Meet Me in Scotland (2 page)

Him and his bloody burr.

And accuracy.

Yes, she should've taken the high road and been grateful. But he made her forget she was supposed to be a lady.

With a huff, she pulled up the handle on her bag.

“What's in there, by the way?” He pointed to her rolling suitcase. “It weighs at least ten stone.”

“Books.” She would make no apologies. She'd packed as many books as clothes, planning to use reading as her escape from her disastrous life.

“Psychology books?” He frowned at her. “Certainly not your parents' books.” His frown deepened.

“If you must know, they're novels.” Books with happy endings. True, she didn't believe in happy endings, but she needed a dose of unreality right now. She'd had enough of the real world—its misfortune and misery.

“Well, we'd better get a move on. There's a winter storm blowing outside,” he offered. “I was afraid you might be diverted to London. But you made it just in time.” He looked up at the board as the announcement came over the loudspeaker: All flights were canceled.

As they hurried through the terminal, she couldn't stop peering over at him. He was so damned good-looking. A proper English deb did not swear, not even in her own thoughts, but once again Gabriel had her behaving quite horrendously.

“Emma,” he said impatiently, “why are you staring?”

“I . . . uhhh.” She sounded like an imbecile. Had his hair always looked this enticing? Enough so that she wanted to run her hands through it? She wondered if Gabriel was in a relationship.

“Well?” he said impatiently.

“Well, what?” She felt stupid for zoning out.

He frowned at her as if disappointed she couldn't keep up.

“Listen,” she countered back, “I've been traveling for the past twenty-four hours. Cut me some slack.” She'd been in America far too long, adopting some of their terrible language habits.

“Fine.
Slack cut
,” he said.

She knew a few things about Gabriel. She'd met his father, the Reverend Casper MacGregor, at Dominic and Claire's wedding. He had officiated and they'd had a lovely chat afterward. Gabriel was raised in the Church of Scotland—Presbyterians. Which didn't exactly mesh with what she thought of him. Emma had been raised pragmatically—Mum insisted that religion was for those who needed it. Her parents had no need. They had money, fame, and high-profile careers.

Emma felt like they'd been trekking for miles through the terminal. Maybe she'd been rash by not allowing Gabriel to help. Her arms felt like deadweight, tired from maneuvering both her carry-on and the checked bag behind her.

Before they stepped outside, Emma stopped to button her suit jacket. But when she left the terminal, she found her effort was in vain. It was bloody miserable—cold as freezer frost. Wind blew up her long pencil skirt and froze both her legs and her nether regions. Her lined suit jacket couldn't keep out the cold, either, as the snow
whirled all around them. “This is quite an adjustment,” she hollered above the wind.

“Which? The cold weather or the darkness?”

“Both,” she answered.

“The Highlands are extreme, Princess. If you think the short days are something, wait until the endless summer nights.”

“I don't plan to be here that long.” She pulled her scarf more tightly around her neck, clung to her cases, and hurried along.

He led her to his ancient Land Rover.

“The same auto you had ten years ago?” She wondered if he still had his motorcycle, too.

“Aye. I recently restored the interior.” He unlocked her side of the car. “Get in.”

Even though she was cold, she waited at the back with her bags.

He opened her door. “I said, get in. It's freezing.”

“Just open the back.” She was stubborn. She intended to prove to Gabriel she wasn't the pampered princess he thought she was.

He came around to the back and unlocked it. She started to lift her bag.

“Here, I've got it.” He reached for her luggage, as well.

A small tug-of-war ensued. Determined to win the battle, she yanked as hard as she could, but the handle broke, sending her backward into the snow. If she'd thought it was cold before, she was mistaken. Instantly, she became crushed ice cold from head to toe.

He offered her his hand to help her up, but she swatted him away.

“I've got it.” She stood and shook the snow out of her hair. When she bent over to get her carry-on, Gabriel started brushing snow off her bottom.

“What are you doing?” She leapt away from him. “Stop!”

“I'm just trying to help.” He gave her a grin and one more brush.

“Just get the car going,” she yelled.

“You get in first.”

“Fine.” As she huffed to the passenger's side, Gabriel threw her bags in, none too gently. When he slid into his seat, he had an nasty old blanket in his arms and moved to wrap it around her.

“Don't,” she cried, scooting away from him. “What is that smell? Dog?”

“I don't know. Someone must've left it in the back when they borrowed the Land Rover.” He tried again to wrap her in it, this time grazing her shoulder.

“Stop, Gabriel.” She pushed it away.

“Listen, Your Majesty, if you don't raise your body temperature, you'll be in a heap of trouble. You've heard of hypothermia, haven't you?”

“I'd rather freeze to death than be asphyxiated by that smell.”

“Suit yourself.” He started the car and cranked up the heat. He glanced over at her. “You should probably take off your gloves and blow on your hands.”

“Great medical advice,” she said.

“Hey, I'm here to help.”

She covered her nose. “Then put that blanket away. Better yet, throw it in the garbage. I can't handle the smell all the way to Gandiegow.”

“Sure, Princess.” He hopped out, taking the nasty blanket with him.

She wanted to tell him she wasn't a princess; she was a debutante. Big difference. A princess was a princess. A deb had to be introduced into society, which, in Emma's case, had been a lot of work.

She looked out the window, wondering what took so long. Gabriel was sweeping the snow from the windshield, rear window, and mirrors, but it seemed to be gathering quicker than he could remove it.

When he got back in, he rubbed his hands together.
“Brrr.”

Emma's teeth chattered a little, but she needed reassurances. “Are you sure we're going to make it to Gandiegow?”

“Aye. We'll do fine.” He patted the steering wheel. “Her engine is newly rebuilt and she's purring like a kitten.”

“So, the car's female?” She expected him to make a lewd comment, something about
all sweet rides are.
Or maybe she'd been too programmed by her mother; naughty talk was a huge part of Mum's Take Back Your Orgasm program. Emma glanced over at Gabriel. With all that masculinity oozing off him, his specialty was clear—
Meow
.

He gazed through the windshield up at the sky, which was white with blizzardlike snow. “It's damnable out there. How's your body temperature?”

“I'm fine.” But sitting next to him made her nervous. “How long will it take to get to Claire?”

“In this weather? I don't know. We'll have to take it slow. Just sit back and relax.”

Not even possible.

“Don't worry, Emma,” Gabriel said, misreading her uneasiness and shocking her by using her name. “I promise to get you to Gandiegow safely.”

Then he did the weirdest thing; he reached out and dusted the last of the snow from her shoulder.

She sat there, stunned. He looked a little embarrassed himself. He jerked his head forward and put the car in gear. Without a word, they made their way out of the
airport. The streets beyond were relatively empty and even the highway had little traffic.

After a time, she felt safe to secretly peek over at him. Mr. Perfect handled the auto with ease, his large hands resting on the steering wheel, his uneasiness of a while ago gone. Maybe she'd imagined it. When they slid a bit on the curvy roads, he stayed calm, even then exuding confidence. His medium-length coffee dark hair was perfectly styled to fit his perfect head. When he was younger, his hair had been long and wild and out of control. He'd tamed it and it seemed to suit him now. The only part that spoke of rebellion was the beard stubble. But it wasn't a full rebellion, like he hadn't shaved in days. No, he must have trimmed it carefully this morning. Emma ached to run her hand over it to see if it felt prickly or soft or maybe a little of both. She turned away and shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Are you all right?” Concern pinched his eyebrows together.

“Sure. Why wouldn't I be?” The look he gave her made her feel vulnerable. “Did they teach that compassionate look in medical school?”

The doctor shot her a scowl.

Much better.
That she could deal with. They drove on for several more miles, but she couldn't help sneaking another peek at him.

He sighed heavily. “Emma, ye're staring again.”

She turned back to her window but saw only darkness. “It's just that,” she said quietly, “you've filled out, too.”

*   *   *

Did Gabe just hear Emma Castle turn his own words back on him? Shocking. So Miss Priss did have a little spunk. From his dealings with her before, he figured she was crammed full, from top to bottom, with her mama and papa's brand of snobbery. He'd seen Emma on the
television recently, standing like a statue beside her famous parents while they'd peddled their books.
Books I wasted time reading. Books that were pure rubbish
. Relationships were more than manipulations, power struggles, and Kama Sutra sex.

Ah, hell, he shouldn't judge. It had taken him years to figure out that he wanted more than a nice ass in tight jeans. But now that he had, he was ready to settle down and find himself a warmhearted Scottish lass.

Gabe shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat and turned on the radio. Usually, he was as easygoing as the next guy. But something about Emma Castle knocked him sideways. She was the one woman in the world who could make him feel off his game. It wasn't her beauty; he was bored with attractive women. Hell, back in the day, he'd cornered the market on gorgeous birds—blondes, brunettes, and redheads. He was looking for something more.

Out of nowhere, he found himself speculating . . .
What color is Emma's hair?
He glanced over.
Cinnamon?

He swerved and muttered under his breath. What was wrong with him?
Cinnamon!
For Pete's sake, he wasn't a romantic. Sure, he could play the role to get a woman back to his flat—which he'd done many times—but still.
Cinnamon!
He almost reached down to make sure his balls were still intact
.

But he had turned over a new leaf. No longer the hound dog of his youth, playing fast with the girls, or the rogue of his twenties. Now that he was thirty-one, he was ready for a real relationship. Not marriage per se, but something with more commitment than the string of one-nighters or two-nighters he'd enjoyed since his school days.

He glanced at Emma again on her side of the Land
Rover. At Dom and Claire's wedding Emma had been much too uptight to have any fun. He'd tried to get her to loosen up, but to no avail. The more she'd given him her look of disapproval with those big evergreen eyes of hers, the harder he'd tried. In the end, he'd given up and overcompensated by taking a handful of women back to his room. He didn't stay, but returned downstairs to drink alone at the bar.

“Is the heat set all right for you?” he asked.

“Fine,” she clucked at him with her full, enticing lips.

The conversation died once again. He wondered how long she planned to stay in Gandiegow. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too long.

Headlights appeared in front of them through the snow-induced whiteout. Gabe pumped the brakes to keep from hitting the car, but in vain. His Land Rover kept sliding toward them. He turned the wheel to avoid the crash, but his maneuver had them skidding into a ditch. Instinctively, he extended his arm to hold Emma in place. It registered that he pressed against her incredible breasts, but only for a moment, before they hit the far side of the embankment.
Bam.

“Holy shit.” He turned toward her. “Are you okay?”

The dash lights put off enough glow to illuminate her wide eyes staring at him.

“What is bloody wrong with you?” She glared down at his hand, still pressing up against her breasts.

He jerked his hand away. “Are you hurt?”

She peered down at her chest as if he'd left his imprint.

He flipped on the overhead light, not giving a rat's ass if she was angry with him or not. He had to know if she was okay. “Can you turn your head? Let me take a look in your eyes.” He'd made damned sure her head hadn't
hit the windshield. As evidence, his hand still tingled where he'd held her. But he wasn't entirely sure she hadn't impacted her side of the auto. “Humor me. I'm a doctor.”

She rolled her eyes and shifted toward him. “Fine.”

He looked in her eyes and her pupils looked good. He prided himself on his gentle touch and took extra care as he turned her chin. This little fender bender scared the shit of him. “If anything happened to you, Claire would kill me.”

“Oh, so you're just worried about Claire taking the meat cleaver to you.”

“Stop taking everything I say the wrong way.” He scanned her body clinically from top to bottom. Or at least he tried to be clinical about it. “Anything else? Any other injuries?”

She rubbed her shoulder. “I hit my door a little.”

“Hell.” He leaned over her and pushed back her long hair to get better access. “Can you move it?”