Lord of the Isles: International Billionaires VIII: The Scots (5 page)

This time, he ignored her.

Because this time was the only time he allowed himself to enjoy.

Stepping into the shower, he wrenched the handle, and a surge of hot, steaming water poured from the slot in the rock. Installing the largest water heater available, he’d wanted to make sure he could stand in his sanctuary for as long as he wanted. The water streamed onto his head and shoulders, and he let his body relax into the heat.

He didn’t miss much about his multiple tours of duty. He didn’t miss the dust and burning sun. He didn’t miss the long, sleepless nights on lookout, or the constant state of anxiety. He didn’t allow himself to think about his men, his buddies, so he didn’t miss them, either.

The Turkish baths, though, the ones he’d indulged in when he’d taken his leave in Istanbul? Those he missed.

The heat of the water soothed his aching muscles and, after a while, the fog of his hangover lifted. With a careless swipe, he soaped his hair and then his body. He kept his eyes closed. He always did when he was in the shower. Here, he allowed himself to forget.

But not forgive.

“Are you almost done?” The words came from right outside the glass doors.

Iain’s eyes popped open. “Jesus, woman. Give a man some privacy.”

“I’ve seen it all before.” She chuckled. “It’s just that the eggs are done and I don’t want them to get cold.”

Her chuckle didn’t match her perky, irritating persona. No, the sound was low and husky, luring and seductive.

Iain grabbed for the one small washcloth and covered his reaction to that chuckle. “Go away.”

“That’s your favorite phrase, isn’t it?” She crossed her arms in front of her chest, her eyes sparkling with interest. “We’ll have to fix that.”

“Good God.” He didn’t need fixing. He didn’t need to talk. He needed to be left alone. But first, he had to find some clothes. Then he could remove this woman once and for all. “Would ye mind stepping from the room, so I can finish and dress?”

“Hurry up,” she repeated, before twirling around and walking away.

Much to his relief.

His cock didn’t agree. His cock suggested he should have pulled her nicely rounded arse into the shower to share in its delights.

He shut his stupid body part down by turning the water to freezing. After a full minute, his cock wilted and his head cleared of any lusty imaginations. Stepping out of the shower, he slung a surprisingly crisp and clean towel around his waist and strode into the bedroom.

His bed was made, the comforter smoothed over what looked like his second set of sheets. When had she had time to do that? His gaze narrowed, as he suddenly noticed there were no clothes.

No clothes?

“What the hell have ye done with my clothes?”

H
is bellowed
words slammed into the stones surrounding her like a strong sea storm raging against the rock this castle stood on.

Lilly stopped in mid stir. Crap. She hadn’t thought about what he could wear once he awakened. She’d decided the towels and sheets should come first since they were the biggest mound.

“Just wear your towel.” A little sound of delight hummed in her throat. She hadn’t been able to see much with the steam filling the shower and glazing the glass, but the man did have quite a nice set of shoulders, so why not enjoy the view?

“
Shite
.” The disgust in his voice didn’t subside.

“Come on.” Maybe teasing would work to get him out of his funk. “Don’t be shy.”

The bright fire she’d lit in the kitchen and the one in the den kept the rooms toasty warm. The simple wooden table stood by the fire so he wouldn’t catch a cold. He’d get over his snit in a second, and she wanted everything ready for His Majesty when he appeared.

Placing the hot dish filled with eggs in the center of the table, she studied the breakfast spread out before her with satisfaction.

Once she’d cleared away the junk and dirt, the kitchen had turned into a chef’s delight. She wasn’t much of a cook, there was never enough time in the day and she was always rushing from place to place. Yet she could appreciate the line of copper pans hanging overhead, gleaming now after being cleaned. She could appreciate the black metal spice rack with its scrolled sides and lines of little bottles filled with familiar spices like pepper and cumin, but also with exotic ones like
ras el hanout
and
za’atar
.

The McPherson must be a good cook.

Or had been at one time.

Because all the utensils and fancy equipment had been dirty and dusty with disuse. It looked like he’d eaten from the containers themselves most of the time. While she’d found fresh eggs and sausage and some good milk, the majority of his supplies were a bunch of ready-made meals not fit for a peasant, much less a lord.

“Did I mention I want ye to leave?”

She swiveled from the table to confront a ferocious male scowl and a hot-pink sweater.

A hot-pink sweater?

“Don’t ye say a word.” The Lord of the Isles stomped to the table in his bare feet and glared at the very nice breakfast, if she did say so herself. “What else am I supposed to wear when you’ve taken all my clothes?”

Her attention was snagged by what he wore below. A kilt made of…leather?

She shouldn’t, but she couldn’t stop the laughter.

He jerked around and glared at her instead of the food. His sky-blue irises seemed bluer because of the blood red in the white of his eyes.

Compassion stirred inside her. “Sorry.”

With a grunt, he turned and sat on one of the hard wooden benches lining each side of the table. “I might as well eat my own food, even if I never told ye to make free with my kitchen.”

“You should get some cushions,” she said as she sat on the other side. “A bright red or blue would cheer up the place.”

He stopped scooping the eggs onto his plate. “Maybe I don’t want to cheer the place up.”

“Why not?”

His Majesty threw her a dark look, which wasn’t as effective as she bet his dark looks usually were. The hot-pink sweater just made the look seem adorable.

“Oookay.” Scooping eggs on her own plate before he took them all, she snatched the last of the sausage, too.

The man had an appetite.

Why did it please her so much to fulfill that need?

Lilly frowned at her breakfast. She’d never been the mother-hen type, not even with her two half-sisters. She’d been more the cheerleader and the pied piper with her colleagues and fellow travelers. Why did this man bring out this odd protectiveness and nurturing instinct?

“What are ye frowning about?” he muttered. “Ye aren’t the one with a bothersome meddler breaking into your home.”

“I didn’t break in. I didn’t have to.” Shrugging her odd thoughts aside, she dug into the food. The eggs were the right consistency and the taste of the vine-ripened tomatoes reminded her of how much she liked the English-grown varieties.

His straight dark brows lowered. “What the hell do ye mean by that? The front door is locked. I did it myself.”

“You have a back door, don’t you?” She gave him a sassy smile. Now that she was in and talking to him, it didn’t matter if he knew. By the time she left here, she’d have his agreement to get counseling and get well. She wasn’t leaving until she’d won this concession. That might take several hours, but she’d do it. And she had a whole month here on Somairie to track his behavior and make sure he kept his promises to get help.

“Hell.” His eyes lit with realization. “I showed ye that when you were a kid. How did ye remember?”

“Children tend to remember romantic staircases and secret doorways.”

“Romantic?” He snorted. “Only a female would think such things were romantic.”

Since she was no longer a romantic herself, she didn’t object to his disgust. Instead, she relished the warmth of the fire and the richness of the food, letting the ancient walls surrounding them work their peace inside her soul.

He obliged her by falling silent, focusing with an intent urgency on the eggs and sausage. The way he gulped his breakfast down made her even more positive he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks, perhaps months.

Compassion and a reluctant tad of affection bubbled inside her heart.

The shutters on the deep-seated kitchen window clattered in a sudden burst of noise.

She jumped.

The McPherson jerked his attention away from his food and scowled. He stood with an abrupt jolt and marched to the window to peer out. “Goddammit.”

“What?” She turned on the bench to stare at his broad back covered in absurd hot pink.

“A dolster.”

“What’s a dolster?” That was one Scottish word her dad had never used. And she could tell by the rough way he said the word it was Scottish.

He swung around, the scowl on his face going from fierce to ferocious. “That’s right. Ye ain’t a true Scots now, are ye?”

She didn’t take offense easily, yet the way he sneered the words made her straighten her shoulders and throw him a glare of her own. “I’ve probably spent as much time on this island over the years as you have.”

He snorted. “If ye don’t know what a good dolster is, ye ain’t Scots.”

Rising from her chair, she walked to the window to inspect whatever this fearsome dolster was.

A storm, apparently.

The view looked out on the outcrop of craggy Lewiston Gneiss and onto the ocean. During the time she’d spent making breakfast and waking His Highness, the winds had grown wicked, and the sea had turned into a muddy, green turbulence. Waves crashed along the white of the beach and battered the harsh, black rise of the rock below them.

“It’s only a storm.”

“It’s only a storm, she says.” His voice went high to mimic her.

Lilly glanced at him. She hadn’t been this near him since last night when she’d leaned over to tuck him into bed. In that prior occurrence, she’d merely felt pity and a strong compulsion to help. Now his powerful physique hit her.

He stared down at her. She wasn’t overly tall, but she’s wasn’t a munchkin. He had to be several inches taller than six feet. The muscles of his arms and shoulders were covered with the ridiculous fluff of a pink sweater, yet the fabric couldn’t hide the brawny bulges. More than anything, though, it was the essence of him that overwhelmed her at the moment. The clean smell of him, the tough line of his jaw and brow, the intelligence gleaming from those bloodshot eyes.

“Nothing to say?” he grumbled.

She shook herself out of the daze of his impact. “Scotland has storms. Lots of them. I’ve experienced a few.”

“Not like a dolster. Not if ye call it only a storm.” He went back to glaring through the window. “Ye need to leave right now before I have to deal with ye for days on end.”

“I’m not leaving.” She’d made a promise to herself and him, whether he knew it or not.

His glare switched back to her. “If ye don’t leave now, you’ll be stuck here.”

“Storms die fast in Scotland.” Yet a quiver of memory ran through her, making her pause.

Spot of weather
.

Nothing to fret about. Ye should go to the castle immediately
.

“Not this one.” For a moment, it appeared as if he were about to grab her and force her to leave, but then he jerked away from her and paced to the table. “Leave now.”

“Nope.” She could ride out a spot of weather. She’d ridden out a small hurricane in Haiti and a blizzard in Russia. She could handle a Scotland rainstorm. “I can’t leave until we talk.”

“We’ve talked.” He glared at the remnants of the breakfast as if he wished for more. A tug of that protective feeling pulled in her heart. “Now it’s time for ye to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” She put on a bright smile. “We haven’t even begun to really talk.”

“Really. Talk.” He swung to stare at her, his sky-blue eyes growing as dark as the gathering storm outside. “I get ye now. Ye want to psychoanalyze me, eh?”

“I want to help.”

“I can’t be helped.” He said the words so simply it broke her heart.

“Don’t you think—?”

“Think about this.” He strode back to her, his bare legs strong and hairy beneath the kilt. Looming over her, he fixed his glare on her face. “I’m not a happy man and I’m not a man to fiddle with.”

Her vivid imagination flashed a series of images of her fingers fiddling with the curls on his chest or fiddling with other parts below. She stuffed the pictures into a drawer in her brain and slammed it shut. “I’ll take my chances.”

He made a rough sound in his throat and again, she had the impression he wanted to grab her. She should be rather intimidated or a little bit scared, yet the only thing she could think about, with him so near, was what that sensation would be like.

To be touched by Iain McPherson.

His bloodshot eyes narrowed, and he seemed to loom closer.

She took in a breath of excitement.

“Go away,” he bellowed right into her face before turning and stomping into his bedroom.

Taking a quivering step away from the impact of his words and presence, she took in another breath. A gulp of surprise this time.

She was attracted to him.

Had that been attraction in his gaze, too?

Walking to the window, she frowned at the growing storm. Perhaps it would be best if she left. He didn’t need some woman ogling his ass and staring into his pretty eyes in a daze. He needed a friend.

A violent wave slammed into the hard rock right below her, and she realized it was already too late.

She was stuck with Iain Arrogant McPherson.

She was stuck with Iain Attractive McPherson.

* * *

T
he food had been good
.

The company, not so much.

Iain opened his eyes and took stock. The sound of the wind whistling low and hard from outside told him the storm had arrived while he’d napped and was planning on staying for a while.

There was silence from the outer room. Maybe lovely Lilly had taken his orders and had left.

His orders.

Something shook inside.

He didn’t give orders anymore. Not to anyone but himself.

But the words he’d bellowed at her had definitely been orders. It was the same voice he’d used many times to direct his men away from danger.

He closed his eyes to that reality and focused on the wind.

This dolster was a doozy.

She’d better have left. He didn’t want her nosy self pestering him for days on end. Add in her effect on his libido and he’d be driven to drink in mere seconds.

Not that he wouldn’t drink anyway without her around.

Lifting his head, he noticed a pile of clean clothes on the end of the bed. His favorite pair of jeans, a black wool jumper, some underwear and socks. The thought of her folding his underwear made his annoying cock rise in predictable fashion. It appeared any thought of peachy Lilly doing anything remotely personal caused a very personal response.

“Dammit,” he muttered.

No bubbly greeting came from the outer room. Good.

She better damn well be gone.

Easing himself from beneath the sweet-smelling sheets, he ignored the mound of pink and leather on the floor. He hadn’t been willing to march into the kitchen in only a towel. And the only items he’d found in his closet were the jumper his buddies had given him as a joke one Valentine’s Day years ago, and an old kilt his da had worn once and handed down to him.

Her laughter echoed in his memory.

She had the prettiest lips. His da would have called them
pettit
-lips, pouty lips. Yet, it was as if the hand of a god had flipped them upside down. The upper lip was just a touch bigger than the lower, giving her lips a provocative curl that drew his gaze every time she talked.

Or laughed.

Her laugh, like her chuckle, didn’t match her perky, irritating self. Her laugh had made him want to take her and throw her on the nearest flat surface and do things he hadn’t wanted or thought about in months. Even though she had been laughing at him, he’d still wanted to kiss her and take her.