The Accidental Scot

by Patience Griffin

  “Yank, no need to run and confess to Miranda what ye did last night. We were just passing time until the storm let up.”

  He stepped nearer. “I won’t let you lie to me or yourself like that. Last night was . . . was . . .”

  She wanted to finish the sentence for him.

  Last night was magical.

  The best sex I’ve ever had.

  I never want to be another night without you in my bed.

  She said none of it. It was stupid to even think. They had been nothing more than a couple of adults having a really good time. She found her underwear and shifted away while she slipped them on. She hadn’t been embarrassed by her nudity until now. She grabbed the rest of her clothes—coat, too—and hurried out the door and down the hall to the loo.

  She made a plan. She’d head home. She’d dress for work. She would forget that she’d ever had this slipup in the little room over the pub. It wasn’t her worst indiscretion, or maybe it was. She shook her head at her stupidity. And also for other things, like blowing off the importance of birth control in the heat of the moment. Max . . . he was the only answer she could come up with. He had a way of making her forget herself.

  She opened the loo door and stopped short. Max blocked the doorway with his bare chest, wearing nothing else but his jeans. She had the terrible urge to rub herself up against him like some feline in heat.

  He’d just proved her point, and she wouldn’t listen to her reckless hormones anymore.

  “Move,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”

  Downstairs the door to the pub opened and slammed shut.

  “Yank?” Deydie hollered. “Are ye here? Bethia and I came by to see if ye’d survived the storm. We’ve brought yere breakfast.”

  “God, no,” Pippa whispered. “They can’t find me here.”

  Too late.

  “Who’ve ye got up there with ye?” Deydie hollered.

  Weren’t old people supposed to be hard of hearing?

  Max shrugged. “I’ll be right down. I’m not decent.” He brushed Pippa’s hair away from her face. “You do what you want to do.”

  He pivoted and went back to his room.

  Pippa wondered why in the world the upstairs to the pub didn’t have a separate entrance. She had no way out.

  When Max reappeared, shirted and shoed, he didn’t glance in her direction as he made his way down the stairs. “Smells good.”

  But when he hit the bottom step, Pippa could hear Deydie light into him. “Ye’ve got that woman, Miranda, up there, don’t ye? I thought she left town yesterday, but it seems you stashed her in your little hidey-hole so ye could have yere way with her. It ain’t right, Yank. She’s all wrong for ye. Ye need to quit listening to yere pecker.”

  Pippa pushed away from the doorway, grabbed the contract from the room as her prop, and went to do the honorable thing—save Max from the women of Gandiegow.

  Once she got downstairs, Bethia saw her first. “Oh.”

  Deydie glowered at her. “Och, Pippa, what would Ross say?”

  Pippa held up the contract. “We were working on the deal between NSV and MTech. We just finished. We’re all done.” She gave Max a hard look that said she meant it. We are done.

  Deydie nodded toward her. “And that love bite on yere neck?”

  Bethia touched Deydie’s arm to quiet her. “Max, we came by for another reason, besides checking on you. Can ye come to Quilting Central later? We’re in need of yere help.”

  He picked up a scone. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  Pippa avoided eye contact with Max and the two quilting ladies as she slipped on her coat. “I better get going.” She held the contract up to accentuate her rush.

  She fled for the door. Once outside, she breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be okay. She might have been found out, but she’d gotten off easier than expected.

  * * *

  Max watched Pippa’s backside as she hustled out the door. It was a damned sexy backside. He’d loved having it pulled up against him this morning.

  Deydie made a guttural noise, but Bethia pulled her toward the door.

  “We’ll leave ye to eat yere breakfast,” Bethia said kindly. “But we’ll see you soon?”

  “Yes.” Hell, he had nothing else to do.

  The women left and he was alone. Maybe Pippa believed it was over, but she was mistaken. They were just getting started.

  The thought hit him like a freight train. Yes, they were just getting started, because they were perfect together. He was as certain of this as the tide coming in.

  He left The Fisherman and headed to Quilting Central. The damage from last night’s storm was evident up and down the boardwalk. A good portion of the garlands hanging on the cottages and businesses had been ripped down. Funny, while the storm had been raging, he’d been at peace with Pippa in his arms. Now, looking out at the calm, almost glassy ocean, everything was unsettled. Even though he knew Pippa would be back in his bed, she’d been damned bristly this morning. How was he going to get her underneath him again?

  Deydie hollered to him from outside Quilting Central. “Max, get your arse over here and help me get this garland back up.”

  He shook his head as he strolled toward her, remembering his first encounter with the old matriarch. “You really know how to charm a guy.” When he reached her, he gave her a formal bow. “At your service, madam.”

  She gave him a hard stare. “Your devil’s tongue won’t bewitch me. And don’t think that I’ve forgotten about ye having Pippa at the pub either. Now grab the other end of this garland, Mr. Christmas, and put it back in place.”

  “Good grief,” he muttered at his nickname.

  She put her ham-sized hands on her hips.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he intoned.

  “That’s better. If you mind yere p’s and q’s, ye can stay for lunch after ye get yere chores done for me and Bethia.”

  Lucky me. He was going to pay for being alone with Pippa at the pub. But really, he didn’t mind. He liked the quilting ladies.

  All morning they kept him so busy, he didn’t have time to worry over NSV’s chief engineer . . . much.

  For lunch, Deydie fixed him a plate of chicken and dumplings and brought it to one of the little café tables. “Get over here and eat. Ye need to keep up yere strength.”

  “More things for me to do later?” he asked.

  “We’ll see.” She gave him a funny look, as if she knew something he didn’t.

  * * *

  While Max ate his chicken and dumplings, Deydie slipped out the front door, dragging Bethia with her.

  “What is it?” Bethia whispered. “Ye’re yanking me old arms from their sockets.”

  “We’re off to see the McDonnell.”

  Bethia glanced back at Quilting Central. “Were we on the list to get him his lunch? His pills won’t be due for another two hours.”

  “We need to see him while Pippa’s still at work,” Deydie said.

  “What for?”

  “You know.” Deydie didn’t enjoy being the bearer of bad news, but it seemed to fall to her more times than it did to others.

  Bethia chewed her lip. “Are ye sure this is a good idea? Some might say we’re overstepping our bounds.”

  “Good Lord, this isn’t some metropolis like Inverness where people don’t watch out for one another. We’re Gandiegow. We take care of our own.”

  They hurried down the boardwalk to the house with the red roof and the green door. They didn’t knock, knowing the McDonnell wouldn’t be able to answer anyway.

  Unfortunately, they came face-to-face with Pippa.

  Deydie put her hands on her hips. “What are you doing home?”

  Pippa frowned right back. “Lunch. And I live here. Why are ye here?”

  “Don’t be ch
eeky,” Bethia chided gently.

  “I came home to check on Da,” Pippa said. “He hasn’t been himself.”

  Bethia swiveled back to Deydie, her old friend touching her arm. “Maybe this isn’t a good time.”

  “No. We’ll talk to the McDonnell.” Deydie pointed a hard finger at the lass. “And it won’t hurt for ye to hear the truth of it. But not a word from ye.”

  “What—” Pippa said.

  “Not a word.”

  They walked into the den where the McDonnell sat in his wheelchair. He frowned, looking disappointed, like he expected someone else.

  “Has Freda been by?” Pippa asked.

  Deydie fumed. She’d told the lass to be quiet.

  The McDonnell didn’t answer his daughter but looked away.

  Deydie nudged Pippa to the side so she could come fully into the room. “I said ye could stay, but we’re doing the talking.”

  “What’s this about?” the McDonnell asked.

  “It’s not exactly a social call,” Bethia hedged. “We’re here with a suggestion.”

  “Not exactly a suggestion. More like a warning.” Deydie gave Pippa a knowing look. The lass had the good sense to shy away from her hard stare.

  The McDonnell’s frown grew. “Go on.”

  “Deydie and I think ye should open your house up to the Yank,” Bethia said. She was good at coming up with ways to handle things delicately.

  The McDonnell’s brows came together. “I asked him before but he declined, said he’s happy at the pub.”

  Deydie barked with derision. “Happy’s not the half of it.”

  The damned girl elbowed her.

  Bethia jumped in. Which was best. She could smooth things over better than a hot iron. “We were thinking it would be best if Max stayed here. He could help Pippa with things around the house.”

  Deydie caught Pippa’s eye roll and elbowed her back.

  Bethia gave Deydie a look that meant she wanted her to behave herself. After seventy years, Deydie was getting tired of that look. Bethia continued with her reasoning. “Max has proved himself right handy at Quilting Central. Hasn’t he, Deydie?”

  Deydie raised her eyebrows at the lass. “Pippa thinks he’s right handy, too.” She wondered if the McDonnell was blind or what. Couldn’t he tell that his daughter had lain with the Yank?

  “I don’t need any help,” Pippa complained.

  This time Bethia gave her a ye-better-play-along stare.

  “Maybe a little,” Pippa acquiesced.

  Deydie was done pussyfooting around. “That’s not the main reason ye need to have the Yank here.”

  Pippa shook her head no. Bethia seemed to have given up.

  The McDonnell sighed. “I don’t understand. What are ye trying to say?”

  “I’m going to speak plainly,” Deydie cautioned.

  “Don’t you always?” the McDonnell said.

  “The Yank needs watching.”

  “Oh, Deydie, Da trusts Max. He took a reading on him.”

  Deydie tsked. “Reading or no, you better keep that lad under yere roof so ye can keep an eye on him.” She paused to see if she would have to spell it out for him.

  Surprisingly, Bethia stepped up. “Gandiegow girls can be a randy lot,” she said matter-of-factly. “They get bored during the long winter months.”

  Deydie plunged back in. “Keeping the Yank here at yere house is the best way to keep Pippa out of his bed.”

  Pippa gasped and turned as red as Deydie’s sugar beets in the heat of summer.

  The McDonnell shifted in his wheelchair, turning toward his daughter.

  “We don’t want any accidents—if ye know what I mean—in case another storm blows in,” Deydie finished.

  “Ross never needs to know,” Bethia added.

  The McDonnell went deathly still. “Send Max to me.”

  “Da, don’t—” Pippa cried.

  He turned to her with a cold calmness. “Get back to the factory, daughter. My body may be sick and broken but I’ll have a word with Max McKinley.”

  She grabbed her coat and briefcase and stomped out with her face blazing.

  Bethia wrung her hands in her apron. “Maybe ye should take a minute to think about this. It can’t be good to have yereself so riled.”

  “Send him to me now!” the McDonnell boomed.

  Deydie and Bethia hurried from the house.

  Outside, Bethia grabbed Deydie’s arm. “Maybe we shouldn’t have interfered.”

  “Nay, it had to be done.” But Deydie wasn’t exactly happy with how it had gone.

  Bethia dropped her arm. “Well, we could’ve handled it better.”

  Deydie bobbed her head. “Aye. I should’ve told him in Gaelic. It might’ve softened the blow.”

  * * *

  Just as Max finished rinsing off his plate, the door to Quilting Central opened and Deydie and Bethia appeared. He hadn’t even realized they were gone. The two women came straight for him. Probably with more tasks for him to do. But they looked worried.

  “Why the long faces?”

  “Ye’re needed,” Deydie said. “The McDonnell has requested you come to him.”

  “Sure. Let me get my coat and I’ll be off.” He turned to leave.

  Bethia reached out with a bony hand and held on to his arm. “The McDonnell is known for his temper when he’s piqued. Prepare yereself.”

  “Prepare myself, why?” he asked.

  Deydie shot him a hard stare. “He knows about—the storm.”

  He glanced from one guilty face to another. “What exactly did you two do?” he blurted.

  Deydie’s sheepish contrition of a moment ago turned to righteous indignation. “Just protecting our own, Yank.”

  “Ye’re in hot water,” Bethia confirmed.

  “But you two were the ones who put the kettle on to boil.” Why would they do this to him? “I thought you liked me. Hell, I’ve been your free labor since I walked into this godforsaken town.”

  “Watch yere damned language,” Deydie barked.

  Max walked out, not feeling like the polite Texas boy he was raised to be.

  As he let himself into the McDonnell’s house, Max wondered if the old codger would have a shotgun at the ready. And here they’d been getting along so well.

  “Come in the den, Max.” The McDonnell sounded as if he had a hell of a lot more energy than when he and Pippa were here yesterday.

  An old feeling hit him. As if he’d been caught messing around in the backseat of his ancient Camaro.

  He walked in. Perched by the fire, the McDonnell was clearly not well, but he seemed ten feet tall today in his wheelchair.

  “Sir?” Max said.

  “I’ll get right to it. When I asked you to watch after my daughter, I never dreamed you’d do it naked.”

  Shit.

  “What are yere intentions toward Pippa?”

  Max flinched at the fastball out of left field. A myriad of answers hit him at once.

  My intentions?

  How about: It’s no one’s freaking business.

  Or: To wring Deydie’s freaking neck.

  Even better: Get the freaking MTech contract signed so I can get away from this fishbowl.

  My intentions toward Pippa . . . only one: By God, to make her moan again while I’m inside her.

  The moment stretched out.

  Finally, Max answered, “Respectfully, sir, it’s between me and Pippa.”

  The McDonnell glared at him. “Spoken like a man without a daughter. I will tell you exactly how this is going to play out.”

  “Play out?”

  “First, ye’re going to pack your things at the pub.”

  Was this man running Max out of town?

  “Secondly, you’ll bring
yere things here and move in before Pippa gets home.”

  What the hell? “Sir?”

  “And third, ye will promise to keep your hands off my daughter, or by God . . .”

  Max felt dazed. “I don’t understand. Why would you want me here?”

  “I mean to keep my eye on ye while I make up my mind about what’s going to happen next.”

  That sounded both ominous and intriguing. Max finally nodded to the other man. “All right. I’ll stay in your house.” He ran a hand through his hair, and couldn’t keep from telling the truth. “But I can’t promise to stay away from your daughter.”

  * * *

  As the door closed behind Max, Lachlan deflated. He’d let Pippa down. He was terrified for his daughter. Look what he’d done to his own Sandra. He’d gotten her in the family way, and not even a year later she was dead, with Pippa only a wee bairn. Now it could happen all over again. He had to put a stop to it. But how?

  His inadequacies were adding up.

  The factory’s financial troubles.

  The idiotic accident that left him physically unable to protect his daughter.

  The damned bachelor auction. Oh, aye, he’d gotten wind of that, the scheme cooked up by Pippa and the townsfolk to take care of him, because he wasn’t man enough to take care of himself. Scots did not take charity, but apparently, he was going to be forced to.

  He missed Freda terribly. He was a wretched person to have yelled at her. And he felt proud of her for staying away. It served him right for being such a bastard. She deserved better than him. She deserved every happiness.

  Unfortunately, the thought of Miranda slid in and rattled him more. Had Max seduced Pippa to get a better deal for his company as Miranda had tried to do with him?

  And here he’d assured Pippa that Max could be trusted and sent them on their merry way.

  Lachlan leaned his head back and closed his eyes. And now, his people-seeing skills were gone, too. He had thought Max was the best of the best.

  Lachlan had nothing left. He couldn’t even trust himself anymore.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Max stomped to his rental car, feeling like the rug had been pulled out from under him. He had to talk to Pippa, whether she wanted him to or not. It wouldn’t be fair for her to come home from work and find him with his feet propped up, warming himself by the fireplace with a whisky in his hand . . . like he belonged there.