Scandalous in a Kilt (Hot Scots Book 3)

by Anna Durand

  The squinty expression on his face crumbled away. Moaning, he slumped forward to rest his head on the steering between his hands. His entire body sagged.

  He mumbled something.

  "Didn't catch that," I said. "Take your face out of the steering wheel if you want me to understand."

  Rory heaved his head up, as if it weighed a ton.

  Without looking at me, he said, "I don't regret marrying you, but I suspect you'll regret marrying me soon enough. If you don't already."

  A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, streaming down on his face, revealing the dark circles under his eyes.

  "When was the last time you slept?" I asked.

  "Last night."

  "For how long?"

  He hesitated. "Two hours."

  "No wonder you're so testy." I combed my fingers through his hair, caressing his cheek with my thumb. "Let me drive for a while."

  "You have no idea where you're going." He eyed me askance. "And you'd need to drive on the left side."

  "If you can handle right-side driving, I can manage the wrong way."

  "Driving on the left isn't wrong in the UK."

  "But it's unnatural." I tickled his cheek with my fingertips. "Why do you think they call it driving on the right side?"

  He grumbled a wordless complaint, then said, "I'm fine to drive."

  "At least take a nap." I nodded toward the dashboard. "The car's got GPS. Punch in the address, and I'll drive for a spell."

  He wrung the steering wheel with his hands. "All right."

  I clapped once. "Yay. My first driving experience in Scotland."

  "You will wake me in twenty minutes. I need your word."

  "Fine, I'll wake you up."

  "In twenty minutes."

  "Yes, Mr. Bossy."

  We clambered out of the car and switched sides. I had to move the seat forward to accommodate my much-shorter body. After a brief instructional session—during which he told me things I already knew, like which pedal was the gas and that I should avoid running into trees or lochs—Rory let me pull out onto the road. Onto the left side. With the other lane to my right. It felt weird, but I'd get used to it.

  This was my home now. I needed to get used to a lot of things.

  Rory fell asleep in two minutes flat.

  I drove through the town of Fort William without crashing into anything or mowing down any pedestrians. The road signs were written in English and Gaelic. So cool. Though I would've loved to stop there to visit the museums I glimpsed, I knew Rory wanted to get home.

  A few minutes after departing Fort William, I realized my twenty minutes were up. I pulled over to the left side of the road and roused my husband. Once we'd switched places and resumed our journey, I observed the view out my window in silence—until Rory began announcing landmarks and towns along our route, sometimes offering tidbits of information and sometimes simply reciting the names. He was trying, and at least he seemed more relaxed after his nap.

  The further we traveled, the more we retreated into the wilds. A house here, a house there, no more villages. When we made our last turn, onto a dirt two-track, Rory announced, "Almost there."

  "Where?" I bent forward but saw only the two-track unfolding ahead of us, carving a line through the woods.

  "Home," he said without inflection. "This is the drive."

  "You're saying this is your driveway, and we're almost to your house."

  Rory nodded. "If you insist on repeating everything I say, yes."

  "I'm excited."

  "We'll be there shortly."

  I whipped my head this way and that, craning my neck. "You said there was a village, Loch Fairbairn."

  "Can't see it from here. The village is past the mountain, Beann Dealgach, behind my home. Our home."

  "Beann Dealgach?" I said, probably butchering the name. "Is that Gaelic? I can't keep up."

  He placed a hand on my thigh. "Easy, lass, we'll be there soon. And yes, most of the names are Scots Gaelic or Anglicized versions of the Gaelic."

  I tapped my foot on the floorboard, hands pressed to my thighs, my gaze riveted to the driveway as I searched for a glimpse of my new home. Minutes elapsed on the dashboard clock while Rory maneuvered the car around potholes. My pulse kicked up a couple notches, and I gnawed at the inside of my lower lip. Why should I be this excited about a place I'd live in for a year, at most? It was dumb, but I couldn't shake the jittery anticipation.

  The drive had segued into gravel that ticked on the undercarriage.

  Just when I'd decided he was kidnapping me to a cave, we broke out of the trees and the house came into view.

  House? The word fell woefully short of describing the place. I gripped the dashboard, tipped so far forward my head bumped the windshield. I twisted my head up and to the side to gape at—Oh lord, I'd thought he was kidding. But no.

  My husband lived in a castle.

  Not the fairytale kind with pretty, rounded turrets capped with cone-shaped roofs. This castle hunkered on the landscape, boxy and molded from grayish-brown stone. The main section soared three or four stories high, though I had trouble differentiating floors based on the uneven arrangement of windows. Three thingies jutted from the roof, two of them turrets and the third possibly a chimney. A blue flag emblazoned with a white X flew above the middle turret.

  "Is that the flag of Scotland?" I asked.

  "Yes," Rory replied as he steered the car ever nearer to the castle.

  "How much land do you have?"

  "One hundred acres."

  A structure resembling a wall or a covered walkway joined the central, tallest structure to the shorter one behind and to the side of it. That rectangular building, narrow and only two stories high, featured a chimney but no turrets. An old wooden fence extended from the covered walkway, past the smaller building, and around the backside of the compound.

  From the central building, a wall stretched to the left and concealed all but a glimpse of the top of another, much smaller structure one story high. A massive wooden gate embedded in the wall hung open like a monster's mouth ready to swallow us, and beyond it, the driveway curved around the castle's rear. Or front. I had no idea which was which.

  Rory parked the car behind the main building, near the jutting section.

  My eyes grew so big they burned from my inability to blink. A draft parched my mouth, thanks to my jaw going slack.

  I was moving into a genuine castle, complete with a wall and a gate.

  Beyond the driveway, opposite the freaking castle, a lavish garden filled a walled space connected to the exterior wall, and a broad entrance afforded me a splendid view inside. Plants flourished in a natural way, their wildness curbed only enough to keep them from overflowing the outer walls and the paths within the garden. Flowers in a multitude of colors flowed out of large, bowl-shaped containers or spilled from the branches of green bushes. Rectangular beds that curved in graceful, random shapes housed more brilliant buds, interspersed with decorative greenery. Even more flowers covered the wooden latticework of a small arbor.

  My door swung open.

  I yelped and jerked upright, thumping my head on the windshield for the second time. While I'd gawped in mute awe at my surroundings, Rory had climbed out of the car and crossed to my side.

  He offered me his hand.

  I accepted his aid to climb out of the car, stumbling on the gravel as I rubbernecked some more, transfixed by this glorious place. I shook off his hand, wheeling in circles to soak in a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the castle compound.

  "Holy shit," I said, sounding as awestruck as I felt. "This is amazing. I assumed you were pulling my leg when you said you live in a castle, but this…" I threw my head back and whooped. "I love Scotland!"

  Rory's mouth warped and crimped, but his sparkling eyes gave away his mood. He was, once again, fighting off a smile.

  "The garden," I said, swinging an arm in that direction. "It's so…freewheeling. Did you design it?"


  "I gave Tavish, the groundskeeper, a few instructions. Then I told him to do what he wanted and have it."

  "The garden is gorgeous. This whole place is stunning."

  "It's home," he said casually, shutting the car door. "Come inside. You'll have plenty of time to explore the grounds later. Let's get you settled."

  My mouth seemed incapable of shutting itself. I lagged behind him on our way toward a wooden door situated where the jutting-out section fused with the central building, which itself stuck out to the left. The turret I'd spotted from outside the walls was attached to the right-hand corner.

  The door burst open. A stout, middle-aged woman with curly gray hair dashed out to clinch Rory in a bear hug.

  He patted the woman's back. "Hello, Mrs. Darroch."

  She released him, grabbing his face in both hands. Her blue eyes twinkled in the light of the partly sunny day. "Rory, ye naughty chuilein. Sneaking off to America to bring home a bride and not telling anyone until the deed was done."

  He ducked his head, shoulders slumped. "Well, I…"

  The woman cowing him wore a plain denim dress and a white apron, with sensible shoes. A white substance, maybe flour, smeared her cheek.

  Rory seized my hand, hauling me against his side. With his arm latched around me, he cleared his throat. "This is my wife, Emery Granger."

  "MacTaggart," I corrected, earning a surprised look from my husband. "I may be unconventional in many ways, but I have a traditional streak. My mother raised me to believe a woman should take her husband's name."

  He stared at me, unblinking, then nodded toward the other woman. "Emery, this is Mrs. Evelyn Darroch, my housekeeper."

  I held out a hand to Mrs. Darroch. "Pleasure to meet you."

  She took my hand in the firm grip of one callused hand. When she beamed at me, the expression etched deep lines around her eyes. She didn't strike me as old and worn, though. Rather, she had the air of a jolly older woman who might've married Santa Claus. The motherly sort, based on her interactions with Rory.

  "Lovely to meet ye, dearie," Mrs. Darroch said. She wrested me away from Rory and into an enthusiastic hug. When she let go, she clasped my upper arms as she sized me up. "My, ye are a bonnie wee thing."

  Wee? I was taller than the woman speaking to me.

  "Emery is intelligent," Rory said, his tone a tad defensive, "and very…adventurous. She was a computer programmer, but she's taking time to find a new vocation."

  "No need for excuses, mo luran," Mrs. Darroch said. She winked and added, "Ye must love her, or ye wouldnae have made sure to tell me how clever and adventurous she is."

  Rory hugged me to his side again and planted a solid kiss on my cheek, gazing at me like he sincerely adored me.

  My stomach fluttered. Stupid tummy.

  The housekeeper snared my hand. "I'll show you around your new home, Mrs. MacTaggart."

  "Call me Emery."

  "What a charming name." She gave my hand a little tug, drawing me away from Rory. "Come, lassie. Cannae have ye getting lost your first night here."

  Rory nabbed my other hand, forcing me to stop after I'd gone a mere one step.

  "Mrs. Darroch," he said, "I will show my wife the house. You should be home in bed."

  "Tosh," Mrs. Darroch said as she relinquished my hand. "It's early evening, and my home is behind the garden, not in Devonshire. Thought I should stay to be a neutral party, considering."

  Rory stopped on the threshold. "Considering what?"

  She gave him the kind of look only a mother could pull off, one that said he was a good boy but kind of an idiot. "Ye've forgotten, haven't ye? Jamie's here."

  "Jamie—" He squashed his mouth into a pale line, muttered an oath, and turned his attention to me. "My sister Jamie has been living with me for over a year."

  No wild sex in every corner of the house, then. Bummer.

  At his bulging-eyed expression, I tried to hold back a smile. He looked so disarmingly flustered. "It's no big deal, Rory. I want to meet your family. Might as well get started today and test the waters with one sibling, since I'll be meeting the whole gang tomorrow."

  "Are you sure? Jamie can be…energetic."

  "Oh, you mean like me." I tickled the underside of his chin. "If I can handle being me, I can handle your energetic sister."

  He gazed at me with appreciation and a hint of surprise. "I imagine you can."

  Mrs. Darroch retreated into the house, waving for us to follow. "Ye'll be wanting to see your new home. It's called Dùndubhan."

  "What's that mean?" I asked, as Rory shepherded me inside.

  Rory answered my query. "It means fortress of the black water. Either that or fortress of the fishhook."

  "Fishhook?" I said with a laugh. "Not very imposing."

  He harrumphed. "You're in the vestibule of the not-imposing castle."

  We followed Mrs. Darroch past a spiral staircase into a long hallway.

  Someone shrieked.

  I whirled to the right, into the path of a young woman barreling down the hallway. Her long hair, the same shade as Rory's, flew wild around her face. She had the same angelic features as Rory too, but lacked his studied composure. The girl shrieked again as she descended on me.

  Her arms flung around me, and she babbled excitedly in my ear.

  "You must be her," she said. "Rory's wife, the one he met in America and couldn't wait to marry so he went on and did it and never told us until yesterday but—Oh! You must be exhausted from the trip, but how romantic and—"

  "Jamie!" Rory hollered.

  Unfazed, Jamie relinquished me only to snatch up my hands and beam at me with all the joy of someone unfettered by fears of what others might think. I liked her already.

  "Don't be a humbug," Jamie told Rory. "I want to meet your wife."

  He ground his teeth and offered terse introductions. "This is Emery. And this is my youngest sister, Jamie."

  I grinned, because I couldn't not grin with Jamie beaming at me. "I kinda figured that one out, but thanks for the super-friendly intro."

  He barred his arms over his broad chest.

  "Ignore him," Jamie said. "I'm friendly enough for both of us. And I'm sooooo happy to meet you, Emery."

  "Likewise, Jamie."

  My sister-in-law grabbed me by the arm. "Let me give you the tour. This house is really a castle, do ye know? Built in the Middle Ages."

  "I knew it was a castle, yeah, but Rory hasn't been forthcoming with the details."

  Jamie dragged me down the hall. "We'll start the tour here."

  "Stop," Rory said, his stern voice reverberating in the hall. "I will show my wife our home, if you please, Jamie."

  "No need to shout at me. Ahmno deaf, Rory."

  "Why don't you go to bed?"

  Jamie snorted. "Ahmno five years old. It's only seven o'clock."

  Rory glowered at her, without any real punch to the expression.

  "All right," Jamie said, hands raised in surrender. "But I want to talk to my new sister over dinner."

  "Fine," Rory hissed. "Stay down here. The top floor is for myself and my wife alone."

  Jamie saluted, clicking her heels together. "Aye-aye, admiral. I willnae step a toe on the third floor, so you and Emery can make all the noise ye want when you're shagging."

  My husband flashed his sister a frown, then towed me down the hall.

  Jamie and Mrs. Darroch laughed softly and retreated into the vestibule.

  "This is the ground floor," Rory said. "The house has four levels."

  "Cool."

  Despite his frazzled state, he continued with the tour. "We have a land line, and every room has a telephone. You can dial out, but you can also ring the kitchen, my office, or the master suite."

  He took me on a forced march through the castle, pointing out various rooms on each level. The ground floor boasted a large bathroom with a claw-foot tub and a separate shower, as well as a laundry room, dining room, cloakroom—aka one huge coat closet—and an exer
cise room. The dining room opened into the guest wing, which housed bedrooms, bathrooms, the kitchen, and a sitting room. We passed windows here and there, but this wasn't a well-lit abode. I supposed castle-builders cared more about security than southern exposure.

  When we tromped up to the next level, Rory said, "This is the first floor."

  "Downstairs isn't the first floor?"

  "That's the ground floor," he said with immense patience. "This is the first floor."

  "But it's upstairs."

  "You will adjust to the oddities of castle living."

  The first floor, known to any normal human as the second floor, contained a cavernous room called a "great hall." Beyond that lay another room, its door closed.

  "At our right is the library, my office," he said. "Inside that is an old study I've converted into a file room."

  "Your law office is in your castle?"

  "I work from home quite a lot, but I do have an office in Loch Fairbairn. I go there for client meetings."

  Up the stairs we slogged, my thighs complaining about the unexpected exercise. I'd get strong legs after a year of traipsing up and down four floors.

  "Is there an elevator?" I asked.

  "No. This is a castle, not a shopping mall."

  "Just asking, sheesh."

  On the second floor, we paused so Rory could point out the gigantic "long gallery," a space that made the great hall seem cozy, and a bedroom in "the tower." My head spinning, I jogged to keep up with Rory as he ascended to the third and final floor. Which was actually the fourth level.

  Rory halted in a long hallway. "Our bedrooms are up here, along with a shower room, bathroom, and dressing room. There's also a third bedroom accessed through yours, with stairs leading down to it."

  "Um…" I rubbed my eyes and my temples. "The last bedroom is actually on the second floor, but it's door is up here?"

  "No, it's between floors."

  "I'm never going to get any of this, am I?" Something he'd said a minute ago finally registered in my brain. "What do you mean the third bedroom is accessed through mine? You mean our bedroom, right?"