Scotland to the Max: Trouble Wears Tartan — Book Three

by Grace Burrowes

  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.