Irresistible in a Kilt (Hot Scots Book 8)

by Anna Durand

  "I see." When I notice Aidan and Calli have stopped snogging, I lean toward Cat more. Nodding toward her brother and his wife, I murmur, "Should we show them what a public spectacle really is?"

  "Maybe later. I'm fair starved."

  "Yes, I am too." Caber tossing burns more calories than I'd realized. I feel like eating every last bit of food on that buffet table. "Are we all waiting for something? Or can we start eating?"

  "Let's eat."

  Once Cat and I start for the buffet, everyone else lines up behind us. Though the MacTaggarts seem to have accepted me, I'm still surprised when they all begin to tell me humorous stories from Cat's life, from childhood to just before she moved to America for the second time. Cat tells them stories about the two of us when we first knew each other, leaving out the naughty parts and the fact that she was arrested and then she left me.

  After lunch, her brothers and cousins try to teach me how to play shinty. It's sort of like lacrosse, but not quite. I've never liked sports, which is an attitude Evan and I share, but Logan convinces me to try it. Rory encourages me to do it too.

  He can't possibly like me. Maybe he hopes to trounce me on the field. I've heard the MacTaggart version of shinty has few rules and plenty of dirty plays. I don't do too badly, but I'm not the star player either. I manage to score one goal, but I wind up flat on the ground, my face in the dirt, when I pull off that feat. At the end of the game, I have a few scrapes. Cat assures me I've done well by not getting bruises or a black eye.

  After the game, Cat and I use cleaning ourselves up as an excuse for a long, hot shower in the ground-floor bathroom. We make enough noise that I feel sure at least a few of the other MacTaggarts in residence here must've heard us. Not that I care. I wonder if Cat does, but when I ask her, she just smiles.

  I take that as a no.

  Have I corrupted her, like I said I might? If I have, I can't regret it. This naughty side of her makes me so fucking randy that I want to shag her twenty-four hours a day.

  Instead, I let her give me the grand tour of Dùndubhan like she'd wanted to do when we first arrived. After that, Catriona and I head back to the office, where Rory and Jack are waiting for us.

  "We have your answers," Rory says, gesturing for us to sit down in the chairs opposite the desk.

  Jack is standing near the tall windows, leaning against the frame.

  "Already?" I say. "It's only been a few hours."

  "My investigator is that good," Rory says. "And it wasn't too difficult for him to find the records. Knowing your birth name sped up the process, since you changed your name when you moved to America."

  I shift in my chair, suddenly feeling like I'm sitting on a bed of hot coals that have needles sticking out of them.

  Cat grasps my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

  And I ask the inevitable question. "What did you find?"

  Rory focuses on the papers on his desk. He traces a finger along the lines he seems to be reading. "Your mother, Julia Charnley-Ainsworth, separated from your father, Nigel, shortly after Henry and Imogen took you to Cornwall for safe keeping."

  "I'm heartbroken that their marriage fell apart."

  "That's not the whole story." He looks up at me. "While they were separated, Julia had an affair with a man called Selwyn Dixon. She fleeced him out of a good deal of money and then she ran away. Nine months later, Julia sent him a gift."

  "My mother is a slag as well as a grifter. I'm shocked and horrified. But what does any of this have to do with me?"

  Rory holds up a hand, silently asking me to wait. "I'm not done yet. The gift Julia sent to Selwyn was a bairn. A six-week-old baby boy."

  Everything inside me goes as cold as the Arctic Ocean. I can't move, can't think, can't speak except to say, "What?"

  "Julia didn't want the baby. How could she? Nigel would've known the bairn wasn't his since he hadn't seen his wife in fifteen months." Rory flips to another page in his dossier or whatever he calls his file. "By all accounts, Selwyn Dixon was a good man. He raised the lad by himself and saved up enough money to send him to university. Unfortunately, Selwyn died of a heart attack before the boy graduated."

  What the fuck am I meant to say to all this? Rory is telling me I have… No, it can't be true.

  Cat squeezes my hand again.

  Rory clears his throat. "Alex, you have a half-brother."

  I open my mouth several seconds before I can produce any words. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes." Rory hands me a sheet of paper. "This is a copy of his birth certificate."

  When I accept the paper, it shivers in my hand, just a touch. My throat has turned as dry and tight as a desiccated mummy. I read the words on the birth certificate but can't understand them.

  "Your brother is twenty-six years old," Rory says. "His name is Grey Dixon."

  Catriona clasps my hand in both of hers. "Did you hear that, Alex? You have family. Good family."

  "Aye," Rory says. "Grey attended Bournemouth University and graduated with high marks. He's currently employed as a freelance business intelligence analyst in London." Rory sighs, shaking his head. "I have no bloody idea what a business intelligence analyst does."

  Neither do I, but I don't have the extra brainpower to figure that out. All my cognitive energy is taken up by trying to comprehend what Rory has told me. I have a brother. A clever one, apparently.

  "Has this Grey person ever been arrested?" I ask.

  "No, he's an upstanding citizen," Rory says.

  "Are you sure he's not secretly a criminal? In cahoots with Julia and Nigel?"

  Maybe I sound desperate. Can anyone blame me? The only blood relatives I've ever known were my original parents.

  "No, Alex," Rory says, "Grey Dixon is a good person. He volunteers at a church and a food bank. He puts flowers on his father's grave every Sunday. Those aren't the actions of a heartless criminal."

  I lose the power of speech again, thoughts reeling through my mind. A brother. His name is Grey. We share our mother's genes. But he's…not a grifter. I am.

  "There's more," Rory says. "You have cousins too. Their names are Chance, Dane, and Reese Dixon. All three are married, and Chance's wife is pregnant. So you'll have another cousin soon enough."

  "Is—" I swallow, but the constriction in my throat won't let up. "Is my brother married?"

  "No. He lives in London, alone, though he often visits America. Apparently, he has a girl there, but it's unclear whether they're a couple or just friends."

  I move my lips as if I were speaking, but I'm not.

  "There's more you need to know," Rory says. "I understand you've already had a shock, but this bit is important."

  "Go on," I mumble.

  "Logan heard from his contact at Homeland Security in America." Rory clasps his hands on the desktop. "A man matching Reginald Hewitt's description was seen boarding a cargo plane headed for the UK."

  "What? How did an escaped felon get out of the country?"

  "Hewitt bribed a member of the crew to help him sneak on board. The FBI had Hewitt's picture shown on television and asked everyone to watch for him. An ordinary citizen called in the tip about Reginald sneaking onto a cargo plane in Salt Lake City. Unfortunately, the plane was over international waters by the time the FBI was notified."

  "Where did Reginald go?"

  "It's unclear." Rory scratches his jaw, as if he doesn't want to tell me the rest. "The, ah, cargo plane made a stop in the Azores, but Reginald Hewitt was no longer on board when authorities arrived to search the plane. There had been a chartered flight that took off ten minutes earlier. We suspect Hewitt was on it."

  "And…where did he go?" I don't want to hear the answer, but I need to hear it. The sinking sensation in my stomach tells me I already know.

  "Heathrow."

  "England? I would've thought he'd come straight to Scotland. He must know I've come here, or else why bother flying halfway around the world?"


  Rory shrugs. "Only Reginald Hewitt knows the answer to that."

  Someone knocks on the door.

  "We're busy," Rory calls out.

  "It's Logan. I have urgent news."

  "Come in."

  Logan shoves the door open and marches straight to the desk, angling sideways to Rory as well as me and Cat. "Late this morning, Reginald Hewitt was seen buying petrol in Carlisle for the car he stole in London. My contact at MI6 did some digging and found out Reginald abandoned that car not long after he crossed the border into Scotland. He's got a new one by now, I'm sure, and I think we all can guess where he's going."

  "Here?" Cat says.

  "That's right." Logan looks straight at me. "This man has one bloody strong vendetta against you."

  "I never did a sodding thing to that bastard."

  "But in his twisted mind, you have wronged him. Stay inside the castle until further notice."

  Stay here? A prisoner in a medieval castle? I still have no idea what I did to make Reginald Hewitt despise me with such intensity. I'd treated him as a friend, trusted him, gave him a job in my home. For three years.

  "Alex needs time to process this," Catriona says. "Let me take him for a walk. We'll stay close to the house."

  Logan nods. "But be careful. And donnae take too long."

  Jack steps away from the windows. "If you need me, I'll be staying here at Dùndubhan tonight, in the tower bedroom."

  "Thank you," Cat says.

  I drag my body out of the chair, though it seems to weigh fifty stone more than it did ten minutes ago.

  Logan slaps a hand on my shoulder, pressing down so firmly I think he's about to tie me to the chair to stop me from going outdoors. "You'll never be too far away for me to find you."

  That statement sounds almost reassuring, but with a hint of a threat in it too. Logan does have an odd sense of humor. I should've guessed he would have an odd way of being supportive too. Or maybe that statement means something else.

  Cat ushers me out of the office and out of the house, through the garden, out onto the green. She suggests we should stroll back and forth here, but I can't stop moving. What in the name of heaven is Reginald plotting now? And why? Burning down my home wasn't enough for him? My mind spins like the wheels of an out-of-control bicycle, and I have to keep moving, get away, silence the questions by exhausting my body and brain.

  "Alex! Wait!

  I hear Cat's voice, but my feet keep moving. My mind keeps moving. Is this the sins of my past come back to haunt me? Is Reginald bloody Hewitt my reckoning?

  Catriona catches up to me, tugging my arm, forcing me to pause in my flight to who-knows-where. "Stop, Alex. I know you've gotten two big shocks today, but ye cannae outrun your fears."

  "I can try."

  We've wound up on a well-worn trail through the forest. It looks like a game trail, like the sort deer might use, but I know nothing about the wildlife in Scotland. Thoughts ricochet in my mind, like bullets fired into my psyche that bounce right off the steel walls of my brain. I have…a brother. And cousins.

  Blimey.

  Cat moves to stand in front of me. "Let's go back to the house and have sex. Lots and lots of it. Loud, hot, frenetic sex."

  Yes, that idea appeals to me. My cock certainly wants that. I know she's trying to distract me, desperately trying, but I don't care.

  I haul her into my body and ravage her with a rough kiss.

  Something whacks into the back of my head.

  My arms fall away from Cat, and the world begins to gyrate. Darkness infiltrates my vision, closing in faster and faster.

  And I pass out.

  Chapter Forty

  Catriona

  The only light inside this huge room comes from the big windows high up on the metal walls. The fixtures hanging from the ceiling aren't on, but I think that's because this place has no electricity. It seems abandoned. Rusting pieces of equipment squat on the floor here and there, and even the chairs Alex and I are bound to show plenty of rust, as do the pipes and other metal scraps strewn around the floor. The old warehouse clearly hasn't been used in a long time.

  I glance at Alex. His chair sits an arm's length from mine, lined up side by side so we both face toward the human-size door of the warehouse, which stands shut. The other set of doors, both enormous and undoubtedly used for offloading equipment and supplies, are also closed.

  Alex slumps in his chair, head bowed, eyes closed.

  He still hasn't woken up since that man cracked him on the head with a rock. Is he injured? Or dead? I stare at his chest, watching for the faint rising and falling of each breath. It's there. He's alive, but he might still be seriously injured. He needs a doctor.

  But we're stuck here. Our two captors, a man and a woman who look old enough to be grandparents, secured our hands behind our chairs with handcuffs. They also tied our ankles to our chairs with rope. Back at Dùndubhan, these two had threatened to hurt Alex if I didn't go along with them. Of course I came. Logan will find us, I'm sure, but there was no way on earth I would've let them touch Alex—or let them take him without me. A long ride in what I'm sure is a stolen car brought us to this place, then our captors hauled us into this abandoned warehouse.

  It stinks of fish in here. Dead, rotting fish.

  Alex moans, winces, and opens his eyes. He lifts his head to look around, blinking rapidly, until his gaze lands on me. "Cat? What's going on?"

  "We've been kidnapped."

  He comes fully awake with a start, his gaze now clear and zeroed in on me. "What happened?"

  I tell him the story.

  When I'm done, he asks, "What did these two older people look like?"

  "The man has gray hair, but the woman's is blonde. He's average height, a bit pudgy, and has dark eyes. She's a little taller than he is, slender, and her eyes are hazel."

  He gazes past me, into a distance beyond the real world. When he focuses on me again, he grinds out words through his clenched teeth. "Those sodding arseholes have done it this time, after all their failed attempts. They've kidnapped me."

  "You know who they are?"

  "I have a suspicion. It's like I've stuck my finger into a socket and the electricity is crackling through my veins. I always get this feeling whenever my parents are in the vicinity."

  "Your parents? Do you mean Nigel and Julia?"

  He nods, his mouth flattening.

  I stare at him, struggling to understand. "But I thought Reginald was the one after you."

  "So did I."

  Alex glares at nothing in particular, grinding his teeth.

  None of this makes sense. How did Nigel and Julia find Alex? He changed his last name when he moved to America, and he hasn't gone back to England since he left sixteen years ago. He flew to Scotland on Evan's private jet, so no one could've known about it. Only someone who knew about me and Alex, and that I'm from Scotland, could've found us. Even then, they would need to find out where my family lives and when Alex might leave America to come home with me.

  "I don't understand," I tell Alex. "How could your parents have found you, here in Scotland?"

  "They're criminals. They have criminal connections."

  "But how could they know you're in Scotland? And what does our kidnapping have to do with Reginald Hewitt?"

  "Do I look like bloody Sherlock Holmes? I have no idea."

  "We need to get out of these handcuffs."

  "How do you suggest we do that?"

  I scan the area with my gaze, searching for something we might use to get free, but I don't see anything useful. When I try to shift my chair, it scrapes across the floor with a loud metal shriek that echoes through the warehouse.

  Alex gives me an exasperated look. "Why don't you scream and have done with it? Your chair just made enough noise to deafen half of Scotland, so I'm sure Mummy and Daddy will be in here any second."

  "I need a small piece of metal, like a pin."


  "For what?"

  This time I give him an exasperated look. "To pick the lock on the handcuffs."

  "Oh. Sorry, I don't have any pins on me."

  "I have one in my hair."

  He squints at my head. "Unless you're a contortionist, I don't see how you'll reach it." He stretches his neck out, leaning toward me. "Maybe if you bend this way, I can reach that hairpin and pull it out."

  "Good. You can get out of your cuffs and then do mine."

  "Uh…no, I can't."

  "Of course you can."

  He grimaces. "I can't pick a lock. Pick a pocket, yes. But not handcuffs."

  I should've guessed as much when he'd told me "maybe" I wasn't the only one who had lock-picking skills. Evasion, as usual.

  "Well, I can do it," I say. "You get the hairpin and pass it to me."

  "I suppose it can't hurt to try."

  He leans toward me again, craning his neck, while I slant toward him doing the same thing. His lips wriggle in my hair while he tries to grasp the hairpin. The tickling sensation makes me want to squirm and, strangely, sneeze. I clamp my teeth shut and fight the sneeze reflex as best I can.

  "Would ye hurry?" I say.

  Alex mumbles something I can't understand since he has his mouth in my hair. Finally, he gets hold of the pin and tugs it free. Holding it between his teeth, he mumbles, "Your turn."

  I twist sideways, as much as I can while bound to a chair, and cup my hands like a small bowl. "Toss it into my hands."

  His brows knit together, and he looks like he wants to complain about my plan but can't, considering he has a hairpin in his mouth.

  "Just try," I tell him by way of encouragement. "You can do it."

  Alex groans, then stretches his neck out even more, the effort making sweat break out on his forehead. He pushes the hairpin almost all the way out of his mouth, holding on to the tip with his teeth.

  He takes a deep breath, exhales it, and tosses the pin.

  It lands in my hands.

  Alex's mouth falls open. "That actually worked."

  "Of course it did. Scots ingenuity never fails."

  "I'll never doubt a plan of yours ever again."