Scandalous in a Kilt (Hot Scots Book 3)

by Anna Durand

  "I see. What did you—"

  A sight past my shoulder stole his attention. His face went slack. He didn't blink. Didn't move. Didn't breathe, as far as I could tell.

  Rory brushed past me to stop a few feet from the opening in the wall.

  A rangy man occupied the garden entrance, a stranger of average height with gray-peppered brown hair and crow's feet around his eyes. He seemed a bit older than Rory, but the saggy skin under his eyes and his uneven coloring suggested he was a smoker prematurely aged by his habit. He dressed in rumpled khakis and a polo shirt, his longish hair unkempt.

  "What do you want?" Rory asked the man in a flat voice. "You weren't invited, and you are not welcome here."

  "I'm a journalist, MacTaggart," the man said. "Your new bride is big news in the village. Everyone wants to know if your taste in women has improved, or if you'll be a victim of another failed marriage."

  The man's smug look implied he liked the idea of Rory losing another wife.

  Rory scoffed. "You are a journalist as much as I'm a sheep farmer. At least sheep shit washes off your clothes. The stench of being a bod ceann can't be cleansed."

  The rest of the MacTaggart clan gathered behind us, with Aidan and Lachlan alongside me.

  "Graham Oliver," Lachlan said, his tone making it clear he disdained the man. "Rory told ye to leave, so go on. Before I skelp your sorry hide raw."

  The eldest MacTaggart brother cracked his knuckles.

  Unfazed, Graham jutted his chin, thumbs stuffed in his waistband. "Is it my fault ye donnae have security? I've got journalistic privilege, at any rate." He switched his attention to me, his eyes bright with interest. "Mrs. MacTaggart, what a pleasure to meet ye."

  Rory cast me a worried glance.

  I responded with a small, encouraging smile.

  "Need your wife's permission to speak?" Graham said. "Ye married her so fast, she must've put a hex on ye. Led around by the short hairs, MacTaggart?"

  Rory shook his fist at Graham. "Falbh dàirich fhein, ye bawbag."

  What on earth had he said? Must've been Gaelic, I supposed.

  Lachlan stepped up beside his brother, laying a hand on his shoulder. "He's not worth the sore knuckles, Rory. Donnae let this wee shit ruin a family celebration."

  Graham sniggered. "Ahmno staying, Lachlan. Stopped in to give my congratulations to your brother. Let's hope the fourth time is the charm, and this one can stand ye for more than eight months. Isobel must've had an iron constitution to stay all those years, but the others—"

  "Shut up," Rory snarled.

  The self-described journalist moseyed out of the garden, swinging his hands at his sides and whistling a bouncy tune. Through the entrance, I could see Graham climb into a black sedan marred by scratches and dings. Once his car rolled down the drive, Lachlan thumped Rory's shoulder and wandered back to the crowd, waving for them to disperse. Our guests fanned out around the garden once more, and Rory came back to me.

  "Who was that?" I asked.

  "Graham Oliver."

  "Am I supposed to know the name?"

  "Only locals know him. Graham fancies himself a publishing magnate, but his newspaper is nothing more than a muck-raking scandal sheet on the verge of collapse." His lip twisted into an ugly smirk. "Graham is as rotten as the smut he peddles."

  "Don't hold back, honey." I winked. "Tell me what you really think of him."

  "He's a right scunner." Seeing my confusion, he explained, "It means he's a bloody nuisance. His newspaper is the Loch Fairbairn World News, but everyone calls it The Bletherer."

  "Kinda seemed like he has a grudge against you."

  Rory grasped the back of his neck. "He does. I represented his wife in their divorce last year. Negotiated a generous, and well-deserved, settlement for her. Graham's financial fortunes have taken a tumble since then, mostly because he's a boozing gambler."

  He had seemed like the hard-drinking, hard-smoking type.

  I nudged Rory with my elbow. "You've been speaking a lot of Gaelic today, haven't you? Care to enlighten your American wife? Your mother said you cursed at her."

  "Bod an Donais means the devil's penis, and it's a curse I picked up from Aidan." Rory's lips took on a wry twist. "Aidan's a bad influence, but I've developed my own favorite insults. Falbh dàirich fhein means go fuck yourself, and bod ceann is dickhead."

  "What about bawbag?"

  "It's a reference to a man's…ah…" He gestured vaguely downward. "You know."

  I stifled a laugh. "Are you pointing to your balls?"

  "Aye."

  "You can say dickhead, but not balls. You're the cutest." I bounced up on my toes to kiss him on the mouth. "Let's go mingle with your family and forget that bawbag was ever here."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hours later, I flumped backward onto my bed in my private room on the third floor. The lunch Mrs. Darroch had insisted I eat clunked around like a big old rock in my gut. The appearance of Graham Oliver had left me with a gnawing curiosity about the man and his past with Rory, but the encounter had affected my husband more than he'd let on at first. Gradually, he'd become more withdrawn in his stoic way, and I warranted no more than a cursory glance as he collected up his relatives and politely convinced them to leave.

  Every MacTaggart, and even Gavin Douglas, had given me a sympathetic look as they filed out into the driveway and piled into their vehicle. Whether because of Graham's intrusion or because of Rory's standoffish behavior, I couldn't tell.

  My husband hadn't spoken to me since we parted ways in the ground floor hall. He'd gone to his office. I'd schlepped up the stairs to my bedroom.

  Ich. My bedroom. The quarters of the sex-toy wife.

  I cheered up after an intercontinental video chat with my parents and my sister. Hearing and seeing them proved to me they weren't mad about my quickie marriage, and my mom displayed surprising enthusiasm for planning my wedding with Sorcha MacTaggart. I told her they could do whatever they liked. I didn't really care about the wedding. What mattered to me was seeing my family in person for the first time since Hadley's wedding four years ago.

  After the chat ended, I went back to lounging on my bed thinking about Rory. I allowed myself one minute of self-pity, not a second more. After that, I freshened up and got my exercise skipping down the stairs to the first floor, the one above the ground floor, intent on finding my husband. Over breakfast, Mrs. Darroch had clued me in to the fact Rory spent the better part of every day in his office, aka the old library connected to the tower. I remembered Rory showing me the door to his office, but it had been shut.

  Although the tower stretched up all four levels of the building, the only access to his office from the top floor was in his bedroom.

  When I reached the office door, I knocked twice.

  "Come," Rory said, his deep voice penetrating the thick wood of the door.

  Summoning my brightest smile, I opened the door and waltzed into the library-office.

  Dark-wood paneling covered the walls, and shelves packed with books filled three of the four walls from floor to ceiling, including the wall behind Rory's desk. A trio of tall windows admitted sunlight into the room, with an upholstered bench positioned beneath them.

  Rory hunched over the dark-wood desk. The size of the desk echoed his bodily presence. Though he occupied a high-backed leather chair, it looked less like an antique than a pricey version of a typical executive chair. A computer resided on one corner of the desk, but Rory was focused on the papers spread out across the desk's center. He slouched forward, arms on the desk, forehead cinched into deep lines.

  Two smaller chairs, antique or a good approximation, were positioned in front of his desk at a respectable distance from it. A spiffy rug sheathed most of the floor space.

  I grabbed one of the chairs and dragged it across the rug toward Rory's desk.

  He glanced at me over the tops of his reading glasses. "What are you doing?"

  I plunked my butt in the chair. Folding my h
ands on my lap, I propped my sock-clad feet on the desk and crossed my ankles. "Oh yes, my darling husband, I'm so pleased to see you too."

  My breezy, overly sweet tone earned me zippo in response. Even my brilliant smile seemed to leave him unaffected.

  Or so he wanted me to think. The way he regarded me with keen interest suggested otherwise.

  Rory nudged the bottom of my foot with one finger. "Your feet are on my desk."

  "Yep."

  "What do you want, Emery?" He aimed a pointed glance at his papers. "I have work to catch up."

  "I have questions."

  Rory slumped back into his chair with a defeated sigh. "Go on, then."

  "First of all, have you seen my phone? I can't find it. Had to do a video chat with my family on my laptop."

  Eyes downcast, he opened a desk drawer and produced my phone. He set it on the desk, pushing it toward my feet. "I went into your room while you were asleep and borrowed your mobile. Only so I could switch it to local service."

  I clasped my hands on my lap. "You sneaked into my bedroom while I was sleeping to steal my phone?"

  "To switch it to local service," he said, enunciating each syllable with knife-like precision. "It was a favor."

  "One I didn't ask for. Is that how your mom got my mom's number? You snooped on my phone?"

  He played with the papers on his desk. "Yes. My mother asked me for the number, so she could surprise you."

  "Did she ask you to steal my phone?"

  "No, I—" He shoved a hand inside the back of his shirt collar. "I didn't know another way to get the information."

  "Rory, honestly." I pitched my head back and made a frustrated noise. When I focused on him again, I managed a calm tone. "Let's forget that for the moment. I have more important questions."

  He braced his elbows on the desktop, head supported with a hand on his cheek.

  "Erica asked if I'd applied for my spouse visa yet." I wiggled the toes of one foot in the air. "Told her I had no idea what that is. She and Calli explained it's an immigration thing, and I'd better take care of the formalities ASAP. Am I going to be deported for not doing that right away?"

  "No." He plucked up a pen—a fancy-shmancy one, gold and shiny—and twirled it around his fingers, rapping it on the desktop with every third revolution. "I'm handling it. Started the process before we left America."

  "You—" Flummoxed, I could do nothing more than stare at him. "Let me get this straight. Without telling me, without consulting me at all, you took it upon yourself to secretly apply for a visa for me. Meanwhile, you skulked into my room in the dead of night—"

  "Not the dead of night. It was daylight, but you were asleep." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I planned to tell you about the mobile service change, but I didn't have the chance yet. Then you flounced in here asking your bloody questions."

  "Flounced in?" I laughed, shaking my head. "You are so weird. Lucky for you, I like your weirdness. It's kind of hot."

  One side of his mouth quirked. "Am I meant to thank you for the compliment?"

  "No, you're meant to apologize for your stealth mission to get me a visa."

  He tossed the pen across his desk, where it bounced and rolled into his computer keyboard. "I was trying to spare you the stress."

  "You should've told me what you were doing."

  "You were exhausted from jet lag and worried about meeting my family." He flattened his hand on the desktop and examined my feet. "As I said, I was trying to spare you the added stress of dealing with immigration issues. I should've consulted you, I'm sorry."

  My indignation deflated like a popped balloon. I couldn't stay mad at him when he'd been doing me a favor, though I didn't like languishing in the dark about legal stuff.

  "Okay," I said, "I forgive you. What you did was thoughtful and efficient. Thank you."

  He jerked his head back. "You—thank me?"

  "I do."

  Wary, he leaned over his desk again. "But I invaded your privacy."

  "If you're talking about the phone incident, don't worry about it."

  "You should still be angry."

  I stretched a leg out to tap his nose with my socked big toe. "Lighten up, Ror. I'm over it. You get a one-time free pass on keeping secrets."

  He pushed his glasses down to peer at me over them again. "Ror?"

  "Yeah, I'm trying out a nickname for you."

  "I don't require a nickname. And 'Ror' is bloody ridiculous. I'm not a lion." He caught my big toe to stop me from waving it to and fro. "My name is Rory. Say it with me. Ror-ee."

  I wiggled toe in his grip. "I knew you had a sense of humor, baby."

  "Must you call me 'baby'? I am not a bairn."

  "Don't worry. I'll find a good nickname for you." I smiled. "But it might include the word baby."

  "As long as it's not 'Ror'."

  "No, that wasn't working for me either."

  "Glad to hear it." He released my toe, skating his middle finger down the sole of my foot, setting of a delicious tickling sensation. "Any other questions?"

  "Not really a question. More of a request." I plopped my feet on the floor, sat up straight, and rested my hands on my thighs. "Do you remember what I said about needing total honesty?"

  He linked his hands on the desktop. "You need to understand two things. I can't discuss my clients or their private legal matters."

  "Of course. I get that."

  "There are also parts of my past I don't care to discuss at all."

  His ex-wives, he meant. "Rory, you can tell me about—"

  "No."

  My nails dug into my thighs, and my fingers ached. I pried them loose from my leg. So far in our relationship, I'd acceded to several of his hang-ups and demands. This time, I must win a concession from him.

  "Total honesty," I said. "It's nonnegotiable."

  He fingered his wedding ring.

  "This is the deal," I said. "I won't pester you to tell me about your past. I will ask questions, though, and the longer we live together and you don't tell me, the more it'll make things uncomfortable between us. I can't help that. We need to be friends, Rory."

  "Asking questions sounds like pestering."

  "Not the way I do it." I got up and parked my behind on the edge of his expansive desk. "I'm your therapist, remember? While I search for my true bliss, my mission is to help you relearn how to have fun."

  "I assumed it would be sex therapy."

  "Sex is a part of it, but you need way more than that."

  "I shouldn't be your life's purpose."

  A hand splayed over the smooth, dark wood of his desk, I leaned toward him. "You aren't my life's purpose. You're my current mission. I've set my sights on making sure you come out of your office prison for more than sleeping and eating, and that you remember how to enjoy life. I plan on helping you lift that weight you carry around. I'm beginning to suspect it's an ex-wife-shaped burden."

  "You mean to save me." He made a face that suggested I would fail.

  "I'm not trying to save you, unless you want me to. I told you before, I love a challenge and I love an adventure. You are both."

  "I see." He surveyed the room as if it held mystical answers. "May I ask a personal question?"

  "Ask me anything you like." I held up one finger. "Be warned, though. It goes both ways."

  "Fine." He relaxed into his chair, one ankle propped on the opposite knee. "You mentioned a fiancé. Why did you call off the wedding?"

  "I didn't call off the wedding. I ended the engagement." Straightening, I danced my fingers over the computer keyboard near my hip. "Luke and I were together for three years before he proposed, and I took six days to give him an answer. Two weeks after I said yes, I realized if we'd really loved each other, we would've tied the knot a long time ago. So, I broke up with Luke. He wasn't devastated."

  "He let you go without a fight?"

  "Yep." I bent one knee, tucking my foot under the other leg. "I told him I couldn't marry him, and he
shrugged. Literally. He shrugged and walked away. Moved his stuff out of our apartment the same day. Six months later, he's living with a woman who owns a pot shop."

  "Ceramics?" Rory said, his face offering no clue to whether he was kidding or actually had no idea what pot was.

  "Marijuana," I said. "It's legal in Colorado."

  He unfurled his body from the chair, rising up to his full height and angling over the desk toward me. "You haven't said if you were upset when you ended your engagement."

  "I wasn't. Relieved would be the best description."

  "Why would you stay so long with a man who cared so little about you?"

  How to explain this? Only one way, and it required me to lay bare the worst time in my life.

  "Luke and I had been friends since college," I said. "Four years ago, I started dating somebody I thought was a nice guy. We got along, and Sebastian was game for any silly thing I wanted to do. Gradually, he became more and more withdrawn, even lost interest in sex. He blamed work stress. About eight months into our relationship, I ran into one of his coworkers. He told me Sebastian had been fired six weeks earlier, for watching Internet porn at work."

  Rory hovered nearby but made no attempt to touch me.

  I scratched my arm. "When I confronted him, Sebastian admitted he'd been lying to me about a lot of things, not just being fired. Instead of looking for a new job, he'd spent eighteen hours a day watching porn on two dozen different websites. He didn't want to sleep with me because reality couldn't compare to his fantasy women. He liked jerking off while watching them more than he cared about me. I begged him to get help."

  "What did he say?" Rory asked gently.

  "Flat-out no." I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly chilled. "I had no choice. I broke up with him."

  Rory walked around the desk, sat on its edge facing me, and settled a hand on my knee. "This is where revenge porn comes into the story."

  I nodded, unable to meet his eyes. "Six months earlier, Sebastian talked me into posing for nude photos. He swore they'd be for his eyes only, and I was kind of flattered he'd ask. What an idiot, huh?"

  "No, Emery, you are not an idiot."

  "I trusted him, and he turned out be a damn liar." I swiped at my eyes, at the tears brimming in them. "He posted the photos on social media. I told you before, I got them taken down. For all I know, some other sleazebag might've copied them."