greatest gift—reading people—was also her biggest impediment to finding someone for herself. The stockbrokers and bankers she’d dated so far had only had money and sex on their minds, and little else.

  Ramsay grabbed her bags. “Let’s get going.”

  She glanced up and saw his muscles ripple under his shirt. Her breath caught. Yeah, I need a date.

  He opened the back and threw in her luggage with brute force. She started to protest, but inhaled deeply instead. It would be best to choose her battles with this man. Otherwise, it would be a long, long summer.

  She slid into the passenger seat and chewed her lower lip. There was a subject she had to broach with him and he wouldn’t like it. But it was important. She turned toward him in the seat.

  “Mr. Armstrong—”

  “Ramsay,” he corrected.

  “Ramsay, then.” She paused. “We need to talk about my expectations.” She scanned his person one more time, really hating those black wellies of his. She steeled herself for what had to be said. “The bachelors I’ve selected to interview are men of substance.”

  Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head as if he was barely tolerating her. “Don’t confuse substance with worldly goods; they’re tw
o different things, lassie. Ye mean men of wealth, power, and standing.”

  It wouldn’t do any good to try to convince him that she knew the difference. Hell, she’d put it in her business plan. “Yes, I’m speaking of wealth, power, and standing, as you put it.”

  “Then what’s the rub?” he asked.

  “I was wondering if you might reconsider your attire. Wear something a bit more upscale.”

  He glanced at her with raised eyebrows. “Ye have a problem with me being a fisherman?”

  “No, of course not. It’s an honorable profession.” She meant it but hurried on. “There’s nothing wrong with being casual and comfortable.” She gestured toward her own clothing. “But when I interview these men, I’ll be dressed professionally.”

  “I see. And since I’ll be with ye, ye’ll be wanting me to convey the right image as well.” He put his eyes back on the road and jammed the gearshift into drive. “Don’t worry, lassie. I’ll be dressed for the part.”

  “Thank you, Ramsay. I appreciate your cooperation.”

  She didn’t tell him that everything was riding on this trip. Every dime she’d made and saved. Her sister Harper’s fall tuition for graduate school. The cost of community college for her younger sister, Bridget. Kit would have to help her mother with her living expenses now that Bridget had graduated high school and her Social Security survivor benefits from Daddy had run out. Even Kit’s self-worth and ego were on the line. Everything. She had to make a go of it in Scotland or lose it all. Her family was counting on her.

  As silence filled the car, Kit gazed out the window. It was after nine p.m. and the sun still hung in the sky. The summer days were long in the north of Scotland, with the view desolate and beautiful. The mountainous hills rose out of the earth like giants. There were few trees and she couldn’t help but compare it to the Alaskan bush with vast forests of green. The stark landscape around her had a soothing quality, but Kit couldn’t tamp down the fear rising within her. Fear of the future and the unknown. In the past, she never let the fear overtake her. She’d always made it through the tough times and she would again this time, too, wouldn’t she?

  She must’ve dozed off because she came awake abruptly as Ramsay brought the vehicle to a stop.

  “Are we here?” She looked out and saw the roadblock in front of them.

  “Nay. But we’ll be there shortly.” He shifted into four-wheel drive and drove the car down an embankment.

  Warning bells should’ve gone off, but the man in the seat next to her must’ve instilled a walloping dollop of trust. Or she was too exhausted to be concerned at his sudden foray into off-road four-wheeling. “So do you want to share with me what’s going on here?”

  “The road into Gandiegow is being repaved. We’ll have to go in by boat.”

  Dread swamped Kit and she twisted her hands in her lap. She hadn’t been on a boat since her father died. “Is there another way?” She hated how weak her voice sounded.

  He glanced over at her. “Ye have my word that ye’ll be safe.”

  She nodded. He couldn’t know what this did to her. As they rose over the last dune, the water appeared. Her father’s grave.

  Ramsay pulled the SUV to the edge. “There it is.”

  A wooden dinghy was tied to a post with a long rope, which drooped in the mud. “Low tide, I presume?” She looked down at her new Doc Martens, not happy to have to break them in this way. But more importantly, did Ramsay have a life vest?

  Her father used to call her trout because she was a born swimmer. But that was before.

  Ramsay turned off the auto and shoved the keys in the glove box. He jumped out and retrieved her bags.

  They walked through the grass to the edge of the mud. There Kit hesitated.

  Ramsay shook his head and muttered, “New shoes.” He dropped her bags, scooped her up, and began trudging toward the boat like she was nothing more than a piece of luggage.

  She gasped. “What are you doing?” She clung to him for dear life as he walked her toward the water. “Stop.”

  “Ye’re lucky I don’t sling you over my shoulder.” His wellies hit the water and he held her higher, making sure she didn’t get wet.

  She could only stare into his determined face, forcing herself to calm down, focusing on his chiseled features, weathered from the sun and wind. His solid arms and shoulders made her feel safe, reassured he wouldn’t drop her.

  She relaxed just enough to get why he wore the wellies.

  Whatever lingering thought she’d had that he’d behaved gallantly slipped away as he none too gently deposited her in the boat. She had to grab the gunwale to keep from falling on her butt.

  As he waded back to shore for her bags, she scrambled for the life jacket stored under her seat and quickly secured it around her, buckling it into place. She ignored that it was wet.

  He frowned at her in the life vest for a long second before putting her bags in the boat. She didn’t care if he thought she was a chicken or not.

  He untied the rope from the post and looped it to the front of the dinghy before climbing in next to the motor. “You’d better hold on.” He pulled the ripcord and they were off.

  Thank God the ocean was calm tonight or else she might’ve flung herself at him for a stronghold as they bounced through the water. She’d never been afraid of the ocean as a little girl on her father’s yacht. How times had changed. How she’d changed. Just another example of what she’d been reduced to.

  As the boat zipped through the water, spray shot up, lightly misting her face. She turned back to look at the Scot.

  He was the picture of serenity, his face gazing toward the setting sun. He looked like he owned the ocean around him, perhaps a relative of Horatio Hornblower or the nephew of Poseidon. He did look like a Greek god—well, a Scottish god.

  Even though it was ten at night, the orange sky filled the expanse. A fishing boat was anchored just to the right of the white sun, which rested on the edge of the earth. Everything shimmered with color. As they rounded the corner, she caught her first sight of the village. For a second, she forgot how unforgiving the sea could be as the scene before her stole her breath away. Arcing around the cove, idyllic cottages painted blue, red, and white nestled like a row of children’s blocks. The town glowed from the setting sun, making Gandiegow look alive, a beautiful sleeping beast, nestled under the ancient bluffs.

  Ramsay steered toward the dock, dropping the motor into idle. “Are you ready for Gandiegow?” He cut the power and he tied them off.

  She stood and climbed out on her own, proving she didn’t need or want his help this time.

  He grabbed the suitcases but stopped. “Oh, ye won’t be staying at the Thistle Glen Lodge, the quilting dormitory.” He looked as if he was baiting her. “Your arrangements have changed. Ye’re now at the Fisherman.”

  “What?”

  He had a gleam in his eye.

  She didn’t know what he was up to, if anything. But she could give as good as she got. She turned the tables on him. “But I thought I was staying at your place. That’s what your brother John told me.”

  And as expected, Ramsay’s eyes bugged, looking horrified to have her shacked up with him and his family.

  She smiled at him sweetly. “You do have room for me at your cottage, don’t you?”

  “I—I . . .” The poor guy’s mouth opened and shut like that of a fish out of water.

  She had mercy on him. “Breathe, Ramsay. The Fisherman will be fine. I’m up for anything.” She’d even slept a few nights in a tent in Alaska.

  “Aye. Right.” Relief spread across his face. He stopped in front of a two-story stone building reverberating with noise and turned to her, that glint in his eyes restored. “You do know, don’t ye, that the Fisherman is a pub?”

  “Sure.” She hadn’t known until that moment, but she certainly wasn’t
going to let on now. She walked ahead of him, worrying if she’d get any sleep with it being so loud. The Alaskan bush had been quiet, and once she’d gotten over the worry of being mauled by a bear, she’d slept like a baby.

  Before going in, she glanced up at the building one more time. Hopefully, there was a separate bedroom upstairs and she wouldn’t be relegated to sleeping behind the bar. She opened the door to the establishment and went inside.

  The place was packed with wall-to-wall Scots, mostly men. There were all different sizes of them, from the tall lean types, to the boxy weightlifters, to a few beer guts. But every one of them was as rugged as the bluffs that hung over the town.

  Ramsay put his hand on her shoulder and shouted to her. “The steps leading upstairs are over there behind the bar.” He pointed to where a very buxom blond woman was pouring shots. “That’s Bonnie.”

  Bonnie had a lot going for her—a tight T-shirt stretched over double-Ds, red gloss on full lips, and men gathered around her like flies to bait.

  “I’ll introduce you,” he said.

  But when they stood before Bonnie, Kit could see the other woman’s hackles go up and her talons come out. She sneered while Ramsay made the introductions; the man didn’t have a clue. Ramsay stood so close to Kit that she could feel the heat coming off of him. And whenever anyone tried to squeeze by, he bumped into her back. None of which Bonnie missed. She looked ready to start a cat fight, but this kitten wasn’t interested in making trouble.

  “It’s nice to meet you.” Kit presented her hand.

  “I don’t think so.” Bonnie grabbed a bottle, poured a dram, and shoved it toward Ramsay, all the while keeping her eyes on Kit. “I hear from Maggie that ye’ve come to steal away all of our men.”

  Hell. Kit had hoped to head off some of this posturing. She was going to offer her services pro bono to a few local women, to build up goodwill in the community. Too late now. Even the sweet-faced young woman nursing a Coke at the end of the bar was giving her the evil eye.

  Kit got it. Gandiegow wasn’t going to turn out to be smooth sailing. “I’m ready to go to bed,” she said to Ramsay, raising her voice over the noise.