Love Came Just in Time (14 page)

“I did what was required,” Ambrose said stiffly. “And once she was found, I paid a short visit to her brother. He was quite willing to send her off on an errand here and more than happy to believe a healthy case of indigestion had given him the idea.”

“Och, but the indignity of it all,” Hugh breathed. “Traveling all the way to—” his voice trailed off meaningfully.

No one could voice the word.

And, worse yet, the southern region of it! Aye, 'twas enough to give any sensible shade the shakes.

“ 'Tis just that,” Fulbert said darkly, “which leads me to believe that perhaps the lass is not quite—”

“The lass?” Hugh interrupted indignantly. “No matter where she's been—” He swallowed audibly and then pressed on. “At least she possesses some spark of creativity.
I'm
less than certain about that lad of yers—”

Fulbert leaped to his feet, cast aside his cup and drew his sword. “I'll not have me nevvy slandered by a man in skirts!”

“Skirts!” Hugh gasped, hopping up from his chair and flinging aside his goblet also. He drew his sword with relish. “Outside, ye blasted Brit. I'll need room fer me swingin'.”

Ambrose gave one last fleeting thought to the peace and comfort of his ancestral home in the Highlands before he thundered a command for the lads to cease. He shook his head in disgust. “By the saints,” he said, “have you nothing better to do than fight with each other?”

Fulbert looked faintly surprised. “Actually Ambrose, 'tis fine enough sport for me—”

“Aye,” Hugh agreed. “Passes the time most pleasantly—”

Ambrose thrust out his arm and pointed to the door. “Begone, the both of you and leave me to my ale.”

Fulbert opened his mouth to protest. Ambrose gave him the quelling look he'd given to more than one adversary over the course of his long and successful career. Fulbert shut his mouth with a snap and vanished from the kitchen. Hugh made Ambrose a quick bow and bolted as well.

Ambrose leaned back in his chair and sighed. Now that he finally had peace for thinking, he turned over in his mind the events of the past pair of months, gingerly avoiding the memories of his trip to the Colonies. Perhaps he shouldn't have meddled, but how could he have helped himself? Young Megan was his granddaughter—never mind how many generations separated them. Despite the personal indignities he'd suffered already in this venture, how could he not feel a certain responsibility to her and her happiness? And he had to admit Fulbert's lad was a good one, despite his preoccupation with modern inventions.

Aye, he would simply do all he could for them, then pray they had the good sense to finish falling in love by themselves.

Though, considering the pair due to arrive on the morrow, the only good sense to be found in the inn would be his own.

MEGAN MACLEOD MCKINNON stood on the side of the dirt road, stared at her surroundings, and wondered why in the world she'd ever agreed to any of this. She'd known the British Isles could be damp, but she'd never suspected they would be
this
damp. And what happened to that dry rain that supposedly fell strictly for atmosphere? Maybe she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, like at Kennedy. She should have boarded that plane bound for Italy. How rainy could it be in Italy this time of year?

Of course, if things had gone according to plan, she would have been ensconced in a cozy inn, reading Dickens and sipping tea while toasting her toes against a cheery fire.

Instead she found herself trudging up a muddy road on the Scottish border in the middle of what had to be the worst storm in two hundred years. In December, no less. With only the clothes on her back.

This was not exactly a Currier and Ives kind of Christmas vacation.

She turned her face into the wind, picked her way around a puddle and kept walking. She wouldn't go home until she'd done what she came to do. She'd bungled every other job she'd ever had, but she wouldn't bungle this one. No matter how awful things got.

Rain began to leak past her collar. As her back grew increasingly damp, her thoughts turned to her brother. This was, of course, entirely his fault. If he hadn't been bitten by that search-for-your-ancestors bug, he never would have bought a castle and all that went with it, and he never would have sent her to look it over. Surely he should have known what would befall her on this ill-fated trip.

Hadn't he had an inkling that her row-mate on the flight over might be a screaming two-year-old? Shouldn't he have warned her that her luggage might vanish as she stood innocently in line to buy a train ticket north? Should there not have been some doubt in his overused brain that the weather in December might be a tad bit on the wet side? Hadn't he felt the slightest desire to rethink his plans for her as he booked her a room in a no-stoplight town at an inn that would subsequently lose her reservation?

Megan hopped over another pothole and gave her missing reservation more thought. Had it been merely missing or deliberately mislaid? Had the desk clerk taken one look at her bedraggled, luggageless self and come to a hasty decision about her desirability as a guest?

After making certain she understood there was no room for her at his inn, he had offered to make her a reservation at the only other hotel within miles.
A quiet place, just a wee bit up the road—conveniently near the castle
, he'd said. Megan had been overjoyed that there was actually another bed waiting for her within walking distance, especially since she hadn't seen anything resembling a taxi since the train had paused long enough for her to jump down onto the platform. Maybe Thorpewold didn't see all that many visitors.

She lurched to a stop, braced herself against the wind and peered into the mist. She frowned. Had she taken a wrong turn somewhere? Just how far was “wee” anyway?

Then she froze. Either the wind was revving up for a new round of buffeting, or that was a car approaching. She listened carefully. Yes, that was a car, and it sounded like it was heading her way. Megan stood up straighter and dragged a hand through her hair. No sense in not looking her best for a potential ride. The car came closer. She put on her best smile and started to wave. It was the Cinderella parade wave she'd perfected but never had the chance to use.

Even the headlights were now visible. Good. At least she wouldn't get run over before she could beg a ride.

“Hey,” she shouted as the car materialized from the mist, “can I have a—”

She barely had time to close her mouth before the tidal wave struck. The car whizzed by, drenching her from head to toe. Megan looked down at her mud-splattered self, then blinked and looked up. The taillights faded into the drizzle.

She hadn't been seen. That was it. No one was in such a hurry that they would drive past a dripping maiden in distress and not offer so much as a “keep a stiff upper lip” in passing. Well, at least the car seemed to be going somewhere. That was reassuring. Megan wiped her face and continued on her way.

Fortunately it took her only minutes to reach civilization. The mist lifted far enough for her to see a sturdy, comfortable-looking inn. The lights were on and smoke was pouring from the chimneys; these were very good signs. Maybe she would actually be able to hold on to her reservation this time.

Her eyes narrowed at the sight of her errant would-be rescuer's car parked so tidily next to the inn. A tall figure headed toward the door and a horrible thought occurred to her. What if her room was the last one and this person sweet-talked his way into it?

She bolted for the steps. The man entered before her, but Megan didn't let that deter her. She grabbed the door behind him, then elbowed her way past him and sprinted to the little desk in the alcove under the stairs. She plopped her shoulder bag onto the counter then smiled triumphantly at the woman behind the desk. In fact, the thrill of victory was making her light-headed. She clutched the edge of the desk as she felt herself begin to sway.

And then, quite suddenly, her feet were no longer under her. She squeaked as she felt herself being lifted up by what seemed to be remarkably strong arms. She threw her arms around very broad shoulders—just in case her rescuer decided she was damp enough to warrant dropping. She let go with one hand to push her soggy hair back out of her eyes. She opened her mouth to tell him his actions would have been more timely had they occurred fifteen minutes earlier, then completely lost track of what she'd intended to say.

Maybe all that water had seeped into her brain. Or maybe she'd just never seen anyone quite this handsome before.
This
was the kind of man she wouldn't mind finding under the Christmas tree with a bow on his head.

His face was ruggedly chiseled, with only the fullness in his mouth to soften his features. His dark blond hair was, irritatingly enough, perfectly dry and casually styled, as if he'd just shaken it out that morning and it had behaved simply because he'd wanted it to. Megan stared into his bluish-green eyes and found that she was fanning herself. There was something so blatantly, ruthlessly handsome about the man that she felt a bit weak in the knees. All right, so his driving habits left a lot to be desired. The man had saved her from a possible faint and, considering how he looked up close, she thought she might be able to forgive him.

“Thanks,” she managed, surreptitiously wiping a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth.

He only frowned back at her.

Even his frown was beautiful. Megan smiled her best smile. “Thanks,” she repeated, wondering if it would sink in this time, “but I wasn't going to faint.”

He pursed his lips and set her down well away from where she'd been standing.

“You were dripping on my laptop,” he said, reaching down to give his computer bag a quick swipe. He looked back at her. “And you're also dripping on the carpet,” he noted.

Megan blinked. That certainly didn't sound like an undying declaration of love, nor an offer to stuff himself in her stocking. Perhaps her current state of drowned-ratdom was getting in the way of his falling at her feet and pledging eternal devotion. She flipped her wet hair to the other side of her face, hoping to achieve a more windblown, ruffled look.

The man looked down at the new drops of water on his computer bag, then scowled at her.

“How did you manage to get so wet?” he demanded.

Megan frowned. Maybe hers wasn't the only brain that had taken on too much water. “You would know,” she said.

He blinked. “I would?”

“You splashed me,” she reminded him.

“I did?”

“With your car!”

“Hmmm,” he said, then glanced down at his computer. Something must have caught his attention because he knelt down and started unzipping the bag. Megan watched as he pulled out a cell phone and fired it up.

Megan gritted her teeth. Somehow his manly good looks had distracted her, but she was feeling much better now. This was not the kind of man for her, no sir. No matter how finely made he was, if he couldn't remember his moments of unchivalry and apologize properly for them, she wanted nothing further to do with him.

She turned her back on him and his bad manners and planted herself resolutely in front of the little desk that seemed to serve as the check-in point. When he could tear himself away from work long enough to apologize, then she would think about forgiving him. Until then, he could suffer. She would ignore him until he begged her to stop.

That resolved neatly, she gave her attention to the matter at hand: throwing herself upon the mercy of the innkeeper. She took in the sight of the sad attempts at making the reception area seem dressed for the holidays, hoping to find something there she could gush over. A little buttering up of the proprietress couldn't go wrong. The desk was decorated with a few sprigs of holly and a ribbon or two. Megan looked up. Garlic hung in great bunches above the desk area, draped liberally on the overhang made by the stairs.

“Expecting vampires any time soon?” she asked the woman behind the counter.

The white-haired woman leaped to her feet as if she'd been catapulted out of her chair.

“Ye've no idea,” she whispered frantically. Her eyes darted from side to side and she kept looking over her shoulder as if she expected to be attacked from behind at any moment.

Megan opened her mouth to suggest that perhaps the garlic might do the woman more good if she wore it around her neck, then thought better of it. The innkeeper looked as if one good push would topple her right over the edge as it was.

“Yer name, lass?” the woman asked, leaning forward as if to keep the walls from overhearing.

“Megan,” Megan began slowly. “Megan McKinnon.”

The woman's hand flew to her throat and she gasped. “A McKinnon in the house! The saints preserve us all!”

“This isn't good,” Megan said, biting her lip. This was all she needed, to be kicked out on account of her ancestry. “My mother was a MacLeod,” she offered.

“Even worse!” the woman exclaimed.

“I'm from America,” Megan said quickly. “Does that help? No, wait, don't say anything else. I don't want to know. Let's just get down to business and forget all the rest. Ye Olde Tudor Inn called over and made a reservation for me. You did get the call, didn't you, Mrs.... ?”

“Pruitt,” the woman moaned. “And, aye, I've got yer roo—” her voice cracked, then she cleared her throat. “Room,” she managed. “If ye're sure ye want it.”

“Oh, I want it,” Megan assured her.

“Ye've a private bath, too,” Mrs. Pruitt added. “Up the stairs, down the hallway on yer left. If ye're certain here is where ye truly want to stay—”