Meet Me in Scotland (12 page)

“That's very good.” Moira handed her another two blocks. “Later I'll show you how to chain-stitch the blocks so you can make them faster.”

“Ye'll have to speed it up,” Deydie barked from directly behind her. “We need it done by this Christmas, not by next.”

Emma tried to ignore her, making sure her seams were straight, and finally completed the first block—a blue-and-white star with extra points. Moira took it from her to press.

Out of the corner of Emma's eye, she noticed Claire
going from woman to woman, speaking animatedly to the females of Gandiegow. What she said to each one caused initial concern in their eyes; then they would pat Claire's arm and give her a hug.

“What are you up to, Claire?” Emma murmured.

“Excuse me?” Moira lay the pressed block beside her.

“Nothing.” Emma positioned the fabric into the next block.

Deydie's hand hit the table, making the fabric jump. “Faster, lassie.” She huffed away.

Emma picked up two more pieces and realized her troubles were only adding up—enough troubles to piece into her own mess-of-a-life quilt.

Her dead career, her parents, Claire and Dominic's marriage, whatever Claire was up to right now, the MacTavish baby, Deydie, and the Gandiegow Doctor quilt.

And at the top of her list right now, the doctor himself.

When Emma looked up this time, Gabriel had his back to her while he talked to an older gentleman. Her relief at not being examined by the doctor from across the room was only temporary, though. Her thoughts went back to him pushing her up against the wall and kissing her. Heat filled her face, chest, and other private areas. Yes, the doctor was at the top of her list.

And here was the problem she had with Gabriel: She didn't know if it was just all in her mind. Should she forget that kiss had ever happened? Or should she face the problem head-on and kiss him again—as an experiment—to see if the chemistry between them was real?

*   *   *

Deydie hobbled over to where Gabe stood with the McDonnell
.
“I need ye to start singing.”

“What?” Gabe looked to the McDonnell
to see if this was normal behavior for the old woman.

The McDonnell laughed. “Deydie, you can't mean me. Ye know I sing as well as a walrus with a sore throat.”

She turned her glower on Gabe. “'Tis time to quit resting on yere laurels and earn yere keep. Sing a carol to keep the out-of-towners busy.” She harrumphed. “Ye're not terrible. I've heard ye at church. We've a situation.” She pointed to a woman by the fireplace who had a cell phone to her ear. “We just need one song until our master quilter finishes her call.”

“What am I supposed to sing?” Gabe asked.

“A Christmas carol,” she urged.

“It's a little early, isn't it?”

“Close enough. Now get on with it,” she growled.

It wasn't the most pleasant of requests, but . . . he did want the town to be more receptive to him, so he broke into “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

“On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me . . .” He looked over, and Emma stared back. He motioned to the packed room as the rest of them turned his way. “Come on, everyone, join in.
A partridge in a pear tree
.”
And thank God they did, or else he would've looked ridiculous.

Emma's eyes stayed glued on him, all kinds of emotions playing on her face. Mostly she seemed perplexed. He could've used a big smile from her for encouragement. He only got frowning. Was he off-key and didn't know it?

“On the second day of Christmas . . .”

Also, for the past fifteen minutes, he really had been trying to figure out what Emma Castle was doing behind a sewing machine—
Emma!
Since he'd arrived in Gandiegow, he'd observed the quilters and how much talent, time, and patience it took to stitch a seam, let alone make a whole quilt. It was a real craft. As hard as repairing any engine. He couldn't wrap his mind around Emma sitting behind that machine like she belonged there.

“On the third day of Christmas . . .”

And wouldn't Emma consider sewing beneath her station in life? Miss Designer Suits toiling behind her machine held a certain homespun appeal, and he had to admit that it turned him on to see her across the room, picking out fabrics and piecing them together.

“On the fourth day of Christmas . . .”

The McDonnell
pounded him on the back and winked, nodding toward the town's newest quilter. Gabe shot him a couple of daggers. He couldn't stop the song to tell the older man that he didn't feel that way about Emma. Gabe couldn't even call her a friend. An acquaintance of more than a decade, maybe.

“On the fifth day of Christmas . . .”

But something was definitely amiss, because he felt like he'd taken a cricket bat to the chest.

He put Emma out of his mind and continued on with the song by rote. It was then that he noticed the crowd that had gathered around him. The other men of Gandiegow had come to stand next to him
,
a surprising show of solidarity.
The quilting women of the village joined them, too, one by one. It looked as if the town had rehearsed this Norman Rockwell moment and performed it especially for the retreatgoers.

He saw the master quilter put away her phone and enjoy the rest of the song from her place by the hearth. Emma, he noticed, dropped her head down like she'd been caught spying. It was best she was done staring at him; he was done staring at her, too.

When the song ended, he headed straight for the door, not saying a word to anyone. And making sure not to look back to see
her
behind the sewing machine. He needed to talk to Dom. He needed help and he needed it now.

As he walked down the boardwalk, a shout came from the pier.

“Doc, come here and give me a hand.” It was Ramsay with a large crate.

Gabe rushed over to the pier and took one end. “What's in here?”

“Fish.”

“Isn't it late to be out? And dangerous, too?”

Ramsay smirked at him. “Nah. I'm fine.”

“Where are your brothers?”

“John is home with his wife and kid. I don't know where Ross is off to.”

“Aye.” Gabe adjusted his hands to get a better grip.

“I thought the ladies might enjoy fresh fish for their retreat. If our chef will fix it up for them, of course.”

“I'm sure Dom would be happy to oblige. I was just going that way.” Gabe groaned.

Ramsay laughed. “Not too heavy, is it?”

“Nay.” Gabe forced a weak smile back.

At the restaurant, Ramsay helped unload the fish into the cooler for the next day's fare but then stuck around, not giving Gabe a chance to talk to Dominic alone.

“How about we head over to the pub for a dram?” Ramsay suggested.

“Gabe, you go on without me,” Dom said. “I have to get prepared for tomorrow.”

“I'll stay and help,” Gabe offered.

“No. Showing you what to do will only take longer.”

“But—” Gabe tried.

“Go,” Dom insisted. “I'm terrible company.”

Gabe promised himself that later he'd lecture Dominic and tell him that he wasn't the only person in Scotland with problems. At least Dom's problems could easily be fixed: take his wife to bed and give her a baby.

Gabe's problems, though, lingered at the opposite end of the spectrum. There was a bed he wanted to crawl into, with a certain woman whom he shouldn't want. He needed to find a way to eradicate thoughts of her from his mind.

“Good idea, Ramsay,” Gabe acquiesced. “I could use a strong drink.”

T
he next morning, Emma cornered Claire in the restaurant. “What was going on between you and the other women last night? What were you saying that had them looking so concerned?”

“There isn't time for talking. The retreatgoers will be starving. Frigid Highland air burns more calories than hours of exercise, ye know.”

Emma wasn't buying it. Claire was definitely dodging her questions. But why?

“Go on now,” Claire said, shooing her with her hands.

“Just know that this talk isn't over.” Emma stowed the huge batch of scones along with fresh fruit in the wagon and hurried to Quilting Central.

A storm was brewing out in the ocean, making her move faster down the boardwalk. When she got to Quilting Central, she hustled the scones inside and set them up on the food table.

Deydie and Bethia roamed over and each took a blueberry scone as the retreatgoers filed in.

“Ye better get back to work on that quilt, lassie,” Deydie said. “It ain't going to make itself.”

“Ye were planning to stay, weren't you?” Bethia said kindly.

“I guess.” Emma thought about how Claire didn't want her around.

Deydie poured her a cup of tea. “Stay hydrated. Quilting is a marathon, not a light jog around the village,” she cackled.

From across the room, a woman about Emma's age smiled at her and gave a little wave, but then went to help one of the out-of-town quilters.

“May I ask who that is?” Emma said.

“It's me granddaughter, Caitie Macleod Buchanan.” Deydie motioned to the whole room. “All of this was her idea. She's a smart one, my Caitie.”

“It's quite an enterprise,” Emma agreed.

Deydie grabbed a broom and swept the crumbs by Bethia's feet. “Ye're getting the floor all dirty.” She turned on Emma with a glare. “Ye do have to actually use the machine to get the damned doctor's quilt done, ye know.” She shoved Emma toward her work area.

Deydie toddled off to the long-arm quilting machine, gathering some of the local women around her. She looked almost like she was directing traffic, giving each woman specific instructions. Dread came over Emma. She had the feeling that Claire's goings-on last night and Deydie's machinations today were connected. Maybe Emma should go back to the restaurant and force Claire to tell her what the town's women were up to.

But as Emma rose, Moira joined her, taking a seat.

“I'm going to teach you how to chain-stitch today,” the shy woman said.

“All right.” Emma sat back down, knowing she should be grateful for the instruction, but what she really wanted was to get to the bottom of the mystery playing out in front of her.

Moira tapped the fabric. “I usually get several pieces
lined up and ready to sew.” Her soft voice brought Emma's attention back to the task at hand.

While the morning workshop began, Moira gave Emma her private lesson. She demonstrated how chain-stitching the quilt pieces—sewing pieces one after another without breaking the thread in between—could be a huge time-saver. Emma mastered the technique quickly, gaining more confidence with every stitch. Her seams were straight and bore the correct quarter-inch width. By late morning, her shoulders were stiff. She stood and stretched, examining the work she'd done on Gabriel's quilt.
No. The Gandiegow Doctor quilt.

But that's when she noticed something strange happening at the doorway of Quilting Central. The local women were grabbing their coats and filing out one by one.

*   *   *

Dominic had made an early start this morning and had already been to Inverness for the extra supplies needed for the spur-of-the-moment quilt retreat. He'd also been up late planning the catering menu and prepping what he could. But, hell, what else would he have done with those hours? He certainly wasn't spending it with his wife.

When he walked into the restaurant loaded down with sacks, he was surprised Claire wasn't there with the last of her late-morning customers. Either she had stepped into the kitchen for more scones or into the privy for a moment. He greeted customers as he walked through, but stopped at the kitchen doors. What if Claire was up to more tricks? Surely she wouldn't be lying on the prep table, prepped for him. Or, even worse, she could be in one of her foul moods and standing near the recently sharpened knives. He gritted his teeth and pushed through the swinging doors.

She wasn't in there, either. He set down his bags and
began unloading and sorting the supplies into three groups—restaurant fare, retreat fare, and crossovers. He stashed the cold items in the cooler, keeping an eye on the dining area, and began fixing the retreat's lunch before starting the restaurant's.

Just as he got into a chopping rhythm with the paring knife, Claire came into the kitchen with a load of dirty dishes. He braced himself. But she only beamed at him. No hostility, no latent sexuality. In the far depths of her eyes, and only for a second, he caught something that made him worry. But she seemed so like her old self and in a good mood that he chose to ignore it. Maybe she'd decided to come to her senses.

“Morning,” she said brightly. She leaned over to see what he was doing. “What do ye need help with first—the catering or the lunch prep?”

She dazzled him with nothing more than being herself. He looked down blankly at the knife in his hand and the chopped tomatoes on the cutting board and had to focus—yes, he'd been slicing them for the spring salad.

“I have it,” he finally replied, remembering to breathe. God, he'd better get laid soon or he might accidentally cut off an appendage while chopping vegetables. “You still have the breakfast crowd.”

“Are ye sure?” She looked the vision of sincerity.

He was glad she was done playing games. Thrilled to have his wife back. He was getting hard. “Yes, I've got it under control,” he heard himself saying. “Leave the dishes. I'll take care of them later.” Right now he couldn't be near her and get anything done.

Claire nodded and walked out of the kitchen, back to the dining area.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Tonight he would sleep in his own bed. Or, even better, he wouldn't sleep at all.

He stared at the dishes in the oversized sink, then at
all the food that needed to be prepared. “Horny bastard,” he said to himself.

He lit into the vegetables with a fury and soon had salad for the restaurant and the retreat. Next, he made thirty-five sandwiches, filling a large platter for the quilting women. All the work he had to do couldn't stop the emotions bombarding him. He felt so thankful that this war of wills with Claire was finally over. He'd won.

But had he? She hadn't said everything was back to normal. Fear swept through him.

Had she given up on him? He broke into a cold sweat.

But there was no time to find out. He put on the tortellini soup for the lunch crowd. By eleven thirty, he was ready. Thomas and Lochie stopped by with the cart to pick up the quilting retreat's lunch. Dom made sure the trays were secure and settled, then grabbed his own trays to fill the side counter with today's specials.

When he stepped into the dining area, he almost dropped his armload of food.

A packed house?

Every table filled?

Families. Couples. Every stool along the bar occupied.

Dom had expected there to be about the same number of people as yesterday, maybe fewer because of the extra hands needed at Quilting Central. He looked to Claire, dumbstruck. She didn't look dumbstruck or shocked or confused at the turnabout in business. His wife had a triumphant gaze on her face.

“Claire,” Dominic growled. “May I see you in the kitchen?”

“Why, of course.” She sauntered past him, swishing her peasant skirt and apron as she passed.

On the other side of the door, where the whole town couldn't hear, he pinned her against the wall with his
gaze. His groin, though, wanted to pin her there with his body. “What is going on out there?”

“I don't know what ye're talking about.” Beaming with satisfaction, she tilted her head to the side with a grin.

“Why are all those people here?”

She walked over and ran a finger down his chest. “Be a good boy and don't argue about a full house.” She walked on and picked up the next tray for the salad bar. “Do you want me to stay and help?” she said sweetly.

He needed space from her more than he needed her help. “No. Go.”

“Have it your way,” she said. “I'll be upstairs in the shower, if you want me.”

Great. Just the image he didn't need haunting him for the rest of the afternoon. He watched only a moment as she headed for the stairs, her hips swaying slightly. He went through the swinging doors to the dining room to deal with the locals.

It didn't take long to figure out how she'd gotten them all there. When Leslie Murray stepped to the cash register, she gave him a sly smile.

“Och, Dominic.” She tsked and motioned to the room. “There's no need to worry. You don't have to be frightened of having a wee bairn. We'll all be right here to help ye.” Leslie leaned in as if to share a secret. “Don't forget that the
tryin'
for a bairn is the fun part.”

Good God. What had Claire told these people?

One by one, the good people of Gandiegow winked at him and cajoled him. “Bairns are a gift from God,” one said. “It'd be grand to have a wee babe at the end of summer,” said another. By the time the last customer left, he wanted to wring Claire's neck.

He stomped up the stairs, leaving his horny self behind. He marched into the bedroom just as Claire was
slipping a dress over her smooth, curvy body—no bra, and only a scrap of hot pink lace for underwear.

His mouth went dry. For a long moment he could only stare, not remembering what it was he wanted to rail on her about.

Rail on her
. Yes, that would be good. Lay her on the bed and rail on her. When he took a step toward her, she lifted the hem of her dress.

“Should I take this off?” she purred, sex and pheromones pouring off her. “Or do you want me to leave it on?”

That stopped him. Oh, she was sure of herself, wasn't she? And after she'd embarrassed him in front of the whole town! Dominic ground out the words like he'd put them in a mortar and taken the pestle to them. “What did you tell them, Claire?”

“Nothing much. That you might be scared of becoming a da. It's pretty common. They all understood.” She smiled at him prettily.

“It was a dirty trick,” he muttered. “Just because you wrangled them into being here today doesn't mean we'll have money in the coffers tomorrow to support a child.” He wouldn't admit to her that what she had told the village rang a little true. He might be scared. And why not? Any sane person
should
be scared of that kind of financial burden. When a child came into the world, a world of responsibility came with it. A child would depend on him to care for it, to provide for it. Forever. But what if something happened to him? To Claire, too? His mother had left him when he needed her most. No home. A confused teen. The MacGregor family had taken him in, God bless them, but it hadn't been the same as having your own madre. He wished he could see her just one more time.

He shook his head vehemently. “You shouldn't have
done it, Claire. You shouldn't have dragged the village into it.”

“Ye're right. I shouldn't have had to.” She dropped the hem and advanced on him. “Ye're a bonehead, Dominic Russo.” She stepped past him and out the door.

Her perfume remained behind.

*   *   *

Throughout the afternoon, Emma noticed Caitie watching her, always with a pleasant smile on her face but too busy with the retreat to break away. At precisely three o'clock, though, she saw the woman make her way purposefully to Emma. She didn't look a thing like her grandmother, Deydie, but she sure had a gleam in her eye that Emma recognized, one that had
favor
written all over it.

She introduced herself as Cait in a Scots-American accent and shook her hand. “I was wondering if I could have a minute of your time.”

“Sure.” Emma turned off her machine, expecting Cait to take the seat beside her.

But she stayed on her feet. “It's about Mattie. Have you met him, my adopted son?”

“No.” Emma rose, but got that creeping feeling she was going to be put in an awkward situation. Surely she wouldn't be asked to babysit.

Cait motioned to the overstuffed sofa. “Let's go sit by the fire and I'll tell you his story.” She took her arm and guided her to the hearth.

Emma gazed around at all the Gandiegow quilters, and they all had eyes on her. Of course. What else could she expect from a close-knit community? They must've known about this little ambush beforehand. At least that's what it was feeling like. She had the urge to dig in her heels and put a stop to whatever she was being dragged into. Mattie's story might lead to something worse than babysitting.

As Cait got comfortable, she gave her a wistful smile.
“Mattie is a great kid. My husband is Mattie's grandda. He's gone a lot on business.”

Emma nodded.

“About two years ago, Mattie witnessed a terrible accident off the rocks just outside the cove. Tragically, all the fishermen on board the vessel drowned. Then his own da died of leukemia.”

“How awful. I'm very sorry for your loss.”

Cait touched Emma's arm. “Thank you. We're doing better—adjusting, accepting. It's Mattie, though. He's spoken only a few words since the drowning. We had him in therapy during the summer break and it helped. Before my husband left this last time, Mattie even whispered goodbye to him. We were thrilled. He seems to be coping and adapting to life without Duncan—his da.”

Yes, Duncan's Den,
one of the quilting dorms
.