Some Like it Scot (Scandalous Highlanders Book 4) (12 page)

“I believe you, Cat. I wouldn't be here if I … Oh, my,” she breathed, her cheeks darkening.

Her heart pounding in abrupt alarm, Catriona turned around. Had someone followed Munro after all? Then she caught sight of what had attracted her sister's attention, and her pulse sped even faster. “Oh, my,” indeed.

Munro MacLawry had removed his shirt. His back to them, he sawed at one of the planks while muscles played beneath his skin and a slow trail of sweat meandered down his spine to the belt around his hips and the kilt beneath. One thing was clear; he was a magnificent specimen of the male figure.

And he
was
magnificent. All six and a half feet of him. When he straightened and turned around she caught a glimpse of a flat, well-muscled abdomen before she quickly averted her gaze. It would never do for him to catch her ogling him. He was just a rude, annoying, meddling, lying giant, after all.
But my, what a giant.

The warmth shivering through her middle felt so … odd. At her father's estate she'd spent most of her days in the company of men. Hunting, sheep shearing, fishing, riding—all the things a father would want a son to know. And that son, for all intents and purposes, had been her. Or it had been, until two years ago.

But none of that explained why she couldn't stop looking at Munro. The flex of his muscles, the occasional glimpse of roped thighs as he crouched to set boards in place, the sweaty hair clinging to his brow and temples—it pulled at her, made her want to run her hands across his bare skin, made her feel … unsettled, but not in an unpleasant way.

The other fellow, Peter, who was more than likely
not
Munro's uncle, had removed his shirt as well. When she glanced over at him, though, she felt nothing. And she didn't like it—or rather, she didn't like that she did like this feeling.

Cursing under her breath, she went to skin the rabbit. A moment later warmth pushed at her from behind, and she turned her head to see a broad chest. Catriona lifted her gaze to meet amused green eyes looking back at her. Could he see on her face the lust she felt?
Damnation.
“What do ye want?” she snapped, sharper than she intended.

He reached past her, close enough to touch, and retrieved another of the mugs he'd brought along the day before. “Just a swallow of water, lass,” he drawled with a slight, engaging grin, and tilted his head back to drink. His Adam's apple bobbed, and rivulets of water ran down his chin and throat to trail down the light scattering of hair on his chest.

“Ye're doing that on purpose,” she stated, moving so she was no longer between him and the table. The position made her feel vulnerable, and she didn't like it.

“Doing what? Drinking? Aye. A man builds up a thirst.” He emptied the mug and set it down again with a clank. “Come and see if ye agree with what we've built ye so far.”

Built her? They all knew full well now that this property was much closer to being his than hers. He certainly had no reason to continue wearing his gamekeeper mask any longer. And yet, both he and Peter Gilling continued to work to put up a door and repair the walls that would not only help keep her and Elizabeth safer, but enable her to bar the door against him. It made no sense.

Of course she already knew precisely how much they'd accomplished this morning, because she'd been sneaking looks every time she could manage to do so without him noticing. Even so, she made a show of walking over to the doorway while he followed close behind.

They had the opening framed to the size of the new door, and had also nailed up planks on either side to both shore up the wall and provide a skeleton for the bricks and mortar that would follow. A clan chief's brother or not, Munro knew how to use his hands. Another flutter shivered through her gut. “Ye've made it very sturdy,” she said aloud, wrapping one hand around a timber and tugging at it. The two-inch oak didn't budge.

“We cannae have it falling doon with the next gust of wind. And with winter close by, the winds will come. This'll keep ye warm and safe inside.”

“Ye expect us to be here when the snow arrives then, do ye?”

Green eyes studied her face. “Aye. I do. Did ye have another plan?”

She'd had oh, so many plans, and they'd all crumbled into dust. This truly was the only one she had left. “I suppose ye'll have to wait and see,” she returned, heading back to the table.

A hand closed over her shoulder and spun her around again with an ease that left her a little breathless. Men didn't put their hands on her. Not when she was the daughter of Randall MacColl. And not when she dressed like one of them. “Do ye have another plan?” he repeated, his voice lowering to a soft rumble.

“Ye're building me—us—a door. That doesnae gain ye a place at my table. I'll nae share my counsel with ye, Laird Munro MacLawry.”

“You shouldn't be so mean to him, Catriona,” Elizabeth broke in, even as Bear narrowed his eyes. “He's only ever been helpful.”

“And why is that, do ye think, Elizabeth?” she countered, reaching for the annoyance and anger she'd had so ready to hand just a few days ago.

“Because we are ladies in distress, and he is a gentleman,” her sister said, as if that explained everything. As if the world was that simple. With a flounce of her pretty green and blue muslin skirts, Elizabeth swept up another mug of water and carried it to the doorway and Peter. “There doesn't have to be any other reason but that.”

“Ye should listen to yer sister, bonny lass,” Munro said, releasing her before she could even think to jerk out of his grip. “And ye'll tell me yer tale, wildcat. I can be patient.”

He didn't look patient. More perceptive than she'd expected, yes, but not patient. Yet there he was, carrying a bucket outside to fetch water so they could mix the mortar. And however many times she'd told him to go away, he kept returning. Perhaps he
was
more patient than she'd realized. The only question was, why?

“Dunnae call me a wildcat,” she ordered belatedly, striding after him to remain in earshot.

“That's yer best retort? Ye're getting soft, Catriona.”

She nearly stumbled, not at the insult, but at hearing him say her full name in his deep brogue. Nothing should be allowed to sound that warm and enticing.

“I amnae. That's merely the most recent annoying thing ye've said to me.”

He slowed. “Is that so?”

“Aye. It is. And dunnae think ye can glare at me and make me cower. Ye're a big man, Bear, but I'm nae afraid of ye. Nae fer a single damned minute.”

Moving with that deceptive speed and grace of his, Bear swung around, pushed her backward against the stone wall, and took her mouth in a deep, hot kiss. The empty bucket dropped to the floor with a clatter that sounded far more distant than it was. Splaying his big hands against the wall on either side of her face, he leaned in, demanding with his lips and tongue and teeth. His touch didn't feel so much like a kiss as it did a full-on assault of her senses.

With his body hard against hers, she could feel the iron of him through her thin man's shirt, unyielding and velvet all at the same time. She had to stand on her toes and lift her chin to meet him, heat cascading through her as abrupt and burning as a bonfire.

“S … stop,” she finally managed, shoving at his bare chest with both palms.

“Nae.” He kissed her again, the pull of his mouth nearly making her eyes roll back in her head. This was the very thing that could make a lass faint, she decided. Not her, of course, but any other lass would surely swoon into his manly arms.

“Stop!” she repeated, more forcefully.

Munro lifted his head an inch or so from hers. “Ask me nicely.”

As if she could say anything at all with his mouth doing those things. For God's sake, she could barely conjure a coherent thought, and that was only a single word—“more.” “Please release me.”

The words came out as hardly more than a mumble, but a moment later he took a long, single step backward. “I'll release ye, Catriona,” he rumbled, something sharp and compelling at the edge of his words, “but I willnae let ye go. Nae just yet.”

“That doesnae even make any sense.”

“Then why are ye still standing there?” he returned.

Dammit all, she
was
still standing there, her back to the wall and her palms flat against his warm chest. And then he had the nerve to grin down at her. With another curse she didn't care if he heard, she snagged the bucket and stomped outside.
Good heavens
.
Good heavens.

This man was going to be a problem.

Staying on at Haldane Abbey had seemed the best solution both for her and for Elizabeth, but now she wasn't so certain. And not because Munro MacLawry had kissed her—deliciously kissed her—again, but because she'd kissed him back. And that would never do.

At the rivulet beyond the back of the abbey she clambered down to jam the bucket beneath the miniature waterfall. Saint Bridget and Robert the Bruce. Munro was the brother of the MacLawry. He was
Lord
Munro. People noticed him. How could they not? He stood at least six-and-a-half-feet tall, had eyes the green of a spring meadow, and a face that would make even a grandmother sigh.

She didn't wish to be noticed. That had been the point of coming here. Well, partly. Catriona frowned. Perhaps she needed to admit, to herself at least, that she would have ended up somewhere deep in the Highlands even if Elizabeth hadn't needed rescuing. That she had needed rescuing, as well, and in the absence of any assistance she'd decided to rescue herself.

“Move over,” Munro said, and squatted down beside her to lift the full bucket out of the water.

“Ye're nae a polite man, are ye?” she commented, standing when he did.

“I've noticed that ye prefer direct talk to a pretty turn of phrase, lass. Or am I wrong aboot that?”

No, he wasn't wrong. “Why do ye care what sort of speech I prefer?” she asked anyway, because his reasoning felt … significant.

That attractive smile touched his face again. “I'm a man people fear, Catriona. Whatever might be inside my skull, I'm built to be a brute. People dunnae insult me to my face, and they dunnae tell me things I dunnae wish to hear. I like ye. I like that ye stand toe-to-toe with me, that when ye say someaught ye expect me to answer ye back. I like that ye look me in the eye when ye've a disagreement with me.”

I like ye.
The rest of what he said seemed honest and genuinely complimentary, but it was those three words that sent bats rattling around inside her rib cage. Men didn't like her. She was too abrupt, mannerless, mannish, better than they were at the things on which they prided themselves, and she didn't hide that fact. They didn't pursue her, because her father hadn't permitted it. But Munro didn't know who her father had been, who her uncle was. He didn't even know her family name or her clan.

“Naught to say aboot that?” he prompted, heading back to the house without her. “Dunnae tell me ye're shy now, wildcat. Ye tried to shoot me just a few days ago.”

“All ye've done is prove ye're a madman, Bear MacLawry,” she mustered. “If ye only like someone who'll disagree with ye and call ye names, get yerself a Sassannach.”

An abrupt laugh rumbled from his chest. “That's more like it, lass,” he returned, still chuckling. “Ye've yer wits, and that's fer damned certain. And ye make me use mine.” He narrowed one eye. “I didnae think I'd have much use fer a lass who used her gobber fer chatting, but ye've a way aboot ye.”

For him, that likely sufficed as a compliment. Oddly enough, she did feel flattered. Or perhaps she hadn't eaten enough today. “Do ye reckon ye'll finish the door today?” she asked, mostly because believing a man's compliments—and especially those of a man who knew even a little about her—would only see her in more trouble. And she bloody well had enough of that all on her own.

“Nae. We'll brick up the wall and leave it to set. Hanging the door can keep until tomorrow or the next day.” She felt rather than saw his glance. “Ye cannae wait to bar it closed and keep everyone away from ye, I wager.”

“Ye and yer so-called uncle are the only everyone I've seen since we arrived, so aye.”

“Ah, lass. Ye wound me. Ye'd bar the door on yer own allies? And what if I felt the need to kiss ye again?”

They were far too close to the kitchen for him to be saying that in that rumbling, carrying voice of his. “Hush. I dunnae want to have to explain yer mauling me to Elizabeth.”

“Or to yerself.”

He'd managed to speak that very quietly, and when she shot him a glare he only gazed back at her innocently. As if she would conjure those words in her own mind—and in his voice to boot. Annoying, aggravating, attractive man. If he would just stop kissing her … Except that she didn't wish him to stop. Not just yet, anyway.

 

Chapter Six

“Bear!”

Munro snapped his eyes open, diving for the dagger he'd set on a stool beside the big brass bathtub. A heartbeat later he realized Ranulf stood in the doorway, and he sank back into the warm water. “Ye nearly scared me oot of my own skin.”

“Where were ye today?” the marquis demanded, shutting the door behind him and leaning back against it, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Oot.”

“That's nae good enough.”

Munro frowned. Evidently he'd had a better day than his oldest brother. “I had Peter with me, as ye ordered. We went fishing.”

“And where's yer catch? There in the bath with ye?”

“Even I dunnae always catch someaught. What's got yer kilt in a twist?”

“Ye went fishing yesterday, too. And the day before, if I recall. And ye've nae brought home a single trout or pike in all that time. So I ask ye again—where were ye today?”