The Laird and I: A Kilts and Quilts of Whussendale novella (10 page)

“Again, Sophie.” He couldn’t lose her!

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Ye’ll do it for me. For the Wallace. And for the Bruce.” The Bruce dog was still barking encouragement from the shore. “Grab on to it because we need ye, lass,” his heart pleaded.

His words energized her. This time when she grabbed the sled, she held on, gritting her chattering teeth. “P-pull, dammit,” she growled.

Hugh hauled on the rope. The weight of the wet dog, Sophie, and her wet clothes was more than he’d expected. The Bruce barked more.

“Help, ye stupid mutt.”

The Bruce ran for the end of the rope, gripped it in his teeth, and tugged. Sophie and the Wallace came out of the water.

“Ye’re a damned good dog,” Hugh grunted as he pulled. They weren’t out of danger yet. It took everything in him not to run out and help her the rest of the way, but he kept tugging until at last he had her.

“I’m cold,” she said through chattering teeth.

He picked her up and rushed for the house.

“What about the W-Wallace?” she whispered.

He glanced back. “He’s coming. The Bruce is nudging him along.”

Hugh took her into the house, the dogs following, and straight up to his room. He flipped the switch on the gas fireplace to warm the interior and headed to the en suite bathroom. He turned on the towel warmer with one hand before stepping into the Roman shower, fully clothed with Sophie still in his arms. He turned on the water, letting the spray wash over them.

“We don’t want the water too hot,” he explained calmly. His darling Sophie was shaking so. “I promise this’ll raise your temperature.” He carefully set her on the stone bench with water cascading over her. “I’m going to take yere wet things off so we can get the warm water to your skin.”

“O-k-kay.” 

While he steadied her with his body, he pulled off her boots and socks. Then he undid her waterlogged coat and removed it.

“Ye know, lass, many times this past week,” he said, trying to give her a playful smile, “I’ve imagined peeling yere clothes off ye, though never under these circumstances.”

She gave him a valiant smile, but shivered violently, sputtering when water got in her mouth. “I hope I don’t drown first.”

“Ye’re my braw lass.” He laughed, knowing it was a good sign that she was spouting off at him at a time like this. “Come on. Let’s get this sweater off of you. Ye can leave on yere bra.” He eased it over her head as her next sentence registered.

“I’m not wearing one.” And she wasn’t.

“Oh, God.” He thought he might hyperventilate. “Ye’re beautiful, lass.”

“Ye’re just hard up.” Her teeth chattered with her arms plastered at her sides.

He kissed her. He couldn’t help himself—he was such a bastard to take advantage of her. But she kissed him back, melting into him as he held her tightly.

“Oh, Sophie, I don’t know what I would’ve done—” He broke off.

She shh’ed him. “It’s o-okay, Hugh. I’m okay.”

Fortunately, the way he was holding her kept her from seeing his face. Raw emotions coursed through him— terror, anger, relief, and gratitude. Gradually, where cold and upset had been, only joy remained
.
They stayed like that for a long time, until she wasn’t shaking nearly as much and he was feeling calmer.

Finally, he remembered his duty. “Let’s get these pants off of ye, too.”

“You f-first.” A bit of laughter was in her voice.

“Oh, God, don’t tell me that ye’re not wearing any skivvies.” He looked down, which was a huge mistake. Her wee perfect breasts were right there in his line of sight, and he was as hard as a rock.

“I’m wearing
skivvies,
as ye say. It’s just that, ye know, they’re not verra prim and proper.” Her cheeks were pinking up nicely, a good sign she was going to be fine.

He brushed her cheek. “Well, close yere eyes, lass, so ye won’t see
me
when I’m scandalized by yere underthings.”

He didn’t wait for her consent but undid her pants and pushed them down to her ankles.

“Step out.” His voice was hoarse with his face inches away from the black lace of nothing that she wore. And God help him, he put his mouth over the small V and gave it a worshiping kiss. Before he did more, he rose. “How are ye feeling?”

“Do that again, and I’d be damned near on fire.”

“Let’s get you dried off and warmed up under the quilts.” Keeping his boxers on, Hugh stripped out of his soaked shirt and slacks, leaving them and Sophie in the running water while he toweled off. He dressed in fleece pants before grabbing two warm towels from the rack.

He turned off the shower, swaddled Sophie in the towels, and carried her to his room. For once, the Wallace and the Bruce weren’t on the bed, but were in front of the fireplace. The Bruce was lying up against the Wallace, licking his ear.

Hugh pulled back the covers with one hand while he set Sophie down. “Slip off those panties so yere bed won’t get wet.” He wanted to do it himself, but was pretty certain he wouldn’t be able to stop what he wanted to do next.

“
My
bed?” She looked at him incredulously. “Where are ye going?”

“Don’t worry, lass,” he chuckled. “I’ll be right back.” He went to the en suite and grabbed the other warmed towels and wrapped them around the Wallace.

He hurried back to the bed and pulled her into his arms, knowing the skin-to-skin contact was a good way to keep her warm. He tried
not
to think about her being naked, but she kept nibbling at his neck.

He looked up at the ceiling at the crack that had formed the year Chrissa died. It was past time to fix it. “I want to thank you.”

She stopped in mid-nibble. “For what?”

“For lying next to me these last several nights.”
For helping me to remember my family in a good light.

She pulled away. “So ye were awake?” Her words were filled with hurt and disbelief. “The whole time?”

“Aye.”

She sat up, scooting away from him. “Ye pretended to be asleep, because what? I was too plain to have in yere bed?”

He pulled her back into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Calm yereself, woman.”

“I’m going home tomorrow,” she whispered angrily. “I don’t want to go home a virgin.”

“Nay. Ye’re staying here with me. I mean to make you my wife.” He’d made the decision subconsciously while she’d held him night after night. He couldn’t ever let her go.

The word
virgin
finally sank into Hugh’s brain. “Ye’re a what?

Chapter Six

“Y
e mean to make me yere wife?” Sophie’s voice was shrill. Water must still be in her ears. Or the chill had cracked her brain.

“I’m finally going to do as Amy and Aunt Davinia bid me to do.” He looked confused—like he was saying one thing while puzzling over another. “They’ve nagged me to marry you for the last year, and now I will.”

An arrow pierced straight through Sophie’s heart. Not one of Cupid’s arrows either.

Something was very wrong with what he was saying. She had liked Hugh even before she’d met him. Amy’s stories about Hugh and their misadventures as children and young adults had painted him in the most lovable light. When Sophie had seen him for the first time, she’d been instantly attracted to him, though he’d been a prat.

Then somewhere along the line in the last week, she’d fallen hopelessly in love with Hugh McGillivray, the flesh-and-blood man. The real deal. Perhaps it had happened when they were isolated at the cabin and he’d shared his deepest, darkest secret with her so she would know she wasn’t alone in her pain. Or maybe while she’d been holding him night after night while he lay next to his dead sister’s bed. Hell, as hard up as she was, she’d probably fallen in love with him on the first night…when she’d seen him naked.

Shouldn’t she feel grateful to him that he’d given in to his relations’ hounding and had agreed to marry the
unmarriageable Sophie
?

Except she couldn’t marry him if he felt forced into it!

“Get me some pajamas,” she said coolly, pushing away from him. “I need my cell phone, too.” Being demanding was better than crying.

“Ye don’t need pajamas.” His voice was as hard as the ice on the loch should have been.

“I do. And don’t forget the phone.” She was going home—now. She wasn’t going to inflict herself on him any longer.

Hugh had a bemused expression on his face as he rolled out of bed. He pulled his pajama top from the closet and retrieved her cell from the dresser.

“Here.” He left her with the things and went into the loo.

Sophie couldn’t tell him the truth. It was too painful. If only he wanted her for the right reasons!

She would not crumple into a heap. Not now. She started to call home, but no way did Sophie want to be stuck in a car with Mama questioning her all the way back to Gandiegow. Sophie pulled on Hugh’s pajama top and dialed her cousin, the one person who wouldn’t badger her to death about what had happened and how she was feeling.

“Ramsay, it’s me, Sophie. I need ye to come and get me,” she said, starting to shake, and not from the cold either.

“Give me the address,” Ramsay said. “I’ll leave now.”

She gave him the directions and hung up. She looked up and found Hugh standing in the doorway.

“What’s this about?” he said roughly.

The dogs raised their heads and gave her a questioning stare. They all waited for her answer. She didn’t have the energy to speak. It had been a harrowing evening—she’d not used her therapy lamp—and the depression was swallowing her and taking her words with it.

“Ye’re not going anywhere,” he said.

Sophie didn’t meet his eyes, but went to the dresser and scooped out her panties, laying them on the comforter. Hugh’s eyes flashed with desire at her slutty undies, but then his glare went icy cold in the next second.

She went to the third drawer and pulled out a turtleneck, jeans, and a sweater. She opened her mouth to tell him to step out of the room while she dressed, but he’d already seen all she had—maybe even seen to her very soul. She had a moment of gumption as she pulled his pajama top over her head like she was a snake shedding its skin.
A new woman
. Naked, but with a new determination. She silently dared Hugh to say something as she put on a warm turtleneck.

He glared at her with his hands on his hips. “What has got into you?”

“Nothing’s got into me.” Amy and Aunt Davinia would have to come up with a new bride for Hugh to wed.
And bed.

But underneath it all…Sophie was amazed that during Hugh’s non-proposal—somewhere, somehow—she’d found her own worth.

She didn’t have to marry to feel like a whole person.

He grabbed her arm. “Talk to me, dammit. Don’t shut me out.” He paused for a second as if the answer had occurred to him. He dropped her arm and stepped back. “Do ye need time in front of yere lamp?”

The question knocked the air out of her.

She grabbed a pillow and threw it at his head, wishing for more—like a club to use on his thick skull.

He’d done her a favor with his last words, reminding her that she was damaged, defective, giving her just enough energy to go. She jammed all her clothes into her suitcase. She looked mournfully at the vase. She couldn’t keep it without thinking of him. She left the vase sitting on his dresser…and her Gandiegow wallhanging over the cedar chest. It would serve him right for pieces of her to remain behind. As she wheeled her bag to exit, he stood in the doorway, blocking it.

“Don’t,” he said through clenched teeth.

But he was settling. He didn’t
want
to marry her; he’d made that clear. Ultimately, he was only going to marry because his family wished him to. The Laird may not love her, but Sophie had finally figured out that she loved herself.

She pushed past him. “Come, boys, walk me downstairs.” The Wallace and the Bruce followed her down, one towel staying on the Wallace until he hit the final step.

Sophie went into the parlor, wishing she could make a quick getaway, but Ramsay wouldn’t arrive for some time. She threw a log on the fire for the hounds, and then sat at the writing desk to do some light therapy as she waited.

The longer she sat in front of her lamp, the sadder she felt. She was going home defeated and would live with her parents for the rest of her life. The truth was, she would miss being at Kilheath Castle, miss holding the Laird while he slept.

She loved Hugh—there was no denying it—she only wished he loved her back. She wiped away a tear. And just in time, too.

Hugh brought a tray in and set it down on the coffee table.

“Eat,” he said. “Drink. Refuel.” He didn’t seem capable of full sentences.

Sophie turned off her lamp, unplugged it, and carefully wound up the cord. She put it with her other things by the parlor entrance before walking to the tray, all the fight gone from her. She grabbed a tart and the mug of tea.

He pointed to the loveseat. “Sit.”

She couldn’t relax as she had on her first day here, when she’d pretended to be queen of the castle. All those illusions had been vanquished. The dogs came to lie next to her as if they didn’t want to miss one second of her being there either. As the time ticked away, Hugh seemed to inch closer to her, also.

After a long while, he sighed heavily as if the fight was all gone from him, too. “Ye have to tell me what happened. Ye owe me at least that before ye go.”

A sharp rap sounded at the front door. For a second, Hugh kept staring at her like he hadn’t heard.

The knock came again, longer and harder. Hugh stomped off toward the foyer.

What could Sophie say to the Laird? When he’d declared that he’d marry her, he’d said nothing of love.

Sharp voices from the hallway interrupted her regrets.
Crap.
Maybe having Ramsay fetch her had been stupid. Mama would’ve been better.

Sophie grabbed her luggage as she hurried from the parlor. The dogs popped up and followed. She found Hugh in the foyer, standing nose-to-nose with Ramsay.

“What’s this?” Hugh said to her accusingly.