Meet Me in Scotland (32 page)

“I know.” Gabe looked into Emma's eyes. “But you, my luv, you haven't answered my question. Will you marry me?”

She pushed back the hair from his eyes. “Of course I'll marry you, Gabriel MacGregor. You're the only man for me.” Her laughed sounded like it floated on angels' wings. “I never imagined my knight in shining armor would turn out to be a Scottish warrior.”

“Aye.” He gathered her to him and kissed her. Then it wasn't enough. He leaned down and scooped her into his arms. Never breaking the heated kiss, he carried her into his bedroom.

He'd wanted to celebrate Christmas in a big way, but
never imagined it could be like this. He'd learned Christmas gifts don't always come with ribbons and wrappings. Sometimes the best gifts come by way of love. With Emma in his arms, he'd found the only Christmas gift he really needed.

“I love you, Emma,” he said. “Always and forever.”

“I love you, too, Gabriel.” She wrapped her arms around him and whispered exactly what he wanted to hear. “Always and forever.”

E
mma put her hand to her back as she took a seat on the sofa, smiling at the now-empty hearth. A fire had been set this morning, but by late afternoon, they'd let it die out; the May sun streaming through the windows had been enough to warm the interior of Quilting Central.

The door opened, and her breath caught. It always did when her husband appeared. She smiled over at him, wondering if he would always have this effect on her.

Gabriel glanced around the room. “Is everyone gone, then?”

“Yes, I'm here all alone.”

The baby took that moment to kick. How she loved that feeling, knowing life grew inside of her.

He ambled toward her with that look in his eye, the one that had gotten her into her current state of chubbiness. She looked down fondly at her expanding waistline. Only three and a half more months until they met their son or daughter.

He took her hand and helped her to her feet. “So, was it a success? Your first marriage-enrichment retreat?”

He already knew the answer. The past two nights, she'd talked his ear off about it. The responsiveness of the couples she'd coached. How it was so much better to
be on the positive side of marriage. Although she did have to do the occasional couples counseling for her fellow Gandiegowans.

He snaked an arm around her shoulders. “So, my idea was a good one? You do remember that it was my idea, don't you, to have a marriage retreat?”

“How could I forget?” She stretched up on tiptoes and pecked his chin. “Thank you for being my personal brain trust.”

“Among other things.” He dipped his head down for a lingering kiss and rested a hand on her belly, something he did often these days, always maintaining a connection with both her and their child. “But you've spearheaded all your other ventures.”

Yes, she'd held many SAD-awareness seminars in the winter months. Of course, she still worked with Mattie and the quilters who stopped by her sewing machine to talk. Deydie had placed an appointment book beside Emma to remind them all to see her during office hours. For now, she'd set up shop in the formal dining room at the restaurant three afternoons a week. But she was most excited about these marriage retreats. She'd scheduled another one for June.

“Did Claire stop by?” Gabriel said nonchalantly.

The men of this town were worse gossips than the women. “Yes. She came to pick up the platters we used for lunch.”

He scooted behind her and massaged her shoulders. “Did she have any news? Anything going on with the Russos?”

She was going to make him suffer a bit. “No, nothing special.” Emma paused. “Oh, wait a minute. Yes, there was news. Porco has learned how to shake hands. Claire said Dominic is a very proud papa.”

“Oh.” Poor Gabriel sounded so downcast. “Are you sure there was nothing else?”

“No. Not unless you're wondering if she told me that they're pregnant.”

He spun her around. “You minx. You knew all along.”

“Of course Claire told me. We share everything.” Emma laughed. “She's the sister of my heart. You know that.” She shrugged. “Even though they were going to wait a year or two to have a baby, I guess the universe had other plans.”

“It often does.” Gabriel beamed down at her, perhaps thinking how the universe had intervened to bring them together. “Are ye ready to go home, Mrs. MacGregor?” His brogue was thick with emotion.

The baby kicked his resting hand and his gaze dropped to her tummy. “You've made me the happiest man in the world. You know that, don't you?”

“If I say yes, do I get a foot rub tonight?” She wrapped her arms around his waist.

He squeezed her affectionately. “Among other things.”

“I like how you think, Dr. MacGregor. And, Gabriel?” She leaned back and gazed up into his eyes. “Thank you for loving me.”

“It's my pleasure, Mrs. MacGregor. My pleasure.” He patted her on the bum. “Now home with ye.”

As they walked out of Quilting Central, hand in hand, Emma turned her face toward the shining sun, whispering what was in her heart. “Thanks.”

Gabriel squeezed her hand. “Amen.”

“Amen,” Emma said. Life was
good.

T
wenty-six-year-old Ramsay Armstrong pulled the fishing boat alongside the dock and hollered to his oldest brother, John. “What's so important that you've called me back? I haven't pulled the north nets yet.” He threw the rope to his brother.

“I'll take care of the damned nets.” John tied off the boat. “I have a job for you, and it can't wait.”

“Do it yereself!” More often than not, Ramsay got stuck with the crap jobs in the family.

“I had planned to.” John ducked his head and, stepping aboard, muttered, “Maggie won't let me.”

Ramsay grinned. “Yere wife telling you what you can and can't do.” He pounded John on the back. “There's a reason I'm still single, brother.”

“Nay.” John shook his head. “Ye're an arse, Ramsay. That's why ye're still single. No woman would have ye.”

“So what's this job you need?”

John didn't meet his eye. “It has to do with the boat maintenance.”

“I thought we set enough money aside for it.”

“I thought so, too, but a revised quote came in. The price has gone up. Way up.”

“By how much?”

John shook his head.

Ramsay frowned. John never shared the actual numbers with him, always keeping him in the dark, always treating him like the babe in the family. “So what's this have to do with the favor you need done?”

“Ross and I'll take care of the boat while ye're doing it,” John hedged.

“Spit it out, man.” Ramsay was about to knock his brother into the drink. “What do you need?”

John pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and thrust it at his brother. “It's all there. Her itinerary.”

Ramsay took it and opened the crumpled paper. The letterhead read:

Kit Woodhouse Matchmaking, Inc.

Kit Woodhouse, CEO

Real Men of Alaska Real Men of Scotland

Ramsay snapped his head up and glared at his brother. “What the crank is this? Matchmaker? From the U.S.?”

“Read on.” John busied himself with two empty buckets, but really he was avoiding Ramsay's glare. He should be chagrined.

It was indeed a detailed itinerary—beginning with when this woman would land and the schedule for each day.

“For the next three cranking months?” Ramsay yelled. “Surely, you don't expect me to play nursemaid
for three months
to some sappy matchmaker!” The word made him feel like he could breathe fire.

John hung his head. “I saw her ad for a driver on the Internet. We need the money. I thought you and Ross could run the boat for the summer and I'd put up with driving Ms. Woodhouse around. But when Maggie found out, she nearly chopped off my balls.”

“It would serve you right.” Ramsay ran his eyes down the length of the paper. “Did you never think to consult Ross and me in your scheme?”

“I'm the oldest; I make the decisions.” John acted like he had decades on him, but he was only thirty-five, nine years older than Ramsay.

Ramsay huffed. “Well, ye've screwed up this time. You'd better call it off and tell this woman we can't do it.”

“But I signed a contract.” John's brow furrowed as he ran a hand through his hair. “Ms. Woodhouse doesn't care who lives up to the contract, as long as somebody does.”

Ramsay wadded the paper into a fist. “So you volunteered me.”

“Ye better get back to the house and clean up.” John started the motor. “You'll have just enough time to get a shower,
and shave
, before you have to rush off to the airport.”

Ramsay considered cramming the itinerary down his brother's throat. He stepped off the boat instead, too angry to speak. On autopilot, he loosened the line and pushed the boat away with his foot.

John shouted above the motor. “Be on your best behavior and don't screw this up. We need the money.”

Ramsay flipped him off, and then trudged off the dock, shaking his head.

He sure as hell wasn't going to let John's asinine matchmaker interfere with his own plans. In one month Ramsay intended to have enough money to buy ole man Martin's boat. Between the odd jobs at the North Sea Valve Company and helping the surrounding farmers after he was done fishing for the day, he would have enough.
One month.
And dammit, if he didn't get the old codger the money by then, the boat would be put up for auction and go for twice what Martin had agreed to.

Well, Ramsay had no intention of losing his chance to get out from under his brothers' thumbs. He wasn't born the youngest for nothing. He'd learned early on there's more than one way to wiggle out of a chore. He would make short work of the matchmaker, he decided. Three days with him and the interfering ole biddy would be paying him to go back to her nice cushy life in the States, where she belonged.

*   *   *

Kit's plane landed late—way late. Of course she didn't control the weather, but all the same she hated being late. She'd learned a thing or two about how to come into a remote area and set up shop. First and foremost, she had to gain the locals' trust. Getting off on the wrong foot wouldn't do.

After Kit deplaned and made it to the other side of the gate, there was no one there holding a sign with her name on it, no one to pick her up. She waited around a few minutes, in case whoever it was had run to the bathroom. But no one came.

“Dammit.” She marched off to baggage claim to get her luggage. After filling up a trolley, she checked one more time at the gate—no one. She pulled out her folder and found the phone number for John Armstrong. When he answered, the background noise of an engine was loud and obnoxious.

“Mr. Armstrong, I thought someone was picking me up.”

“Och, I sent my brother Ramsay to fetch you. Is he not there waiting?”

Kit looked around in vain, trying to keep her cool. “No.” She started walking, heading for the parking lot. “Do you think he might be waiting outside?”

“Hold on, lassie. I'll give him a call.” John seemed to be struggling with something on his end, wherever he was.

Kit stopped and snatched a pen from her pocket. “Why don't you give me his number and I'll call him?”

“Sure.” John rambled it off. “I'm sorry about this, Ms. Woodhouse. It's a hell of a way to start out in Scotland.”

Tell me about it.
“It's okay.”

They said goodbye and hung up.

Kit pulled her trolley outside to see if the brother waited at the curb. There wasn't anyone. She dialed the number. As it rang, a phone in the parking lot played the song “Kryptonite.” She hung up and dialed again—“Kryptonite” played once more. Exasperated, she dragged the trolley out into the lot to hunt for the owner of the phone.

She dialed once more and followed the song to a muddy Mitsubishi Outlander SUV where the door was open and a sleeping man sat inside. He had earplugs in, an iPod on his knee, and the cell blasting “Kryptonite” beside him. She hung up and stared at him for a long minute.

He was the same type of man she'd fixed up with her shy East Coast socialite clients through her Alaskan operation.
A real man
. He wore a red plaid shirt, jeans, and black wellies. The boots were awful and she couldn't imagine anyone wearing them anywhere beyond a fishing boat. His dark hair was long and wavy and it framed a handsome rugged face that also sported a day-old beard. Very attractive.

But definitely not her type.

She dialed again, but this time as the phone rang, she nudged him. “You've got a call.”

He came awake on a slow inhalation and focused a heavenly groggy smile on her. “What?”

She pointed to the seat. “Your phone is ringing. It might be important.”

“Oh.” He picked it up. “Hallo.”

She put her phone to her ear, frowning, while keeping
eye contact with him. “I've arrived in Inverness. I'd like to go to Gandiegow now.”

The place between his eyebrows cinched together. “Fine,” he said into the phone, a quick flush of pink on his neck. He hung up.

She gave him a curt nod, pleased she'd embarrassed him.

He frowned at her. “They said your flight wouldn't be in until eight p.m. I came out here to rest my eyes.”

“It's 8:15.”

He glanced at his phone and his brows knit together again. He unfolded his tall frame from the SUV. Scrutinizing her, he leaned against the side and crossed his arms over his massive chest. The puppy-dog sweetness was gone now, replaced by a mutt who didn't like the smell of what was dropped in his bowl. “So you're the matchmaker.”

She slapped a smile on her face and stuck out her hand, determined not to let this skeptic get to her. After all, he was obviously not one of the wealthy Scottish bachelors she needed to win over. “Kit Woodhouse at your service.”

He considered her hand, and for a moment, she wondered if he might not take it. Just as she was about to abandon her effort at being civil, his hand enveloped hers. It was callused and firm. Normally, she had a good read on a person in the first five seconds, male or female. But she wasn't clear on this guy. He was gorgeous, if you liked rough-hewn and unpolished, which she didn't, but that gleam in his eye hinted at more.

He maintained eye contact with her and held on. “Ramsay Armstrong. Unfortunate brother to John Armstrong, who contracted services with you.”

She dropped his hand and shifted her eyes away from
his gray ones. “Why are you the
unfortunate brother
?” She glanced up at his face again. “Or maybe I don't want to know.”

He shrugged. “I'm a sea lover, not a land dweller. I understand that I'm to take ye all over the Highlands by auto.
To do yere job.
” He was indeed unhappy with her.

“Yes, I need to fill my stables.”

“Yere what? Is it man or beast ye're after?”

“
Stables.
It's an expression. I'm after men.”
Great!
That hadn't come out right. Her delayed flight had her rattled. “I need to find eligible bachelors to fill my database.”

“Ye know, don't ye, that what you want to do won't work here?” He lifted one of his smug eyebrows.

“What?” She couldn't believe her ears; he'd given voice to her biggest worry. Her father used to say
never let them see you sweat
. But right now, Kit could use more Arrid Extra Dry. She went on the defensive. “You don't even know what I do.”

“I have a pretty clear idea.”

The man standing in front of her might have a lot going on in the looks department, but he had a lot to learn about Kit and her tenacity. “I'm very good at what I do.” She had a high marriage rate to prove it.

“Why are you even here?” he questioned. “If you wanted to fill yere
stables
,
as you say, you could've done that with yere computer from the States.”

She straightened her shoulders and stood as tall as her five-foot-two frame would allow. She'd endured some stubborn men in her time and now it looked like she would have her hands full with this one. She stood her ground with the Scotsman. “For your information, Mr. Armstrong, I do things the old-fashioned way. I interview my clients and their perspective dates in person.” It was the best way to get an accurate assessment
of them. “Skype or FaceTime might be considered the face-to-face of the twenty-first century, but I believe in the personal touch.”

He raised his eyebrows as if a crude comment was forthcoming.

She put her hand up to stop him. “Computers are for storing databases, not for getting to know one another.” It was bugging her that she still hadn't pinned down this Ramsay Armstrong. She decided it must be because he was all brawn and no brains.

He had been leaning nonchalantly against the vehicle but pushed away from it, standing to his full height. He skimmed his eyes over her, from her summer sweater, to her designer jeans, right down to her new Doc Martens.

She wasn't intimidated. She'd learned from her Alaskan adventure to dress properly. For the weather and the culture.
And the natives
. It was best to try to fit in, but not to try too hard.

When he was done with his perusal, he gestured at her like she was nothing more than a mannequin. “You don't look like an old-fashioned kind of lass. You look to me like you saw this outfit in an outdoor magazine and ordered it online.”

“Are you trying to provoke me, Mr. Armstrong?”

He shrugged. “I think what you want to do here is a crock of . . .” He stopped himself as if he'd thought better of it and stepped forward. “I don't believe in matchmakers. Haven't ye ever heard
three's a crowd
?”

“All brawn, no brains,” she murmured. She wished she was taller, but her feminine stature was no match for him. He had to be six-two at least. She made sure her attitude made up the difference. “You're arguing against history. Matchmaking has been around since the beginning of time. Look it up.”

“If ye're so good at this, then how would you match me?” he challenged.

She maintained eye contact. She was going to enjoy putting this arrogant troglodyte in his place.

“First, we'd have to discuss your assets. Do you own a manor house or an estate?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean
not exactly
?” It felt good to wipe that smirk off his face.

“I live in a cottage.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Is it at least a nice-sized cottage?”

“It's the house I grew up in.”

“You still live with your parents?” He didn't look like he'd
failed to launch
.

“I live with my brother, Ross. And of course John, and his wife, Maggie, and their boy, Dand.”