She turned around, and he was afraid she knew what he’d been thinking. “I’ll only rest for a while. Then I want to pick your brain.”
He knew it. She was here to get the story on him. He’d been right from the beginning.
But his victory was short-lived.
“I need the name of a good contractor, so I can get started on my house.” She went up the steps. He stared after her, not knowing what to think now. Except he’d have to find another way to get the truth out of Caitie Macleod.
* * *
As the door closed behind Cait, she leaned against it. She could barely breathe from the polar-opposite emotions bombarding her from all sides.
Depression weighed her down. Deydie’s fault.
Her heart raced. Graham’s fault.
But he’d always made her heart race. Along with the other 3.4 billion women in the world.
Cait pushed away from the door and went to inspect the window. It looked fine to her, but what did she know about seals? He just seemed too casual about being up here. Even weirder, she could almost feel his presence still in the room. Or at least she could still smell his spicy cologne.
She checked for her journal underneath the mattress. Still there. She pulled it out and sprawled out on the bed. Thank God for this private space.
She wrote down how good Graham smelled. How his eyes hooded when he was up to something. How he knew and understood her grandmother, even cowering from her. Cait wouldn’t fault him for that. The Hulk wouldn’t be a match for Deydie either when she was in one of her moods.
Graham Buchanan was a bit of a mystery, though, wasn’t he? Cait’s idea for a story changed from discovering why Graham liked to disappear to what made Graham Buchanan tick.
She heard the door downstairs slam and voices rise up to her. Pretty soon pots and pans clanged in the kitchen. She scooted down further in her bed and closed her eyes.
She wouldn’t let Deydie or Graham get to her. Tomorrow would be better. She couldn’t expect her prickly gran to change. It was up to Cait to repair their relationship. She’d screwed up today and she’d just have to try harder tomorrow. The wind howled outside and Cait drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Cait jumped awake as soon as the bagpipe bellowed its first wailing note. The window shook, and the floor shuddered. She felt dislodged from her senses, not completely certain of where or who she was. When the next note ripped through her, she slipped on her shoes and went downstairs to rip the bagpipe player a new one.
When she got to the bottom of the steps, she couldn’t believe her eyes. The pub was packed from front to back and side to side with unruly Scots. Standing on a chair by the door was the man playing the pipes, Mr. Graham Buchanan himself. He had on a black Balmoral cap, an ancient Buchanan plaid kilt, and a codpiece, big and shiny. His eyes were closed as he started the next song, “Amazing Grace.” The men in the pub removed their hats and sang along.
Unwilling to interrupt the song played at her mother’s funeral, Cait sat on the step and listened to Graham execute the melody with depth and soul. As if he’d been cued, when he hit the last note, he found her with his eyes.
He seemed to twinkle all over and to be on fire at the same time. Strange, he didn’t look like the actor anymore; he looked even more alive. She’d found another piece to the puzzle that was Graham. This was his town, his people. He was at home here. They could turn out the light and the room would be sufficiently lit with Graham’s glow.
He laid the pipes in the chair and came straight to her.
She wished she’d at least run a comb through her hair or checked for smeared mascara before barging down the steps.
By the look in his eyes, he didn’t care. “Did you rest well?”
His words brought her back to her chief complaint. “Yes, until you decided to go all Brigadoon on me.”
“I don’t get to practice much. It’s against the rules at my flat in Glasgow.”
“Sorry. Can’t hear you.” She put her hands to her ears. “I’m a bit deaf at the moment.”
“Very funny, you. How about a drink? It’s on the house.”
“It should be,” she hollered above the growing noise of the crowd.
She followed him over to the bar, where he pulled out a bottle of Scotch.
“Local stuff?”
“Only the best. MacPherson over there has a distillery near Fairge.” Graham poured them both a glass, then held his up to MacPherson in salute.
She stared at the golden liquid, a little skeptical.
“Just down it.” He tipped his glass up and it was gone.
She did the same, knowing enough about whiskey to not let it stay in her mouth too long. It tasted smoky and immediately warmed her down to her toes.
“Nice, huh?” He poured her another and she drank that one too.
He had one of those smiles that made a girl woozy. Or it could be the first effects of the whiskey.
Graham handed her another drink. “You wanted to talk about contractors? Sinclair by the back table there, he’s our local craftsman. Do you want me to introduce you?”
“No.” She downed the next whiskey. “I’d like to see his work first. Which houses has he worked on?”
“The Ramseys’, the MacGregors’, the other Ramseys’. And of course my house. Would you like to take a look at mine?”
A naughty thought skipped across her brain and warmed her down in her belly. “What?” It took a second to realize he wasn’t propositioning her. “Your house. Yes, great.”
“Get your coat.”
“Now?” she asked. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth . . . but why was he being so congenial? Did he have an ulterior motive for getting her alone?
Like he’d read her mind, he gave her a look of complete innocence. “Bonnie has the bar under control.”
Cait moved her eyes to where he looked. A thirtysomething blonde in need of a breast reduction glared back.
Graham put his hand on Cait’s back, ushering her to the stairs. “Get a move on. The snow is really coming down.”
Bonnie shot her some serious stink-eye daggers, so Cait hurried past her and up the stairs.
When Cait got back from bundling up, Graham was waiting, bundled up himself. He held the door open for her. A blizzard blew outside, the snow coming down almost sideways.
She braced herself and stepped outside. “Bonnie is your barmaid?” she shouted over the gale.
“More than that. She’s the pub’s manager,” he shouted back. “Takes care of things while I’m gone.”
“And while you’re here?” The scowl on Bonnie’s face made Cait wonder if Bonnie was taking care of more personal matters for Graham.
“She takes care of things while I’m here, too.”
I bet she does. “What things?” Cait couldn’t help asking.
He stopped, and she thought he had a weird look on his face. “Pub things.”
She wanted to ask if that was all. But didn’t. They walked on.
“The pub is my way of giving back to the community,” he added.
They slipped and slid along the path, the snow making it treacherous. At one point she had to hang on to his arm to get over a bit of ice. She got to feel his rock-solid biceps again. And she liked being that close to him. It made her feel safe.
As they approached her gran’s house, guilt surfaced. Cait really should stop and see how Deydie was doing. But Graham led her up a path behind Deydie’s house. They climbed and climbed up the narrow winding path until they stood in front of a stone mansion.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She pushed past him to get a better look. He’d built his place next to the ruins of Monadail Castle. “I played here as a child.”
He gestured to the door. “Go on in. I’m off to get a few logs for the fire.” He left her and went
around the side of the house.
When she stepped inside, it was like walking onto the set of a BBC Scotland film—the dark wood, the ornately carved twin staircases, and the huge coat of arms at the apex.
An old sable sheltie wandered in from the other room with its tail wagging.
Cait squatted to greet the dog. “Well, who are you?”
Graham came through the same doorway as the pooch. “That’s Precious, my best girl.”
“Well, of course she is,” Cait said as she gave the dog a good scratch behind the ears.
Graham got in the dog’s line of sight, and Precious lit up. Her backside wagged so hard, she almost knocked herself off her feet. “She’s fourteen, just about deaf, but I love her all the same. Come here, girl.”
Cait stood back and watched with fascination as Graham took Precious into his arms and murmured sweet nothings into her perked-up doggie ears. Mr. BBC actually has genuine emotions. Huh. What would Cait do if he spoke to her like that? Would her tongue hang out, too?
Envy rose inside her. Even the pooch got more love and attention than Cait. She was utterly alone. Cait rubbed her hand over the cool stones on the wall to divert her thoughts and keep herself from sinking into a deep depression.
Graham finally looked up. “Come into the parlor and get warmed up by the fire.”
She followed close behind him into the room. “The house is fabulous. I’d love to take some pictures.”
He stilled and gently set Precious on the floor. The dog walked over to the fireplace and lay down on the big fluffy bed by the hearth.
“No pictures.” Graham’s words sounded as immovable as the stone wall she’d touched moments ago.
She frowned at him. “I only want to get some ideas for my own cottage.”
He turned to face her. “No. This is my sanctuary. The town is my haven. And my son is my business alone, no one else’s.”
“Quite a lecture, but what’s that have to do—”
He turned away. “No, and that’s the end of it.”
God, how she hated getting cut off. Tom had perfected it, dismissing her out of hand, and she had lived with it for eight long years. Eight years of him telling her what she could and couldn’t do. Because of his edicts, she’d tanked her career and emptied her life of all her close friends. Cait mulled it over in her alcohol-fuzzed brain for a few moments and came to a conclusion.
No man would issue orders to her ever again. Never ever.
Graham slipped off his jacket and hung it over a chair. He went to the antique dry bar in the corner and pulled out two crystal tumblers. While his back was turned making their drinks, she pulled out her phone, clicked off the flash, and took a few discreet pictures of the crown molding, the massive stone fireplace, and one or two pictures of Graham’s derriere just for the heck of it. She had her phone back in her coat pocket before he had time to say That’s the end of it again.
He handed her the drink. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”
She was still angry with him, but not drunk enough, or fool enough, to miss taking advantage of this moment. “Of course.” She took a sip.
Graham placed another log on the fire and repositioned the screen. “Let’s go.”
Precious got up to follow them.
“You stay here, girl, and keep warm by the fire.” The dog reluctantly lay back down.
“This place is huge. How many bedrooms?” she asked.
“Eleven. They’re nothing special. I’ll show you the main floor, though.”
He took her through each room—the professional stainless-steel kitchen, a small bedroom off the kitchen, the huge dining area, the library, and a peek at the media room. She wished she could take more pictures. But as she followed him from room to room, her irritation with him faded. It was either the drinks she’d had this evening, or the fact that his voice soothed her into forgiveness. By the time they’d made it back to the parlor, she felt all warm and cozy. He took her glass and poured her another one.
“Let’s sit by the fire and you can tell me all about yourself.” He looked like the perfect gentleman, but he could as easily have been the devil for the captivating look he gave her. He pulled two plush armchairs to the fireplace, set the bottle between them, and pointed to where she should sit.
After settling in, she stared at the crackling fire and, unfortunately, the old dark thoughts crept back in. Suddenly, Cait was back in primary school, her mother recently diagnosed with cancer. She knew what cancer meant, even at nine years old—Death. And it seemed everywhere she looked, she found it. The dead bird lying on the path to school. Billy Kennedy drowning at sea. And every Sunday, Jesus Christ hanging from the cross in the stained-glass window at church. Cait couldn’t run away from Death, so instead she had walked toward it to get a closer look. When Mrs. Lamont told the class to memorize a poem, Cait picked “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” When she recited the ode to flames and Death to the school, Mrs. Lamont had been both astonished and alarmed. True, most fourth graders weren’t obsessed with Death like Cait. But who could blame her?
Graham touched her hand. “Are you okay?”
She pulled it away. “Fine. Why would you ask?”
“You look sad, that’s all. Like you’d lost your best friend.” Graham glanced down at Precious at his feet.
“It’s nothing.” It felt like a betrayal, making light of Mama like that, so she told him the truth. “I was only thinking of my mother.”
“She was a fine woman, Caitie,” he said. “It was a sad day when she left us.”
“Tell me how you knew her.” Cait’s eyes filled with tears.
“She took charity upon me and my da after my mum died. She made sure we were fed during our grief. Organized the village ladies for meals. She made sure I went to church and properly dressed, too. She had sweetness in her. And a bit of the sass, too.”
Yes, her mother had had sass. Once, Mama had threatened Da with the business end of a frying pan for tracking mud on her clean floor.
Graham poured them both another drink and lifted his glass. “To Nora Macleod.”
“To Mama.”
They downed their Scotch.
Cait lost track of time as they laughed about Deydie’s cutting remarks and sour looks. Graham opened another bottle, wine this time. They joked about Gandiegow—how time had stood still while the rest of the world had whirled out of control. He leaned in closer. The coziness of the fire and the old dog at their feet made her feel like they’d known each other for years.
“Would you be more comfortable on the couch?” he asked.
“You’re so nice to me.” She stared into his lovely eyes.
“Maybe I want something from you,” he said.
Her inebriated brain thought he sounded serious. “Surely you’re not talking about something naughty?” She reached out and brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. It was nice touching him. He was quite the hunk. And because she could, she went ahead and ran her hand through his hair to the back of his head.
His eyes lit up.
Or it could’ve just been her imagination.
She slid out of her chair and made her way to the overstuffed sofa. She wanted to ask him something but couldn’t remember what. She felt so tired that she lay down. It must’ve been all right with Graham because he came and sat on the floor near her head. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Right before she drifted off to sleep, she heard him speak, but it didn’t make any sense.
“Why are you really in Gandiegow, Caitie Macleod?”
* * *
Cait had died. Or at least she wished she had. She tried moving an eyelash, but it hurt too much. An oversized pumpkin had grown inside her head and wanted out.
For a long time, she lay as still as she could, hoping the pressure would go away. After a while, a slow realization hit her.
&n
bsp; A warm body lay next to hers. She put her hand out and touched warm fur. Precious. Cait stroked the dog and was rewarded with a gratified groan.
That’s when she noticed a movement on the floor below her. She reached over and touched Graham’s hair.
Shouldn’t the dog be sleeping on the floor and the handsome man be in her arms? Story of her life. Ass-backwards.
From nowhere, a broom hit Cait’s backside.
“Get up, you ninny,” Deydie shouted. “Why in damnation are ye sleeping in a strange man’s house?”
Chapter Four
Ah, bluidy hell. Graham sat up and scrubbed his face. “Seriously, Deydie, a strange man’s house? Everyone in the free world knows me.”
Damn. He rarely referred to his notoriety. He turned to Caitie and she stared back at him.
He hadn’t gotten what he wanted from her last night—answers. He wasn’t a single step closer to finding out why she’d landed here. But from the Internet, he’d learned she was a summa cum laude graduate of one of the most prestigious journalism schools in the world. If she wasn’t up to something, why would she lie and say she was a quilter? Absurd. Who has a career in quilting? Nobody, that’s who. She was a bluidy reporter.
Deydie brought him back to the problem at hand by swatting him with her blasted broom. “That’s for taking advantage of my granddaughter,” she said.
Caitie’s mouth dropped open, and a nice pink blush colored her cheeks as she looked both incensed and ashamed.
“She did nothing wrong,” Graham defended, even though she didn’t deserve his help. “If anyone took advantage of her loving arms . . .” He scratched Precious behind the ears. “It’s my unfaithful dog. Deydie, you’ve clearly ruined Precious against male companionship. She used to only sleep with me.”
Cait pushed herself to an upright position, her quizzical gaze boring into him.
He explained. “Precious is too old to go on location. When I’m gone, she stays with your gran at her cottage.”
“Damn dog’s a flea-bitten nuisance.” Deydie held her expression as stiff as her broom handle.
To Scotland With Love Page 4