Scotland to the Max: Trouble Wears Tartan — Book Three

by Grace Burrowes

  “You might need these.” Max passed her the keys to the cottage. “See you in an hour or so.”

  “I shouldn’t let you do this. I could call somebody.”

  “And they might come pick you up, but will they fix your car?” Max understood and admired a self-reliant impulse. Jeannie’s reluctance to accept help was something more substantial.

  “I might be able to get a truck out from Perth.”

  “Which will cost you next week’s groceries. Whoever he was, Jeannie, I’m not him and I won’t leave you stranded here. My computer is in that cottage along with my only two pairs of clean undies and my personal stash of protein bars. If that doesn’t prove I’ll come back, nothing will.”

  Ah, a smile. A small, but genuine smile. “Next month’s groceries,” she said. “Be off with you, then, and mind the traffic along the road.”

  “Save me one brownie.”

  Her smile blossomed into a grin, and Max took off up the drive at an easy jog. He was at the garage in less than half an hour, much of that time spent on the phone with Maura. Despite his “Yank accent,” he made the situation plain enough and was soon back at the cottage, trading tools with Ewan MacShane—a gangly teenage motorhead—and putting on not a donut, but an honest-to-Braveheart spare.

  “This one’s on me,” Max said, getting out his AmEx.

  Ewan was about six foot three, reed-thin, freckled, and red-haired. “Keep your money, Yank.” He sounded like the wrath of the Highlands, when five minutes earlier he’d been merrily cursing the damned Germans who overengineer “every feckin’ ting.”

  “Have I just committed a typical American blunder?”

  Ewan wiped his hands on a rag. “Nah. Feckin’ Jackie MacDonald blundered. Left a good woman with a crap set of tires. What sort of rat-turd molly-balls weasel fart does that?”

  The tires were far from new, though they’d probably pass inspection. Jackie MacDonald was apparently flunking on all counts. This pleased Max, for reasons he didn’t examine.

  “Thanks for the help, then. Let’s get the spare and the tools put up.”

  “Jeannie would rather owe us than a stranger,” Ewan said. “The Cromartys have their pride.”

  “But if she owes you, then she’ll eventually find a way to repay you.”

  Ewan scratched his nose while he considered this, getting a streak of grease on his cheek. “Jeannie’s a first-rate cook. Has a way with sweets.”

  The way to an almost-grown-man’s heart…

  “Wait here.” Max went into the kitchen, found the brownies, set one aside, and brought the plate out to Ewan. “Payment in full.”

  Ewan took the plate, upended it, and used the cellophane to wrap up the batch. “With interest. You’re all right, Yank.”

  Not a single brownie would survive the two-mile journey back to the garage, which Max considered chocolate well spent. When Ewan’s Land Rover went bouncing back up the lane, Jeannie not only had four functional tires, she had an inflated spare as well.

  Max at first thought she might have gone for another ramble along the river, but he spotted her phone on the coffee table.

  Three missed calls from somebody named Millicent.

  He found Jeannie in the office, fast asleep, a quilt pulled over her, her worn running shoes beside the bed, socks draped over them. The heel of one sock was going thin, the toe of the other had a hole.

  In sleep, she wasn’t as formidable, and she was deeply, entirely asleep. A novel with a cowboy on the cover—Luckiest Cowboy of All—was open faceup beside her pillow. This was not a catnap, but much-needed slumber.

  Jackie MacDonald had apparently worn out more than Jeannie’s tires.

  Max decided to give her another thirty minutes. He set the cowboy aside, took the ergonomic office chair, and brought the computer purring and glowing to life.

  Jeannie was warm and relaxed, which made her aware of how little true relaxation she’d had lately. On some level beneath conscious thought, she knew that this version of “I must get up” was less urgent than the usual varieties. She’d been dreaming of a cowboy named Jace who had looked suspiciously like Max Maitland.

  And that dream had been the farthest thing from a nightmare, but this was not the Prairie Rose Ranch.

  Mr. Maitland sat at the computer, the wire-rimmed spectacles on his nose making him look sexy, dammit. Smart and slightly rumpled, a man who spotted nesting ospreys and could solve a flat tire with common sense and a little effort.

  That effort had been beyond Jeannie. She’d longed to put in a good five miles along the river, but knew she hadn’t the energy. Instead, she’d left a message for Millicent—slight delay, see you before supper—and resigned herself to being humble and grateful for help when help was needed.

  She’d managed half a chapter of Jace and Carlene’s second chance romance and then awoken with a man in her bedroom for the first time in months. Mr. Maitland was utterly, entirely focused on his work, tapping the keys with deft efficiency, moving a fancy mouse that he must have brought along in his carry-on.

  Jeannie inventoried her emotions for any hint of attraction to Max Maitland and found… some. A hint, a mere pilot light of interest, which was more than she’d felt for any male in the past year. Maitland was in Scotland to wreck the castle, in Uncle Donald’s words, which meant Jeannie’s path might cross his from time to time.

  She decided to be encouraged by that pilot light—not that she’d act on it—because surely noticing that a man was attractive was a sign of normalcy? Though here she was, dozing away the afternoon ten feet from the computer, and Mr. Maitland seemed oblivious to her presence.

  Which was… fine.

  He glanced at his watch—who wore a watch these days?—and swiveled his chair to face the bed.

  “You’re awake.”

  “Barely. What time is it?” And where was her phone?

  “Going on four.”

  Jeannie was sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching for her socks in the next instant. “Is the car fixed?”

  “It cost you a batch of brownies, but yes, the car is fixed, and you have a trustworthy spare as well, compliments of Clan MacShane.”

  Jeannie yanked on a sock and heard a ripping sound. “Thank you, more than I can say.” She was gentler with the second sock, which already had a hole in the toe. “Have you seen my phone?”

  He tossed her the phone, but she wasn’t quick enough to catch it. “Millicent is trying to get hold of you, but I figured she could wait another thirty minutes.”

  Three messages was not good. “I left her a message telling her I’d be late. She hates it when I’m late.”

  “I suspect you’re late about twice a year. Tell her thanks, it won’t happen again, and chill the hell out. Tires go flat.” His tone was so, so… pragmatic.

  So ignorant. “You don’t understand. Millicent doesn’t understand.” Jeannie got her shoes on, folded up the quilt, and began rehearsing her groveling.

  A slow leak, could happen to anybody…

  The garage was busy…

  Band rehearsal…

  Millicent would have sympathy for none of it.

  Mr. Maitland trailed Jeannie down the steps and to the front door. “You’ll be back tomorrow at eight?”

  “I absolutely will,” Jeannie said. “I am charged by no less person than the Earl of Strathdee with getting you up to the castle, where you can start to wreak your havoc on the ancestral home.”

  “My magic.” He came out to the terrace with her, and it occurred to Jeannie he was walking her to her car. Jack had done that, for the first few dates. She suspected Max Maitland would do it for his wife even after thirty-five years of marriage.

  There were good men in the world. Jeannie knew this—her cousins were good men—but beyond them, she hadn’t seen firsthand evidence of much masculine virtue. Perhaps she’d been too upset with Jack to allow herself to see it, because Jack had also seemed a fine fellow at first.

  “I’m sorry to dash off,
” Jeannie said, “but I really must go. Thank you.” She went up on her toes and kissed Mr. Maitland’s cheek. Two years ago, anybody would have described her as affectionate. She offered him a quick buss as a gesture of hope that someday she might again be described that way.

  His smile was a little puzzled. “You’re welcome. See you tomorrow.” He opened the car door and stepped back.

  In her rearview mirror, Jeannie saw him as she drove off, a tall, good-looking man amid the lovely forest, making sure his hostess was safely on her way. She held off until she’d driven through the village, but then she reached for the ever-present box of tissues and let a few tears fall.

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  Grace Burrowes

  Chapter Six

  The luggage carousel went around twenty times before Max Maitland permitted himself to swear.

  “The damned things aren’t here.”

  “Beg pardon, sir?”

  Max almost couldn’t understand the guy, so thick was his burr, but the Edinburgh Airport Security uniform spoke clearly enough, as did the way he’d hovered at Max’s elbow for the last five rotations of the baggage conveyor.

  “My luggage has apparently not come up from London with me,” Max said.

  “Did ye cam tru Heat-row, then?”

  Fatigue, the mother of all headaches, and towering frustration made translating difficult. “I beg your pardon?”

  “This way,” the man said. “We’ll fill out a wee lost-bag ticket and have you on your way in no time.”

  Max’s suitcases were far from wee, because he was all but moving to Scotland, or that was the plan. He dealt with waiting in line—his favorite thing to do—to get the form to fill out.

  He dealt with explaining the obvious to an uninterested public servant—his very most favorite thing to do.

  And to add a splash of kirschwasser to his I Hate To Travel sundae, the person assigned to meet him had apparently bailed.

  “Yer heid painin’ ye, laddie?” the lady at the coffee counter asked. She looked about eighty, maybe five foot one in her orthotic shoes, and Max would not have tangled with her on a bet.

  Your head paining you, laddie?

  “Something awful. I don’t enjoy flying, and thunderstorms at Dulles meant a three-hour delay.”

  “Isn’t that always the way? Now you listen to me. Go through those doors and make a wee stop at the apothecary. We have much better over-the-counter remedies than you do in the States. You tell the man Annie MacDuie sent you, and you need something for your head. Go on now, and the luggage folks will send your bags along as soon as may be.”

  Clucking and fussing was a universal dialect, particularly when done by blue-haired ladies.

  “Thank you, Annie. I appreciate it.” Not everyone would have been as kind to a stranger, but then, Scotland was reputed to be one big tourist trap, a postcard outside every window, a quaint whisky distillery in every glen.

  Every wee glen.

  Whatever a glen was. Max was counting on Scotland’s tourist appeal, and on its recession-resistant economy. His faith in its over-the-counter pain meds was another matter. He picked up his backpack and wandered off in the assigned direction, letting the hum and bustle of foot traffic pass around him.

  Though the hour was nearly noon in Scotland, the sun hadn’t yet risen in Maryland, and Max felt every second of the circadian dislocation. He couldn’t call Maura at this hour, he didn’t feel like breakfast, and how in the hell did a guy get a hotel room at eleven in the morning?

  “Mr. Maitland?”

  He got out his cell phone, that’s how.

  “Mr. Maxwell Maitland?”

  The voice was soft, female, and accented. Max beheld a petite blonde whose eyes were the same blue as… the little flowers that grew next to sidewalks. Began with a p.

  “I’m Maitland.”

  “Jeannie Cromarty.” She stuck out her hand. “Sorry I’m late. Uncle Donald was supposed to be here, but the flight delay meant some shuffling about on our end. Did your bags not arrive?”

  Her voice had a lilt to go with the burr, a musicality not entirely a product of the accent. To a man deprived of sleep and dislocated by five long time zones, that voice was soothing.

  Max had to shift his knapsack to shake hands. “My suitcases are supposed to be catching up to me. I wasn’t sure where I’d be staying tonight, so all the lost-luggage people have is my cell.”

  “They’ll find you,” Jeannie said. “I’ve never known them to fail, though sometimes they take a day or two. How was your flight?”

  He made chitchat the best he could, which was not very well. Jeannie had a graciousness about her, though, an ease that had Max relaxing despite exhaustion and travel nerves. She spoke more slowly than Max was used to. Didn’t fire off sentences like a lawyer being paid by the syllable.

  “Is that the drugstore?” he asked as they passed one of the airport shops.

  “Yes. Did you need something?”

  Max needed about three solid days of sleep—after he called Maura—and a protein shake. “Something for a headache. One of the ladies at the coffee shop said you have good over-the-counter meds here—better than in the States.”

  “That, we do. I’ll show you.”

  Jeannie explained the situation to the guy at the register, and Max soon had a bottle of water, a banana, and some pills. He waited until he was sitting on the wrong side of Jeannie’s compact car to eat the banana and take the pills.

  “Have you been to Scotland before?” Jeannie asked as she maneuvered the vehicle through the airport traffic.

  “Never, but I’m looking forward to renovating Brodie Castle, and if that means spending a year in Scotland, then I’ll spend a year in Scotland.” Hopefully, no more than that, and Max would make many, many trips home during that year. “Have you ever been to the States?”

  “Oh, aye. Back in college. Went for some sunshine. Winters here can be so very dark.”

  Max had figured the shorter hours of daylight into the project schedule, though floodlights could turn night into day, for a price.

  “Are we driving up to Aberdeen today?”

  The whole business of driving on the wrong side of the road, sitting on the wrong side of the car, and road signs not being the same was disorienting. Jeannie handled the car with easy confidence, but part of Max wanted to close his eyes—and wake up in western Maryland.

  “That was the plan, but that plan assumed you and your luggage would arrive together. How about if you stay in our holiday cottage in Perthshire tonight, and we’ll travel on to the castle tomorrow?”

  Max had purposely arrived on a Friday morning, so he’d have some time to shake the jet lag.

  Hanging out in a quiet cottage would be a fine way to go about that.

  “Sounds like a plan. Tell me about Brodie Castle.” If she was a Cromarty, then she was a cousin of some sort to the Scottish earl—Elias Brodie—who owned the castle. His lordship was at present kicking his handsome heels on one of the finest patches of farmland Maryland had to offer and enjoying wedded bliss with one of Maryland’s finest farmers.

  Lucky bastard.

  “The castle is lovely,” Jeannie said. “We’ve had many a wedding there. It’s been in the family for at least a thousand years, though of course, the early structure was a mere round tower. Elias was mostly raised in the baron’s lodge, which sits at the foot of the castle hill, and any family member who’s at loose ends has been welcome to bide with him there. You can rattle around that old place for a week and not find the front door. Uncle Donald calls it the Plaid Purgatory, though he was born there.”

  She prattled on, about Queen Victoria, the local council, and the Pipe Band, while Max struggled to keep his eyes open. The last thing he saw befo
re falling asleep was a pair of great silver horse heads rearing up from the river immediately beside the highway.

  Elias Brodie had warned him that Scotland would make him daft but happy. Apparently, the daft part came first.

  Cousin Elias’s scheme became clear the instant Jeannie laid eyes on Max Maitland.

  The American was gorgeous, and not in a pretty, manscaped, gym-rat way. Maitland was tall, broad-shouldered, and trim, a perfect wedge of manhood topped with dark hair, sky-blue eyes, and a voice that was made for issuing commands to underlings and whispering naughty suggestions in bed.

  He’d reached that stage of maturity where his looks wouldn’t change much for decades. His features were weathered around the edges—crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, a complexion that had spent whole summers in the sun. The slight wear only made him more attractive, a man in whom all traces of the boy had been swallowed up by hard work and ambition.

  Perhaps Uncle Donald had taken a notion to find Jeannie her rebound romp, in which case, Jeannie would be disowning her uncle—again.

  She’d driven past the Falkirk horses before she realized Mr. Maitland had fallen asleep. He hadn’t put the seat back, hadn’t snored, hadn’t done anything other than go silent and close his eyes. Jeannie had recently made the acquaintance of bone-deep, relentless exhaustion, so she let him rest.

  Little more than an hour after leaving the airport, she navigated the fern-bordered driveaway to the cottage and shut off the car’s engine.

  “Mr. Maitland?”

  Nothing.

  Jeannie got out of the car, came around, and opened the door on his side. She shook his shoulder, which was like trying to shake a four-hundred-year-old oak.

  “Mr. Maitland, we’ve arrived at the cottage.”

  His eyes opened, just that. “Apologies for napping. Where exactly is this cottage?”

  Jeannie stepped away so he could unfold himself from her car. “Ten Thousand Welcomes sits on the banks of the River Tay in rural Perthshire. We’ve a lot of big trees, great fishing, and gorgeous views of the Highland Line. Also proper beds to sleep in. Come, I’ll show you.”