The Accidental Scot (14 page)

Cait seemed overcome by the moment, too. She grabbed Emma's hand and squeezed. “I'm going to miss you all.”

“Going on a trip?” Max asked, only to be friendly.

Everyone looked a bit startled, but Cait recovered quickly.

“My husband is out of town on business. An extended stay. Mattie and I are going to go back with him when he returns.”

Emma patted Cait's arm, and then hugged Mattie. “But they're going to call often. Right, Mattie?”

“Aye,” he said in his small voice. “And Skype.”

“And Skype.” Emma smiled at the boy. In the next second, she swiveled toward Max, eyeing him. “You're a man,” she said in her London accent. “Would you jump in and fight for the woman you love or would you let love slip away?”

Oh, God. What had he gotten himself into? Was it too late to make a run for it?

The others looked at him expectantly. Stalling, Max cleared his throat. He so wanted to tell them to leave Andrew alone, and himself, but he was no match for this many female Scottish warriors.

Amy shoved envelopes, a sponge, and a ramekin of water at him. “Seal these while you give us yere opinion.”

“Go on,” Claire encouraged.

“I don't know anything about it,” Max said, hoping to get them off the scent.

Emma gazed at him matter-of-factly. “Andrew says otherwise. When we insisted he had to talk to someone, the good Father said he'd discussed his problem with you the other day.”

He gave Andrew a
what the hell?
glare. What happened to the bro code?

Claire smiled encouragingly as she poured him a cup of dark, hot liquid from the carafe. Cait put two scones on his plate and pushed it toward him, with an expectant gaze.

Max cleared his throat again. “I think everyone
should give Andrew and Moira some space to work things out for themselves.”

Kit seemed to take umbrage. “I know from experience that these two need some assistance to get back on track.”

“Well, I've tried talking to Moira,” Amy said, “but she's being stubborn and won't say a word of what's going on.”

Andrew seemed to be hurrying through stuffing his envelopes so he could get the heck out of there.

Max looked down at the stack of flyers in the middle of the table. “Maybe Moira needs a push to make a decision.”

Kind of like Pippa had made her decision tonight—she chose Ross over him.

“What do you mean?” Emma asked.

He glanced over at Andrew as if to apologize while picking up the auction flyer absentmindedly. “Maybe Andrew needs to put himself back on the market and let the chips fall as they may.” He set the flyer in front of Emma.

Amy whacked Max on the back good-naturedly. “That's a brilliant idea. Absolutely brilliant.”

Andrew looked horrified, but finally found his voice. “Ye think I should put myself into the bachelor auction?”

Max held his gaze. “What could it hurt?”

Andrew frowned at him fiercely. “I could get bought by another woman. Then where would we be?”

Max shook his head. “If Moira doesn't at least try for you, well, then, I think she's sending you a strong message, man.”

Andrew looked heartsick.

“Well, then, it's settled. Father Andrew is going on the list.” Amy pulled a piece of paper from a pile and wrote the pastor's name at the bottom.

Something caught Max's eye—specifically his name on the list. He took the paper from her, and there it was in black and white—M
AX
M
C
K
INLEY
.

“What the . . .”

Amy laughed. “Ye didn't know?”

“Of course I didn't know.”

Claire relieved him of the sheet of paper. “We all thought you looked very sexy in yere kilt, brooding like that.”

Pippa. The factory. Her camera. Oh, God!

“When was she going to tell me?” Max didn't expect them to reply. He stood abruptly. “If you'll excuse. I'm off to get some answers.”
From Pippa. And have it out with her now!

*   *   *

Pippa sat at the kitchen table with the box of financial papers that she'd been sorting through for weeks. At every turn, she found more and more evidence that her father hadn't told her the truth. In her hand now she held the note that was the tipping point. Da had mortgaged their house to make payroll for the factory.

She slumped back in her chair. She was finding out that maybe her father wasn't exactly the man she thought he was.

She should've just gone on to bed after Ross walked her home. Or she should've read a book. Anything, except come across this. Another payment on the second
mortgage was coming due. How was Pippa going to cover that?

Tears ran down her cheeks, but she was mad as hell. The pressure was killing her. She couldn't take one more thing going wrong. Not tonight.

There was a light rap at the back door and then it opened. Pippa rose, expecting any one of the Gandiegowans who came and went from their house. She didn't expect, though, to see Max.

He looked ready to go to war with her, his face hard, his stare dark. But then it seemed as if his brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing, perhaps each one of her tears on her cheeks. She wiped them away.

“Oh, hell.” He pulled his wool cap off, crossed the room to her, and gathered her into his arms. “Ross didn't do anything to hurt you, did he?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Good. I'd hate to get into a fistfight here in Scotland.”

She'd cried only a handful of times in her life, and two of those times had been since Max McKinley had arrived in Gandiegow. Did he have this effect on all women, making them break down into a blubbering mess, or was it only her?

Max held her tight. “Can you tell me what's wrong then?” His voice sounded thick with emotion. He stroked her hair.

She didn't speak, only buried herself deeper in his embrace.

He led them over to a chair. When he sat, he pulled her onto his lap. “Spill it.” His words were gentle, but firm.

He seemed to know just the right tone to take with her. She slipped into the chair next to him, but he kept his arm around the back of it, as if to show he was there in case she needed to be held again.

She couldn't tell him everything. Max was still MTech after all. But she could share with him how the pressure was getting to her about her da's medical issues . . . that without her da helping, the weight of the burden fell on her.

“I thought I'd figured it all out. I asked MTech to come back to the table to talk about a partnership. I set up the bachelor auction to pay for a specialist for Da. But as soon as I figure out one thing, another problem pops up.”

Max stroked her hand. “So at least you putting me up for auction is for a good cause?”

She faced him, feeling terrible. “I should've talked to you sooner about it. I just hadn't gotten around to breaking the bad news. Ye're not too mad, are you?”

“I'll live.”

“Ye don't mind wearing the kilt again?”

“I figured as much.”

“And that the ladies will be ogling you like ye're a tasty meat pie?”

He laughed. “Great.”

“But ye'll do it for Da?”

He leaned over and brushed his lips across hers. “Only because you asked so nicely.”

She slipped back onto his lap, and wrapped her arms around his neck. For a long moment, she gazed into his perfect eyes. She still couldn't be with him, but she could show him how much she appreciated his sacrifice. She leaned down and kissed him.

He tasted as enticing as scones. And he tasted like Max. It was that thought that had her deepening the kiss. Without any effort at all, she was completely wrapped up in him. And nothing could make her pull away from kissing him right now.

“Pippa?” her da called from the den. “Are ye there? I need a pain pill and some more water.”

She rested her forehead on Max's. “Aye, I'm here, Da. I'll bring it right in.”

Max rubbed noses with her. “I better go.”

She didn't want him to. She wanted him to stay so she could kiss him some more. “Aye. I guess ye better.” She climbed off his lap and went to tend to her father.

M
ax woke in the morning with Pippa still on his mind. Holding her last night, comforting her, had affected him even more than the steamy kisses they'd shared before. She was twisting up his insides in ways he never thought possible.

Right now, he had the dreaded job of meeting with Miranda. He quickly readied for the day. If it had been any other job site, Max would've donned his business suit and tie again. He thought about texting Miranda, telling her to dress casual this morning, too, but she was all business all the time.

At the Glen Thistle Lodge quilting dorm, which was nothing more than a bungalow, Max rapped on the door. Miranda opened it right away. She was wearing a relentless navy pantsuit, a high-necked blouse, bloodred lipstick, and a frown.

She pierced him with her gaze. “What took you so long? And what are you wearing?”

He chose to ignore both statements. “I thought we'd go to the restaurant first and discuss our plan of action.” His objective . . . getting Miranda to divulge the details of the contract.

She slipped on her trench coat and grabbed her expensive briefcase. “We'll have to eat quickly. I want that
meeting with Lachlan McDonnell
today
. He's not answering his cell. Do you have another number for him?”

“No.” There was no way that he was letting Miranda near the McDonnell in his current condition.

“Never mind. We're expected at the factory this morning, anyway.”

“Expected?” Max said, stunned.

“Yes. I e-mailed Alistair last night and it's all set.” She raised her eyebrows and nodded. “When you didn't arrange the meeting, I did. I'm getting a little tired of doing your job for you, Max. What have you been doing since you got here, besides the scullery maid?” She put her hand up. “Never mind. I don't want to know.”

She clipped past him and out the door.

Great. He pointed out the direction of the restaurant and they were off. He treaded beside her except in the places where the path was too narrow, where only one person could pass at a time. But he was determined to have a serious talk with Miranda before they went to the factory.

When Max walked into the restaurant, Claire waved hello. “What can I get ye? Two morning specials?”

Miranda ignored her and seated herself.

“Sounds good, Claire.” He started over to Miranda, but was called away.

“Yank?” One of three men at the far table motioned to him. Max didn't know his name, but he knew the other two—Ross and Ramsay Armstrong.

“Miranda, I'll be a minute.” He left her and went to the men. “Yes?”

“I'm Abraham Clacher. These two—”

“We've met,” said Ross.

“Oh, that's right. Ross was the one who told me ye was good with a hammer. Deydie asked me to build a platform or a stage, something for that bachelor auction.” The old man chuckled, but then it turned into a cough.

Ramsay pounded the elderly guy on the back.

“What Abraham is wondering,” said Ross, “is if you're up to helping us build this thing.”

Ross turned a paper napkin toward him, on which was sketched the general shape and dimensions.

“Are you going to be auctioned off as well, Ross?” Hell, Max sounded nosy, and it was none of his business, but he was curious if he'd gotten wrangled into it, too.

Ross's frown deepened. “Aye. I've been enlisted.”

Ramsay cuffed him on the arm. “See what happens when you dawdle? Ye should've married Pippa years ago. Now ye're going to end up being some boy-toy for a Glaswegian widow.”

“Leave off.” Ross looked as though he might punch his brother back, but not in the arm, and not in jest.

“I know how you feel,” Max muttered. He picked up the napkin and examined it. He set it back on the table and pulled out a pen, adding height to the stage's drawing and four steps leading up. “What if we do this?”

Claire passed by and tapped him on the shoulder. “Yere food's ready. But more important, yere lady is impatient.”

Max spun around. Sure enough, Miranda was cutting a glare at him that should've cleaved him in two. “We'll have to pick this back up later.”

Abraham leaned around Max and nodded. “Aye.”

Max joined Miranda.

“What was that all about? You seem awfully cozy here among these people.” She made it sound unsavory. “You were sent here to do a job. Or have you forgotten?”

“I haven't forgotten. But how am I supposed to do my job if you preempt me and send over a contract I know nothing about?” There. He'd laid it on the table.

“I don't know why you haven't received your copy, Max.”

He didn't believe her. She was stonewalling.

Max would have to make Pippa listen to reason. She had to let him read her copy.

Thinking of Pippa brought the issue of
Alistair
to the forefront. “There's something you need to know before we go to the factory today.”

She glanced at his clothing. “What, that you've contracted yourself out as one of their hired hands?”

He wouldn't tell her about the times he'd helped at NSV.

“It's about Alistair.” He paused for a second. “You've already met
her.
”

“What are you talking about? Alistair isn't a woman.”

She most certainly is.
Max could still feel her on his lips. “Pippa is Alistair McDonnell.
Alistair Philippa McDonnell
.”

Miranda looked horrified. “What?”

“Using the name Alistair makes it easier for her to navigate in the business world. She pulled the same trick on me. I didn't want you to walk in there and be surprised like I was.”

Miranda seemed appeased and gave a small shrug of
understanding. “You might have told me earlier,” she muttered.

“I tried. But now you know.” He motioned to her plate. “Your bangers and mash are getting cold.”

Miranda rolled her sausage away with her fork, frowning. “I would starve to death if I had to live here. Or I'd gain a hundred pounds.” She pushed her plate away, her cinnamon scone barely nibbled.

Max hurriedly ate, paid Claire for the excellent breakfast, and walked Miranda to the car. “I guess I should also prepare you for the factory. It'll be like nothing you've ever seen.” As he drove, he told her about the sail-making business, the boat storage, even the workers. He just couldn't bring himself to mention the abundance of Christmas trees, the one thing he couldn't rationalize away.

Once inside the lobby, Miranda glanced around with disdain, but kept her opinions to herself as he asked Bonnie to let Pippa know they were there.

Alistair showed up a few minutes later. This was the same Alistair that he'd met, the one wearing the business suit, but this time her suit was plaid, driving home her heritage. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun as before, and he itched to pull the pins and let it cascade down over her shoulders. But he knew she had a point to prove. He stood back and let her have at it.

With a fake smile on her face, Pippa stuck out her hand as if she'd never spoken to Miranda in her life. “Welcome. I'm Alistair McDonnell. And ye must be Miranda Weymouth.” Pippa's brogue was heavy, as if she
was ladling out a thick stew—thick enough to choke Miranda.

Miranda, surprisingly, didn't call Pippa on the carpet, but shook her hand as if nothing was amiss.

Max shrugged apologetically and fessed up. “I told Miranda about your split personality.”

“Persona,” Miranda corrected. “You wouldn't understand. You're not a woman.” She didn't look as if she was ready to play nice with Pippa, just as though she could relate. “And where is Lachlan, your father? I assumed he would be here to greet me.”

Pippa glanced at Max first to see if he'd told her about the McDonnell—his injuries, his inability to heal.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly.

Pippa faced Miranda. “My da has other things to tend to today.”

“I expect to meet with him soon,” Miranda said firmly.

Pippa shot her a glance that conveyed it would be over somebody's dead body. “Shall we get on with it?”

Alistair gave them the grand tour, more professional than the one he'd received on his first day. Miranda seemed to be watching both him and NSV's chief engineer closely as if trying to gauge what was really going on between them. Hell, if she found out, then he'd like to know, too.

After they hit the high points of the factory, Pippa guided them back to her office. The room had been straightened and a small table, looking suspiciously like the café table from Quilting Central, sat in the corner with three kitchen chairs around it. The place was still cluttered, but in better shape than when he'd first seen it.

Pippa gestured for them to sit. “Make yereself comfortable.”

Miranda pointed to the stack of papers on her desk. “Is that the contract?”

Pippa straightened. “Aye. I'm still working through it.”

“Perhaps I can meet with Lachlan and go over the high points with him.” Miranda's offer was met with a stony glare.

“The McDonnell and I have it covered.”

Pippa might as well have said it aloud, because Max could plainly see it on her face . . .
I'll get back to ye in my own sweet time.

Miranda held her ground. “Then I want to see the subsea shutoff valve designs while I'm here.”

Taog popped his head in the office. “Pippa, if you've got a minute, I need ye in the machine shop.” His face reddened as if he'd only just noticed she had visitors. “Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt.”

Pippa grabbed her hard hat. “We were done here. Max, you know yere way out.” She stood at her office entrance and waited for them to pass. Then she pulled her door shut, twisted the knob as if to check that it locked, and left without another word to either of them.

As soon as Pippa was out of sight, Miranda turned on him. “McKinley, you better not have ruined this deal by dicking with the owner's daughter.”

“I assure you, the deal is on track.”
It has to be.
“But as I said, I need a copy of the contract to make any headway.” He peered through the office window at the contract lying on Pippa's desk.

Miranda started walking toward the double doors
they'd come through. “You know all you need to know. Close this deal, or else.”

He was angry. Miranda, MTech, or both had sent him into battle without weapons . . . and expected him to be victorious! He stomped to the car.

He drove Miranda back to the town's parking lot, where Ross, Ramsay, and Abraham stood in front of a truck that was at least sixty years old, examining it.

“I've got somewhere to be,” Max said. “Are you good on your own?”

“Of course,” Miranda snorted.

Max waited while she walked from the parking lot and out of sight before joining the other three. He would like nothing better than to find Pippa right now and get the damned deal settled, but he'd promised to help the men with the stage for the bachelor auction. God, Max hoped Miranda was back in the States before he had to prance across the stage in a skirt and be auctioned off. He wasn't some juicy steak in the supermarket to be bought.

“Sorry I'm late,” he said to the men.

Ross nodded his head in the direction Miranda had gone. “Ye looked busy.”

“Aye,” Abraham added.

“So what is it that we're looking at?” Max said.

Ross sighed impatiently. “It's a truck.”

“Are ye sure?” Ramsay teased.

Ross clouted Ramsay on the shoulder. “I'm going to fix it up. I figure if my younger brother can start a new business, then I can, too. Of course, for me, the fishing comes first. But
Armstrong Hauling
has a nice ring to it.”

Abraham guffawed. “There's more rust and dents on the truck than McCurdy's boat.”

“I'm not sure this heap can handle hauling a feather, the shape she's in.” That remark got Ramsay another punch on the shoulder.

“We're going to find out.” Ross opened the door. “Who's riding to the mill with me to pick up wood?”

Ramsay took a step back, putting his hand to his ear. “I think I hear my wife calling. I'm coming, Kit!” he hollered back to the wind.

“Chicken shite,” Ross complained.

Abraham chuckled, walking away. “I've got to swab the deck of me boat. Looks like ye're stuck with the Yank.”

“Get in,” Ross said, frowning at the backs of the other two men.

Max guessed the contract could wait another hour . . . if the damned truck didn't break down and delay him further.

*   *   *

Freda hurried up to the porch of Thistle Glen Lodge, knowing this was the bravest thing she'd ever done. She tapped lightly on the door. She'd heard the whispers, people calling Miranda the Queen Shrew. Freda knew otherwise. Miranda was going to be her savior. She tapped harder.

Miranda finally opened the door with her mobile phone in hand, clearly irritated, and frowning. “Yes?”

“I'd like to speak with ye.” Freda looked down at her snow-covered boots, feeling more like Moira than herself right now.

Miranda didn't budge with her hand on the door. “Go on.”

“May I come in?”

“This better not take long. I have calls to make.” Miranda opened the door wide and let Freda pass through. “What's this about?”

While a disapproving Miranda watched, Freda slipped off her boots and left them in the rubber tray to catch the melting snow. Her courage of a moment ago felt as if it was melting away, too.

Oh, dear. Maybe coming here was a mistake. She should leave. Instead she made herself stay rooted to the spot. “I'm Freda Douglas. My cottage is just down the way.”

Miranda gave her an impatient nod.

Freda hung her coat on a hook, wishing she was better able to tell people what she needed. She turned back to Miranda. “I want to get some advice from you.”