The Great Scot Read online

  “I’m no’ exactly at a place in my work load where I can stop and sit. In fact, I need to get back to it.” He shifted his weight and unfolded his arms and she went from hopeful to panicked all over again.

  “I’ll be glad to help.” She really had to learn some impulse control around this man. But never let it be said that Erin MacGregor didn’t go the distance to get what she wanted. “With…whatever it is you’re doing.”

  “You’re offering to help me paint?”

  She nodded immediately. “Sure. I’d like to look around the place anyway. Maybe you can give me the nickel tour on the way to…wherever it is you’re painting. And we can talk while we work. You can ask me about whatever concerns you might have. And when we’re done, we can sit down and look over the agreement specifically.”

  His gaze narrowed and he was far from smiling, but if she wasn’t mistaken, the light that had entered his eyes now was one of faint amusement. Or maybe bemusement was a better word. It didn’t matter, as long as he let her in the door. A step forward was a step closer to a signed agreement.

  She held his gaze directly, keeping a confident, sunny smile in place. As if she did this kind of thing all the time to placate her clients.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he stepped back and waved a paint flecked forearm in front of her. “Come in, then.”

  Not the heartiest of welcomes, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, now could they? Erin stepped past him through the door and with one look knew she’d do a hell of a lot more than paint walls if it meant getting his signature on that lease agreement. The foyer area was extensive, opening upward two stories, dominated by a wide staircase leading to the second floor landing, and accentuated with a stunning, sparkling chandelier. The floor beneath her feet was slightly uneven hand-laid stone, most of it covered by multiple layers of heavy, ancient Persian rugs that were all the more interesting for how worn the coloring was in the intricately patterned design. She wondered how many generations of Chisholms had walked across them.

  “Impressive,” she said, never more sincere, as she slowly turned around and took it all in. Only when she got back around to facing the staircase did she realize Dylan was already halfway up, assuming she was right behind him. Swallowing the myriad questions that were already springing to mind, she turned her attention back to more immediate matters. Namely her host. And her newest job. Painting.

  Dylan didn’t wait for her at the second story landing either, and she had to hurry to keep up with him. And it was a good thing she did, as he turned left at the top of the second flight and disappeared through one of two sets of double doors just as she topped the last riser. Apparently each wing of the house was deep enough to have two parallel hallways running the length of them. Both sides of each hallway were lined with doors, though not evenly spaced apart, meaning some rooms were larger than others. The heck with a bed and breakfast, he could have opened a freaking hotel in this place.

  The hallway was wide, carpeted with throw rugs, much the same as the foyer, which would be a nightmare for mobility with the cameras and crew people. It was lit with smaller chandelier fixtures hanging down in regular intervals and a massive window at the very end. More lighting would be required, she noted, looking at the paintings, mirrors, and wall sconces, some more ornate and gaudy than others, that filled the wall space between each door.

  The whole effect was rather overwhelming, and she stood there, all but gaping as she took it all in. No wonder they had a hard time maintaining the place. Just this one hallway alone was a monster, and there were four of them on this side of the house alone, two upper, and two lower. Plus the rooms in the central part. She couldn’t imagine one family, much less one man, maintaining all of it. One thing was for certain, though, depending on the condition of the rooms behind those doors, there was no question the place was quite big enough to house their entire production.

  She almost missed it when Dylan made a sharp turn and didn’t enter either hallway, but opened a door and began climbing yet another set of stairs that led, presumably, up to the third floor of the central section of the house. This staircase was far more narrow, straight up, with closed walls on either side. However her attention wasn’t on the walls, the jumble of paintings hung all over them, or the fact that the stairs were dimly lit with wall sconces only, no overhead lighting. No, her attention was pretty much riveted on the very fine backside of a certain Scotsman climbing the stairs in front of her, said backside showcased quite nicely in faded denim. He must do a lot of stair climbing, she thought, admiring the flex and play of his hamstring muscles as he charged up the stairs.

  So intent was her focus, when he stopped short just at the top, she was unable to halt her forward motion in time and wobbled precariously on the next-to-top stair, grabbing for the hand-railing to keep from toppling backward.

  Before that could happen, he caught her by the arms and pulled her up next to him, wedging them both in the narrow doorway at the top. Suddenly short of breath, she tried for a laugh, but it came out sounding far more like a soft little moan. Probably because it was.

  “You seem to have a wee problem with balance,” he said, that intent gaze of his directly on hers, but no hint of expression otherwise.

  “I—I’m normally not such a klutz, really. I even went to college on a sports scholarship. Honest. Team captain.” She was babbling when she should be extricating herself from his arms, and from the tight space they were presently sharing…but her body wasn’t exactly following her brain’s orders. Of course, that could be because her brain wasn’t entirely certain she should be going anywhere, either, especially since there were all kinds of benefits to staying right where she was.

  Like the way the hard length of him felt so incredibly good against the not-so-hard length of her. Better than she’d imagined, better than that brief moment in the pub. He was solid, and strong, and she felt absurdly safe and in absolute danger all at the same time. Her heart was pounding…and she realized he wasn’t making any attempt to move either.

  “Your clothes,” he said, at length.

  “Yes?” she breathed, barely managing to get the words out, as images of him tearing them off and—

  “Ye’ll get paint on them.”

  “I—oh. Right.”

  “I’ll lend you an auld shirt of mine to cover up.”

  “Yes, that, that would be great. Super. Thanks.” She made a valiant attempt at an insouciant smile. Of course he wasn’t thinking of tearing her clothes off. It was far more typical of a man to want to cover her up. In fact, he was probably wondering why he hadn’t just let her tumble back down the stairs. Probably afraid of the lawsuit she’d file.

  “Come on,” he said, and stepped into a short hallway, disappearing into one of the two rooms on the left. As if he hadn’t been remotely affected by their little moment.

  Because he wasn’t affected, you idiot. You’re the only affected one here. She sighed. “Afflicted is more like it,” she muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She looked up to find him standing in front of her once more, a paint splattered, white dress shirt dangling from his fingers. Would she ever not look like a complete fool in front of this man? She took the shirt from him. “Thanks.” She felt the quality of the linen and glanced back up at him. “Nice work shirts you have.”

  He shrugged. “No other use for them now.” He turned and walked into one of the two rooms that had paint buckets sitting in the middle of the floor. “Let’s get to it then.”

  She slipped the shirt on over her own and rolled up the sleeves. Yes, she thought, let’s get over your fixation with the hot Scot and get back to business. She surreptitiously lifted her arm so she could breathe in his scent from the linen.

  And she would. Any minute now.

  Just as soon as she figured out how.

  Chapter 5

  The instant he had a spare minute to call his own, his brother was going to hear from him and quite loudly. Not that he hadn
’t thought of contacting Erin himself. But he’d like to think that was his conclusion, drawn after a long, sleepless night of deep contemplation about the business ramifications of her offer. But the truth was, he’d had a hard time putting her out of his mind.

  It was bad enough he’d had to turn even a portion of his family’s ancestral home into an inn. He had zero desire to turn Glenshire over to some American film crew. After all the blood, sweat, and tears he’d literally poured into both restoration and renovation, they’d come storming in, setting up all their cameras and cables, causing untold damage in the process. No. He’d accepted the commercialization of their Chisholm heritage. He wouldn’t further sell out their integrity by allowing it to be used as a backdrop to some crass dating show.

  But the devil on his other shoulder wouldn’t stop whispering that if the check was big enough, and they agreed in writing to repair anything they damaged, how could he not at least hear her out? And, though it felt unseemly, there was no getting around the fact that the promotion for future bookings was something to consider in getting the bed and breakfast off the ground. Even with Daisy’s marketing savvy, Glenbuie wasn’t exactly a hotbed of tourism. The television show could change all that.

  He’d fallen asleep last night with the battle still waging, only to have Ms. MacGregor play a starring role in his dreams. Which had nothing whatsoever to do with television programming or keeping four hundred years of Chisholm history from crumbling to dust, and far more to do with the images he’d wrestled with most of the way home last night. Images that followed him into sleep if the rock hard state of his body when he woke up was any indication.

  So he’d steamed those confusing images of Erin’s ready smile, her spontaneous laughter, her natural joie de vivre from his mind with a long morning shower, intent on putting his thoughts back into focus. In the end, however, one thing had led to another and it had taken a bit more creative use of soap and suds, taking the matter in hand, so to speak, to finally make that happen. He should have just done that the night before as he’d planned. Maybe then he’d have at least gotten a good night’s sleep.

  Then, bang, there she was again, right on his doorstep, first thing in the morning, lease agreement clutched in hand, and an entirely too cheerful smile on her pixie face. He hadn’t blushed since he was a very young lad, but it had taken a considerable toll on his willpower to hold her gaze steadily for more than one second and not flame up, as he was incapable of not thinking about the very different version of her he’d been envisioning a mere hour or so earlier, while he’d been…doing what he’d been doing.

  Hell, even now his body was stirring just thinking about it. He angled himself more toward the wall. Just in case. What the bloody hell had gotten into him anyway? He’d all but run up the stairs in front of her just to get enough distance between them to will himself back under control. Only to get trapped with her all but plastered against him back there in the doorway. She hadn’t seemed to have the least clue of the rather insanely bawdy direction his thoughts had taken, but then he’d been so disconcerted by the whole thing, he’d all but shoved one of his old shirts in her face and escaped to his paint brush and drip tray.

  His sole concern was supposed to be what to do about the bloody lease offer, which was the only thing he should be considering leasing out. He slapped the brush against the wall and dragged his recalcitrant thoughts back to the real business at hand.

  “Oh!” came a surprised gasp from behind him.

  He turned to find her looking quite put out. Though, given the rather large splotch of pale blue paint presently oozing its way into the open neckline of his dress shirt, and between her breasts, he couldn’t say he blamed her.

  She looked down, then up at him, but rather than complain, she laughed and sort of thrust her chest out in an exaggerated fashion pose. “And blue is so not my color.”

  Dylan found his lips twitching. She was just so…real. His gaze was drawn back to the splotch. “I don’t know,” he said, considering, then immediately bit back the rest of what he’d been about to say, which would have sounded suspiciously like flirting. He didn’t flirt. Or hadn’t, anyway, in a very long time. He certainly had no business being compelled now. Erin was an obstacle of sorts, and witty banter of any fashion was not the way to clear that particular hurdle. She already had more of an edge than she realized. He’d be a fool to give so much as a toehold more when there was negotiating to be done.

  Belatedly realizing he was still staring, he grabbed a rag from the pile on the floor. “Here. If you get it off now, likely it won’t leave a mark.”

  She took the rag and plucked his shirt away from her skin so she could scrape off the offending blob. It was only after several moments of watching her dab at the spot between her breasts that he realized he was still staring. He quickly jerked his attention back to his own paint brush and the stretch of window trim awaiting his attention.

  “How long have you been working on renovating the place?”

  Yes, innocuous banter. Good. Anything to distract him from the fact that he’d noticed that while she might not have a sexy swing to her hips, she had far more of a curve to her bosom than he’d have suspected. And if the nipples pressing against his old shirt were any indication, quite perky, too. He cleared his throat and stared at the wall. “I’m fairly certain a Chisholm has been renovating some part of this place since the moment they laid the final stone.” He glanced in her direction, testing himself. “Perhaps even before that.”

  She shot him a grin before turning back to her section of wall. There was a blue smear across her cheek, her hair stuck out at odd angles, apparently on purpose as it had been much the same yesterday, and she seemed entirely unconcerned with how she came off. Appearance-wise anyway. He was already quite certain when it came to her business mien, she was more than concerned. Or she wouldn’t be wearing his shirt and slopping paint all over herself.

  And looking somehow quite charming doing so. Get hold of yourself, lad.

  “How much of the place, overall, are you turning into the B & B?”

  Her questions seemed casually asked, but he knew they were anything but. Calculating her offer most likely. “The upstairs wing on the north side—that was the hallway we entered earlier—and these three central loft rooms. Fourteen rooms all total. Various sizes.”

  She made a noncommittal noise and didn’t look up, focusing instead on keeping the brush steady as she drew it down alongside the trim. He saw that when she was really concentrating, she bit the corner of her bottom lip. Which was entirely alluring. On the right kind of woman, of course.

  She turned and caught him looking at her, but didn’t react in any overt way. “What about the other first floor on this side? Any plans to expand further if things go well? Do you plan to use anything downstairs?”

  So many questions. All of them about business. He should have been happier about that. He attacked his trim with renewed determination. “The rooms along the second upper hallway are in various stages of renovation, one whole section has been completely shut off for years. I don’t foresee the need to add them to the list of available rooms, but I suppose if I were to change my mind, I’d start with the more readily available rooms there. The first floor in this wing has only one common hallway. The rooms below are considerably larger, meant for social gatherings, some in better shape than others. The plan is to open the main parlor, situated near the front of the wing, closest to the central part of the house. The kitchens are located in the central rear, so serving breakfast there makes the most sense.”

  “No dining room, then?”

  He paused, looked over his shoulder, but she was concentrating on the sill now. “We have several, the smallest of which seats a modest thirty—or would if there were furnishings in it. At present, it’s closed off. Sagging walls, sinking floors. A common problem with a lot of older structures and this one is no different. Anyway, I felt the parlor had a more intimate ambience, suitable to a bed and breakfast,
with several small tables set up for a more private atmosphere. Guests can also take their morning meal on the side portico with a view of the mountain range.”

  “It all sounds lovely,” she said, sounding quite sincere and likely she was. Yet he easily imagined her mental calculator busily toting up numbers in her head.

  “Across from the parlor there is also a library, more of a study really, but on a rather larger scale comparatively speaking, that has been put to rights. It will be available during the day should anyone care to sit and read, play a hand of cards, or whatnot. But otherwise, the other rooms in the lower part of the north wing will remain off view. As will the entire south wing.”

  “That is the family wing, I take it?”

  “It’s where I reside, if that’s what you’re asking, aye. However, most of it has been likewise shut off. There is no way to tackle the entirety of Glenshire, so we preserve what we can, and seal off, at least temporarily, what we canno’. It’s the only way to keep her afloat.”

  “I know I said it before, but it’s such a huge undertaking for one person.” She let out a small laugh. “I guess that’s the understatement of the century.”

  His lips quirked, but he kept to his work. “Aye. Several of them, in fact.”

  They spent a few moments in companionable silence, and he was surprised at the urge he had to fill that silence with some questions of his own. He was equally surprised to discover that, inquisition notwithstanding, he was rather enjoying this particular disruption of his work day, much as he had his trip into town last night. It felt…good to have someone around. Someone who wasn’t Letty Dalrymple, anyway.

  “So, when you open your doors to guests, will you bring someone in to help with the cooking and room cleaning?”

  He turned. “Rather sexist, don’t you think?”