“Are you all right, Kathie?” he asked, one eye on the road, the other on me. I nodded and groped through my purse for some tissue. “Has something happened to upset you?”
I nodded again and blew my nose.
“Was it Archie?” he asked grimly, his jaw tight.
I looked at him, sniffled, and felt the hot tears well over my eyelashes. I nodded a third time.
He didn’t say anything to that, but eventually found a parking lot and parked, then wrapped one strong arm around me and heaved me onto his lap.
“All right, love, now you can tell me what he’s said to you.” I cried even harder. The steering wheel was digging into my hip.
There are many ways of determining how serious a man is about you, but one of the best I know is to weep all over his neck and see what he does. If he provides unconditional comfort, love, and support, hold on to him, he’s a keeper. If he tells you to buck up, makes excuses for whatever upset you, or hands you a handkerchief and tells you your nose is running onto his expensive jacket, you may want to rethink your relationship.
Iain was in the keeper category, a fact I found out when I sat in a dark parking lot and blubbered all over his nice tweed jacket. I didn’t stop to rationalize my need to seek comfort from him, I didn’t care that I was being overly sensitive and acting like an idiot, and I refused to recognize that my own insecurity in our relationship might have some bearing on the matter; all I wanted was reassurance that what we were doing wasn’t wrong. I clung to Iain and proceeded to tattle on his son between sobbing gulps of air.
“He said… I was a slut… and I’d be… flat on my back… for the next bloke soon. He doesn’t like me, Iain… I think we have to… face that fact.” Iain truly was a prince among men. He didn’t tell me to stop my sniveling, he didn’t tell me that Archie didn’t mean what he said, and he didn’t tell me I must have imagined it. He didn’t even say one word about the fact that I was watering his favorite jacket, or that I left him with a wet neck and soggy collar.
No, he just sat there murmuring lovely little things in my ear and stroking my back until I calmed down enough to converse without great heaving sobs.
It was that evening that I found out there was more to Iain than just a marvelous man with a drop-dead sexy voice, a wicked smile, and lovely eyes.
Oh, yes, there was more to him; there was two hundred and forty pounds of incredibly angry Scotsman. He was so very angry that I had felt a brief twinge of guilt at telling him what that rotten Archie had said to me. I honestly didn’t want to be the cause of an estrangement between the two.
“It’s all right, love,” he told me later as he dumped my two bags in his hotel room. “I’ll take care of it. It’s not as if I’ve never had a row with the lad before.
We’ve gone round about other things—this gives me the opportunity to clear the air.”
Now I did feel guilty. Here I was adding fuel to an already roaring fire and over something that wasn’t Archie’s doing. “Don’t bother clearing the air on my part,” I said, worrying that he would do something rash. “It really wasn’t that important—it just shocked me at the time. They’re just words.” Iain hoisted one of my bags onto the luggage rack and smiled at me. “Take your bath, love, and I’ll have a word with the wee man.” Uh oh. Wee man . It wasn’t what he said, it was the way he said it—with a carnivore smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. I toyed for a nanosecond with the idea of hanging around the room while he telephoned his son, but chickened out and scurried off to have a much-needed soak in the tub.
I fretted as I added triple the amount of bubble bath liquid to the water (there’s just something comforting about a huge mound of bubbles taking over the tub). What a fine start this romance was off to! One day of bliss, and wham!
A meeting with his son and instantly thousands of tiny stress fractures crept across the landscape of our fragile new relationship. I hadn’t the slightest idea where our future was going—I had a good idea of where I wanted it to go—but I did know one thing: stresses from family conflicts can kill even the best of romances. I stepped into the steaming water, beat back enough bubbles to leave an air passage, and sank down to chin level. I felt like crying again.
“You have’na drowned in there, have you?” Iain asked a short time later as he stood looking down at me. “Kathie? You are in there, lass?” Lass. He called me lass. The very last Scottish word I was waiting to hear from him, not that I had objections to being called his love, mind you. Lass . Oh, lord, I was going to cry!
I poked a hand through the dense cloud of lavender-scented bubbles and waggled it at him. He squatted down next to the tub, whapped at a few bubble tendrils that reached out to snare him, and took my hand. “Are you planning on hiding in there all night, love, or will you be joining me?”
“I’ll be out in a few minutes. Did you… ah… have your chat with Archie?”
“Aye, I did.”
That didn’t tell me a whole lot. I didn’t want to pry (well, OK, I did, but didn’t think I should), but I felt like I had the Wrath of Archie hanging over me, and wanted to do a little air-clearing of my own. My problem was that I didn’t know Iain well enough to judge just how angry he was with me for being the cause of dissension in his family.
“Are you angry?”
“Verra.”
My heart sank. It was over, it was all over. I would do what I could to try to patch things up, but I knew then that the whole delightful little romance was fractured beyond repair. “I’m very sorry, Iain. I should never have said anything—”
Iain tched and gave my hand a yank forward. I was propelled up and over the edge of the tub, my stomach resting on the cold edge as the rest of my upper works pressed up against him. I gave a squawk of outrage over my cold belly that was silenced when he put his hands on either side of my face, stared at me for a good long minute with those wonderfully expressive eyes, then kissed me very, very gently.
“You’re haverin‘, love. I’m not angry with you, I’m angry with that pillock son I spawned.”
If my heart hadn’t already melted into a big puddle of love-struck goo, it would have at that point. I had a hard time getting the words out, so overcome was I. “Havering? Pillock?”
“Aye, he’s a right pillock.”
I hadn’t a clue what a right pillock was, but I hoped it was something quite rude.
“So you’re not angry at me?”
Now he looked a bit peeved. “I just told you I wasn’t, you daft hen. You ought to know me better than that.”
Ah, but that was part of the problem. We hadn’t had enough time together to overcome those standard new-relationship doubts, and they kept getting in the way of my common sense.
“Oh. Would you… would you like to tell me about what you and he said to each other?”
“No. Will you be much longer?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether or not you’re going to spill the details about your talk with Archie. I can sit here and get very pruney if need be. I’m a patient person.” He shook his head, kissed me again, reassured me that he put the blame squarely on Archie’s head, where it was right and proper, and left me to the bubbly contemplation of what an incredibly nice man he was—but more important, I thought about what Cait had e-mailed me earlier, before I had checked out of my hotel.
Hold your horses, sister, am I reading between the lines right? Did you sleep with this dishy Scot? After you just met him? I know I told you to go ahead and break out the raincoats, but J never thought you would! You ‘re not that kind of a girl!
You never sleep around! What’s going on, Kathie? I want the truth !
I added a bit more hot water to my cooling tub. The truth was that I didn’t quite understand what was going on. Iain did something to me—had some miraculous, amazing effect on me that transformed me into someone else, someone uninhibited and free and completely comfortable with who I was, and who he was. I felt like I’d known h
im my entire life, and at the same time, tingles of excitement pricked my spine whenever I saw him. It wasn’t his voice, or his beautiful eyes, or even that lovely chest… it was all of him together, the whole package, the whole Iain. He made me feel complete.
I am not a conference slut, if that’s what you’re about to imply, I had e-mailed back to Cait, although I knew she wouldn’t think that of me. She knew how few romantic relationships I’d had, but I couldn’t blame her for being surprised by my unexpected level of comfort with Iain. I was as surprised as she was, but I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. As long as Iain didn’t have a problem with our sudden state of togetherness, I was happy.
I spent a little more time cataloging his many fine qualities, but finally had to get out of the tub or turn into one giant gelatinous blob. I dried off, brushed my teeth, donned my most exotic nightwear (an oversized T-shirt), and poked my head out of the bathroom door.
Iain was stretched out on the bed, his hands clasped behind his head, gazing up at the ceiling. He looked contemplative. He looked a bit tense. He looked stark naked.
This last did quite a bit for raising my spirits. How very thoughtful of him to think of me!
“Common courtesy requires I return the favor.” I smiled, moving to stand at the foot of the bed. He looked down the long length of his body at me, a puzzled frown gracing his manly brow.
“What’s that you’ve got on, then?”
“Minnie Mouse.”
“Teh.” He made that noise in the back of his throat again. “If it’s planning to sleep in this bed you are, you’d best be removing it.” A fascinating bit of Iain Trivia bit me: When he’s under me influence of a strong emotion, his brogue gets thicker. He was still annoyed about Archie, I knew, but I couldn’t help but wonder if this reaction was limited to just anger, or if any strong emotion would trigger it. I felt I owed it to the linguistic community to check out this phenomenon. For purely scientific reasons I peeled off Minnie and plopped myself down next to him, nudging him and instructing him to roll over. He gave me a curious look, but complied.
“Now,” I said, enjoying the vast spread of Iain before me.
There was so much to touch, I didn’t know where to start. “We’re going to conduct a little experiment.”
He stacked his hands together and rested his chin on them. “What sort of experiment?”
I smiled at his behind. “You know, you have a really nice patootie.”
“Patootie?” He tipped his head and looked over his shoulder at me. “What’s that, then?”
I scooted forward until I was kneeling between his knees, flexed my fingers once or twice, then took two handfuls of firm, muscled flesh, and squeezed.
“Ah. Patootie.” He chuckled while I bent down and kissed the sleek line of muscle that indented on either side of his hips.
“So many men either don’t have much of a behind at all,” I mused as I gave either cheek a little love bite. His muscles flexed beneath my hands. My smile broadened. “Or they have an unattractive one, one that would be hard put to inspire joy in the eye of the beholder, but you, sir, have an almost perfect specimen of patootiness.”
“Do I, now? I appreciate the kind words, love, but I’d much rather look at yours.” He tried to roll over, but I threw myself down the length of his back and clutched the bedspread beneath us.
“Stay put. I haven’t started the experiment yet.” I nibbled his ear just for a few seconds, just because it was there and asking for nibbling, but mostly because I liked the way his breath quickened when I did it. Beneath me, his back and shoulders tensed even tighter, then slowly relaxed down into the mattress.
“You’re not conducting experiments on my…”
“Patootie?” I offered.
“Aye.”
I gave it a fond glance, and just one little squeeze as I slid off him, adjusting his legs so I could sit between them.
“No, although that is an interesting suggestion, and one I’ll file away for a rainy day. No, this experiment is quite simple. I want you to say ‘She sells sea shells by the seashore.’”
I put my hands on either calf, sliding them slowly up toward his thighs.
“What? Why would you be having me say that?”
“Just say it.”
Iain looked skeptical, but started to repeat it. “She sells sea shells by the… ah bluidy hell !”
“She sells sea shells by the seashore,” I repeated, raising my head up from where I was licking the back of his knee. His thigh muscles tightened as a little tremor rippled through him, but he sucked in a big breath and relaxed again.
“If I say it, will you do that again?”
I smiled and rasped my tongue up higher on his leg, licking my way in to the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Advancing the knowledge of science had its own rewards.
“She sells sea… lord, Kathie, do you have any idea what you‘re doin’ to me ?” I traced the path of the interesting little vein that runs from the back side of a man to the front. His lovely behind tensed as I admired the scenery.
“She sells sea shells…” I reminded him, scooting up farther until my lips were nuzzling the small of his back, following the lovely sweep of muscles as they curved from his behind into the swells and valleys of his back. I let my fingers go wild.
That big chest expanded beneath him as he took a deep breath. “By t’sea ah, god, love, dinna stop !”
“Fascinating,” I commented, enjoying the feeling of his muscles trembling beneath me. I nibbled and licked the small of his back, enjoying the taste and scent of his warm skin before starting up his spine, kissing each vertebra, watching with increasing satisfaction as his smooth, bronzed flesh rippled beneath my lips. “Absolutely fascinating. I wonder what would happen if I were to…” I nuzzled his hair aside and licked the spot at the back of his neck at the same time I reached lower.
He said something, but I don’t know what it was. He was speaking in Gaelic by that point. My experiments that night were lengthy, but I’m happy to say, conclusive—it was any strong emotion that made his brogue, amongst other things, thicker.
Life started out looking very hopeful the following morning, but that was before the other shoe dropped.
“It’ll be good to be home,” Iain sighed as he whipped through a roundabout with a skill that didn’t fail to impress me. We were in his car in the north of England, heading for the Highlands of Scotland. I gazed out the window, my heart singing a happy little song about following dreams and being with the dishiest Scot alive. I had survived Archie. I was with Iain. I was about to step off into a great adventure. And I had discovered that when Iain put his mind to it, he could make me, too, speak in a brogue.
Things, I thought to myself as Iain squeezed my knee and gave me a roguish grin, were looking up after all.
“You’ll like the farm, love, although God only knows what sort of a state I’ll be finding it in. David’s been minding it while I’ve been gone, but he’s not much of a hand alone with the sheep.”
David. Oh, lord, I’d forgotten about David, Iain’s youngest son, the son who lived in the next town over from his. David was younger than Archie by five years, and very, very close to his father.
I closed my eyes in horror, my heart’s happy little song withering upon its lips and dying a cruel, lonely death. David. I could only imagine the sort of reception I would receive from him .
Chapter Four
I had always thought I had been to Scotland before, but Iain informed me I was wrong. I’d been to Edinburgh. It wasn’t the same thing at all.
“Scotland,” he lectured as we drove northward, “would be lost without the Highlands.”
“I’m sure the people in the lowlands and the borders and the islands and all of the other areas appreciate that sentiment.”
He grinned. “Aye, well, that’s doubtful, but it’s the truth I’m telling you. The Highlands are the heart of Scotland.”
He didn’t need to sell me on the Hig
hlands. I hadn’t read all those Scottish romances for nothing!
“This area now,” he waved a hand at passing moorland, “this area is pretty enough to look at, but there’s no real heart to it.” I looked out of the window as we sped northward. There were sheep and cattle grazing in pastures, while farther off were the famed windswept moors, resplendent with white heather and Scotch Broom. In the distance, dark, smoky green-purple hills marked the beginnings of the forest. Every now and again I’d see a glint of silver flashing through the green, indicating a loch.
It was all a bit gothic and Jane Eyre-ish. I sighed happily, loving every mile that took me deeper into the heart of Scotland… and Iain.
“Tell me about your farm,” I prodded him after we had made a quick stop for lunch. The trip from Manchester to the Spey Valley was about six hours, and Iain reckoned we’d be at his home right about teatime. I wanted to be prepared for meeting David. Forewarned is forearmed and all that.
“What is it you want to know?”
Men. Always so keen with descriptions. “Well, for starters, how big is it?”
“Close on eight hundred acres.”
“Ah.” I waited. Nothing. You’d think he’d be bursting to tell me about his farm. If our situations were reversed, I’d be telling him everything I possibly could.
I reflected on that for a moment. We had been driving for two hours and it seemed to me that I had done just that—told him everything there was to know about my life in Seattle, my books, my reason for coming to England, even about my little problem with regards to Scotsmen (something I suspected I would regret to my dying days, since he knew he only had to thicken that brogue to bring me to my knees). But he hadn’t responded with a similar glimpse into his life. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk, it was simply that he wasn’t particularly forthcoming with all of the details I desperately wanted to hear.
It was still early days, yet, I reminded myself as we drove northward. Just because we had spent two nights together didn’t automatically open up the door to his heart and soul. I was sure that as we grew closer, his reticence to share his thoughts would disappear.