Meet Me in Scotland Read online

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  Emma woke slowly, feeling rested and contented. Things were a little hazy. Where was she? Whose body did she cling to? Why did she take such comfort in the arms around her? Slowly she became aware of the location of her hand and what lay underneath. An erection.

  She rocketed to her feet, fully awake, appalled at what she’d been doing. Had she been rubbing him? Certainly not, but her hand had been on his . . . on his . . . ohmigod, his crotch. She wiped at a bit of drool from her face and saw in horror that she’d left some spittle on his jacket, where she’d been cuddled up to him. “Bloody hell,” she muttered.

  Gabriel came awake, looking dazed, too. “What’s the matter? Is the tow here?”

  “No. Just a bad dream.” It was the truth. She couldn’t admit to snuggling with him. Although she suspected he knew, because he eyed her closely. She glanced at his crotch. Oh, why did I do that? Even more dismaying, his hard-on didn’t look diminished in the least. In fact it looked . . . bigger.

  Her mother’s teachings about men in the morning were very clear. An erection in the morning is normal and should be expected. It doesn’t mean that he’s necessarily been stimulated by thoughts of you. But it also doesn’t mean that you can’t take advantage of his morning erection to get an orgasm. Emma had been fourteen and appalled by her mother’s info dump.

  But Emma wasn’t fourteen anymore. If she had to admit the truth, she was a little curious about what he looked like. How he felt. And gratified she’d played some part in causing such a response in him, no matter what facts her mother had spouted. And she was . . .

  She licked her lips. Turned on. Oh, God.

  Emma peeked at Gabriel’s face and saw that the sadistic womanizer was blushing. Blushing. Cheeks red, sheepish look on his face. Why was Gabriel, the rogue, blushing?

  “Emma, ye’re staring again.” He pulled the quilt over his manhood.

  It was best to change the subject. She plastered on her politest smile. “What time is it? It’s still dark out.”

  “It’s well past seven,” he said, apparently playing along with Let’s Pretend This Never Happened.

  “How about some tea?” she said.

  He nodded. “Tea sounds fantastic. I wonder if the old guy has some.”

  “Great. Why don’t you check and get it started?” She heard him mutter Princess under his breath as she flounced off to the bathroom. Hopefully, her drool on his jacket would dry before she came back.

  She dawdled for quite a while in the restroom but finally had to emerge. “Is the tea ready?”

  “Nay, just coffee. I hope you like yours black. I couldn’t find cream or sugar.”

  “Savages,” she muttered. That’s what the Scots were. No tea. No cream. No sugar. “No, thank you.”

  “Just as well,” he said. “There is only one mug, anyway.” He took a sip of his coffee and went back to the rocker with a pad of paper.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Writing the old guy a note, in case he doesn’t get back before we leave.”

  “What for?”

  “Thanking him for the use of his cabin.”

  She felt stupid. Plus, she hadn’t anticipated that Gabriel knew anything about polite manners.

  Just as he took another sip from his mug, there was a knock at the door. He went to answer it.

  A young man with bright red cheeks and red hair stood there. “Dr. MacGregor?”

  “Aye.”

  “I got you pulled out of the ditch.” Red handed him a clipboard. “Sign here, please. You’d better hurry and get down there. Your auto is blocking the roadway.”

  Emma rushed to pull on her shoes, anxious to see Claire. And to get away from Gabriel. Even though they had a drive ahead of them.

  Gabriel held her coat open for her. Another surprise. He could be a gentleman, too? Instead of stepping into it, she snatched it away from him. Not to be rude, but so she didn’t have to be beholden to him. After she slid into it, she headed for the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she got another little shock: Gabriel had folded the Cardinal quilt and righted the bed. More civilized than the man I remember.

  He followed behind her but stopped when he got outside the door and looked around.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “I don’t see an outbuilding.”

  “So?”

  “Then where did the old guy get off to?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the outbuilding is on the other side of the hill.” She turned back, and Red was halfway back to his lorry. She followed after him.

  “I guess.” Gabriel caught up to her. “When we get to the Land Rover, make sure you switch into dry socks again.”

  “Will you ever stop telling me what to do?”

  “Doctor. Remember?”

  “Bossy,” she said.

  “Princess,” he shot back.

  At the vehicle, Gabriel stuffed some bills into Red’s hand. The kid tried to refuse them, but Gabriel insisted. She got in and traded out her socks, shoving her soaked sneakers under the vent.

  When Gabriel started the Land Rover, she turned on the radio and chose a nice station with a soothing piano. He sighed loudly.

  “What?” she said. “Need some head-banging music to get you going?”

  “I don’t mind a little classical music . . . if I’m going off to sleep. I’d like to stay awake and keep my wits about me. I expect we’ll have an icy ride. Can’t be too safe.”

  Considering the auto had just been pulled out of the ditch, she couldn’t argue. She pointed to the radio. “By all means.”

  He scanned the channels until he found a nineties pop station.

  She stared out the window, certain the sun would come up soon. In the meantime, she worked at putting Gabriel MacGregor out of her mind. Being near him had stressed her sensibilities. The next person she planned to speak to was Claire Douglas Russo. And no one else.

  Finally, the sun made a brief appearance before slipping behind the clouds. At least Emma could get a better lay of the land now. It was vast, desolate, and beautiful. Snow either covered or dusted everything, and she wondered what it might look like in the bloom of summer. Her ramblings helped her to further ignore Gabriel while he hummed and sang along. She couldn’t help but notice that he had a nice voice, though.

  Sometime later, when they came over a hill, Gabriel slowed the Land Rover and pointed. “Down there. Gandiegow.” His voice was laced with a harshness it hadn’t had earlier.

  The small village lay below, tucked into the curve of the sea under the rocky bluff. From this angle she could see the rooftops, most of them bright red with some gray ones scattered in between. Claire had told her there were only sixty-three houses in Gandiegow. Small by any standard.

  “What a charming place,” she said.

  Gabriel turned off the radio. “Aye, charming.” His sarcastic tone belied his true sentiment. One glance at him and she knew he’d put his armor on as if going into battle.

  But she couldn’t let herself care. They were here at last. Gabriel eased the auto down the hill and pulled the car into a parking lot on the far side of the town, where eight other vehicles sat.

  “Why are we parking here?”

  “It’s a closed community. No roads in the town, no vehicles past this point. We walk from here.”

  Her arms stilled ached from yesterday after dragging her heavy luggage.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get your bags.” It sounded more like, I’ll do this one last thing. Then I’ll be done with ye.

  She shook her head. Since when did she hear deep Scottish accents in her brain?

  “I’ll take no argument from you today.” He stepped out and slammed his door.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, getting out, as well. A gannet flew above them and cackled. The waves crashed ag
ainst the seawall. And she waited. “What happened to Mr. Good-Humored?”

  He unlocked the back and frowned at her. His lips parted, and for a second he looked like he might tell her. But then he glanced away. “Nothing’s the matter.”

  She chalked it up to him being tired. Maybe he hadn’t slept well with her clinging to him like cellophane throughout the night.

  “It’s this way.” He pulled her suitcases out. “The restaurant.” He took off down the path.

  The sidewalk had been shoveled and salted. The path forked and they headed toward the coastline with a long dock off to the east. She stared down the boardwalk at the buildings and cottages, which looked at if they were only inches from the sea. The first building they passed had a large sign that read THE FISHERMAN.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “The pub.” Gabriel gestured down the boardwalk. “The General Store is that way. In case you need to buy some boots.” He shot her a pointed look. “And ye do.”

  He stopped in front of a three-and-a-half-story white building with a sharp slanted roof with plenty of windows. “There’s no sign yet, but they’re going to call it Dominic and Claire’s Pastas & Pastries.”

  “Well, isn’t this quaint?” Emma said.

  “Not quite the savages you thought we were?” He raised his eyebrows at her.

  “I get cranky when I can’t have my morning tea.”

  “Of course you do. You Brits are such an emotional lot.”

  As he held the door open, Emma stepped inside, trying to think up a scathing comeback. And she almost missed it . . .

  A pot rocketed across the room, banging against the wall just inches from Gabriel’s head. “What the hell?”

  Chapter Three

  Emma stepped to the side as several people ran for the door, pushing past her to get outside. She saw Dominic glance to where the pot hit, but he didn’t acknowledge either her or Gabriel. Instead he turned back to his wife, who’d lobbed it in the first place. “Claire, you’ve got to stop this.”

  Wild-eyed, Claire threw a plate at him this time. It shattered against the wall. “You’re the backside of an Italian mule.” She picked up a Goliath-sized metal spoon and slung it at Dominic’s groin. “You always have to have your way.”

  The spoon didn’t meet its mark, but it did hit Dominic’s crotch-protecting hand. “Dammit, Claire. That hurt.” He rubbed his knuckles.

  She picked up a butcher knife and waved it. “Be grateful ’twasn’t yere balls.”

  Emma stepped forward, afraid Dominic might indeed be parted from his testicles. “Put the knife down, Claire.”

  Recognition skidded across Claire’s face. She withered, all the fire going out of her, as if someone had turned off the burner. The knife slipped from her hand, falling to the counter. “Emma,” she breathed, and ran to her.

  As they embraced, Emma glanced over at Dominic.

  “Crazy Scots,” Dominic muttered. “Always full of passion, but the wrong kind.”

  Claire’s head shot up. “Keep yere opinions to yereself, Dominic Russo. Just so we’re clear, from this moment on, ye’ve been cut off. Ye’ll not be enjoying my scones anytime soon.” She’d slung it across the room at him, too, saying it as if it was the most sexual thing in the world. She took Emma’s arm and strutted for the stairs, that girl making sure her tail end stayed in Dominic’s line of sight.

  Emma saw the moment when Oh, shit, what have I done? crossed Dominic’s face. He took in his wife’s curvaceous body and his shoulders sank like a hungry man’s with the proverbial feast being cleared away. Poor chap.

  Emma followed Claire up the narrow steps. They didn’t stop on the next floor at the grand dining room, but continued on up the next flight.

  “What is going on with you two?” Emma demanded.

  “Let’s get you settled,” Claire said as she tromped up each stair.

  “What about my bags?” Emma said.

  Claire pulled out her phone. “Gabriel, bring up Emma’s things.” She hung up without so much as a please or a thank you.

  Claire went on. “Later, I’ll show you around town.”

  Emma grabbed her arm. “No. We’re going to talk. You’re going to tell me why you were launching the kitchenwares at your husband’s head.”

  “Dominic is a stubborn jackass.” Claire opened the door to a flat. They walked into a warm parlor, decorated a little shabbily in blue chintz, but it felt homey. Claire burst into tears.

  Emma closed the door and hugged her friend fiercely.

  “Oh, sweeting,” Emma said. “We’ll work it out. We always do.”

  “But you came here so we can fix you. Not my jerk of a husband,” Claire wailed.

  “We’ll just have to multitask,” Emma declared.

  That won her a little smile, but it didn’t last. The gravity of the scene from downstairs returned quickly, sobering both of them.

  There was a knock at the door. Gabriel stuck his head inside. “Is it safe to come in?” He stared directly at Emma.

  She stared right back, hoping he could read her mind. “Yes, come.” She wondered how much Gabriel, the rascal, had known beforehand about the Russos’ problems.

  Gabriel pushed the door all the way open and wheeled her bags into the parlor. He put his hands into his pockets, looking uncomfortable.

  Despite Gabriel not warning her, Emma kind of felt bad for him in that moment. “Thank you for hauling my luggage up to the third floor. I don’t think I could’ve managed it on my own.”

  “No problem.”

  She wondered if she should offer him something. A drink? A tip? Breakfast? A right good kiss?

  “I’m off.” Gabriel nodded his head to both of them and left.

  Emma sat on the worn blue sofa and patted the spot next to her for Claire. “Come and tell me what’s going on. You know I’ll do anything to help.” But then she amended her offer. “Except give you marriage advice. I’m the last person in the world to counsel you about your relationship with Dominic.”

  Claire pushed back her red hair. “There’s nothing wrong with us that a good skillet to his head won’t fix.”

  “What do you want that he won’t give you?” Emma asked.

  “A baby.” Claire burst into tears, again. “We’ve been married ten years, Emms. Don’t you think it’s time? Every day, my ovaries shrivel a little bit more.” Claire put her hand on her abdomen. “Nothing more than dried-up raisins by now.”

  “Claire.” Emma grabbed her hand and pulled her closer. “What can I do?”

  Claire broke into a sad smile. “Hold Dominic down while I ravish him?”

  Emma hugged her. “You’ve got plenty of time. You’re only thirty. Lots of women have babies well into their forties.”

  “But I’m tired of waiting. I want a bairn now.”

  Everyone knew about Claire, how she’d been baby crazy her whole life. Cooking and baking—that was her job. The only thing she’d ever really wanted was to be a mama. When Claire and Dominic had married, Emma had assumed Claire would start popping out moppets nine months later. No one had thought they’d still be childless at this point. Emma had assumed something was medically wrong.

  “Are you two capable? I mean, have you been checked?”

  “Right as rain,” Claire said. “Dominic is as randy as ever. He has condoms stockpiled in every room of the flat.”

  Emma’s cheeks flared and she turned away. She couldn’t let Claire see. She’d lied to Claire forever about her own sex life and now wasn’t the time to come clean. It was one thing to make up a bunch of sex stories about herself, but it was a completely different matter to glimpse inside someone’s real sex life. Something that had happened way too often to Emma as a marriage therapist.

  “Dominic says we can’t afford to have a babe right now,” Claire continued. “I think he�
��s being ridiculous. Poor people have children all the time. Why should we be any different?”

  Emma knew better than to offer money. Claire and Dominic had a stubborn streak that ran a kilometer wide when it came to what they considered charity.

  “Well, sweeting,” Emma said, “I’m with you. I will be your yes-friend until the end of time. If you want to have a baby, I think Dominic should go along with it.”

  Claire jumped up and paced the room. “That gorgeous, pigheaded Italian.” With each step, she got more wound up. “I’m finally back in my hometown. I’m ready, willing, and able.” She gestured wildly to the room. “Gandiegow is the perfect place to start a family. It’s time. Right?”

  Emma nodded in agreement.

  “So what if the restaurant books say we don’t have two shillings to rub together,” Claire added. “Love is all that counts.”

  At that moment, Dominic dropped a platter or something; it could be heard all the way upstairs. Along with a litany of swear words, which reverberated through the ductwork. Claire slumped onto the blue couch, too. “What happens when love isn’t enough?”

  Seeing Claire crushed broke Emma’s heart. She hadn’t planned on hiding out long in Scotland, but she would have to stay for as long as Claire needed her. Clearing the air with Mum and Dad will have to wait.

  Emma put her arm around her friend and Claire laid her head on her shoulder. Just like we’re eleven again.

  As girls, they’d bonded over being outsiders. Claire, the young Scottish lass from a small town, thrown into the hustle and bustle of London. Emma, left alone and adrift in her own famous family, to be raised by nannies who revolved in and out of her life. That is, until Claire’s mom, Nessa, had come to be their housekeeper and brought Claire, and a sense of family, with her.

  Emma, though, had something to say to her best friend. “We need to have a serious talk about your temper, Claire. You know how it gets you into trouble.”

  “I can’t help myself,” Claire said.

  Emma patted her arm. “You’re going to have to try. You mustn’t go waving knives around.” Not that throwing pots was much better. “Dominic could’ve gotten hurt.”