Must Love Scotland (17 page)

She pressed her forehead against him, her breath coming heavily. “You are no good at a casual encounter, MacPherson. Insights aren’t part of it. You’re not a virgin, are you?”

He’d never told anybody that much before, never tried to describe the magnitude of the grief Lindy’s death had left behind.

“I’m a farmer, you’re a florist, and the next two weeks might be fun, lusty, and interesting, but I doubt I can keep them entirely casual.” He nuzzled her ear, she flinched, but finally, finally, he had her full attention. “I like you, Megan Leonard. If that means I take you to bed with me tonight, then let’s get your e-mail sent, and prepare to endure two weeks of billing and cooing from the happy couple. I hope, though, that we can at least be like your flowers. Lovely for a short time, and fondly recalled.”

She raised a slightly perplexed gaze to him. “My e-mail. To the damned bank. Right.”

Declan stroked her hair, while Hector curled up on a straw bale at eye level. The cat managed to strut about the barn despite having only three legs, and before the vet had relieved him of certain parts other than his left front leg, he’d even found an occasional lady cat willing to tolerate his advances.

Wounds healed, grief resolved, and life went on, but a maid of honor must not be rushed.

“I like you, too, MacPherson,” Megan said, making no move to leave Declan’s embrace. “Were you the older sibling?”

“Aye.” And the brother.

“Nobody shows the oldest how to cope. We figure it out for ourselves.” Megan toyed with the hair at Declan’s nape, a soft, shivery tickle from an odd location. “We’ll figure out what to do with the next ten days or so, too, MacPherson, but I warn you, my creative impulses have been stifled lately with a poop pit of paperwork. I have plans for you.”

Happiness settled around Declan like the herd bedding down for the night. Peaceful, warm, cozy, and ready to dream dreams.

“Come along, then,” he said, kissing Megan’s forehead. “We’ll deal with your paperwork, and then see what a farmer and a florist can find to talk about as the hour grows late.”

Declan’s office was a mix of business efficient and homespun comfy. A skinny marmalade cat curled up in a basket on the floor barely took notice of Megan when she ran her articles of incorporation through the scanner. The chair behind the massive battered desk was up-to-the-minute ergonomic albeit three sizes too big for her. The screen saver was a slide show of Scottish scenery and an occasional picture of young livestock.

The screen saver on Megan’s computer was images of flowers, her chair fit her, and she hadn’t had a cat since her mother’s old tuxedo cat died three years ago.

“All set?” Declan asked, passing Megan a plain white mug of peppermint tea.

“The forces of financial evil are subdued for another day, or night. I’ve been lusting to open a second shop for years, and I will not be thwarted by some bean counter who thinks women entrepreneurs are cute. This tea smells divine.”

She touched her mug to Declan’s, though how did they make the transition from talking business to getting down to business?

“My granny put up with a lot of that,” Declan said, settling against the desk. Megan had never seen a larger piece of furniture serving as a desk, but it creaked under Declan’s weight. “Gran said she had to be twice the farmer on half the acres to be taken seriously by the men. So she was, until the men came to her for advice and counsel.”

“You were probably her secret weapon. This is good tea. You got the honey just right.” Not everybody even kept honey in the kitchen, but Declan hadn’t raised an eyebrow at Megan’s request.

“We grow the peppermint here, and the tea has a spot of our honey in it. Will you take me upstairs and ravish me now, Meggie Leonard?”

So that’s how they did it. “Yes, if you’ll agree to do the same with me.”

He smiled at her over his mug, a wicked, I-have-plans-for-you smile that was like the tea—hot, interesting, and sweet.

Declan led her through a farmhouse that was a hodgepodge of modern kitchen, retro-fussy parlor—nothing that qualified as a living room here—stately dining room, and casual, book-infested TV room. His bed was an enormous four-poster that put Megan in mind of movie sets and full orchestra scores, or sweet dreams and late mornings.

“What do we do about protection?” Declan asked as he unbelted his man purse. “For we will do something, m’dear.”

“Yes, we will. I have condoms with me. I always buy fresh when I travel, even if I’m only going to a florists’ convention.”

Declan opened a wardrobe—no closets to be seen—and stood for a moment staring at neatly arranged clothing, much of which was a red/green/yellow/black plaid.

“Go ahead and say it,” Megan muttered, setting her purse on a nightstand that probably weighed as much as she did. “I rotate my latex inventory, tossing out the old and buying new, like silk flowers that get dusty. Pathetic.”

Declan pulled his sweater over his head and folded it onto a shelf in the wardrobe. “I do the same, but prefer to think of myself as having standards. If you hadn’t brought any, we’d be using mine. Bathroom’s through there.”

Declan MacPherson’s back was… anatomical poetry. The designer in Megan wanted to make him remain still so she could simply behold him. His musculature was the real thing, not the gym-sculpted variety that came from counting reps and filling out a chart. Fancy hybrid flowers might have a lovely scent or a delicate hue, but they seldom lasted. Declan’s physique was meadow and marsh wild flowers, hardy, adapted to meet many challenges, and beautiful when properly appreciated.

Rather than gawk, Megan ducked into the bathroom and used her travel toothbrush and Declan’s toothpaste.

“You’re having a fling,” she told her reflection. “It’s like a series of one-night stands, only less work because you and Declan have to pick each other up only once.”

Megan undressed and appropriated another of Declan’s plaid shirts from a hook behind the door. The wool bore his scent, and maybe a little of hay and grain, too.

A lovely bouquet, and unique to Declan MacPherson.

When Megan returned to the bedroom, Declan was naked before the bed, tossing plaid throw pillows into a big reading chair.

“My shirt has never struck me as sexy before,” he said, firing the last pillow at the chair. “I don’t believe I’ll ever wash that one again.”

Pure male beast stalked toward Megan, legs thick with muscle, flat abs, beautiful chest and arms. Megan’s heart rate climbed as Declan approached, and when he bent closer, this-is-gonna-be-so-much-fun banged hard against what-have-I-gotten-myself-into?

“Warm up the sheets for me,” he said, kissing her nose. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

And oh, his tushy… his magnificent, lovely, muscular…

“I’m losing it,” Megan muttered. “I’ve come to Scotland, and whatever fairies and elves and whisky demons they have here must have dragged me into the magic mountain.”

“Get in the bed, love,” came singing from the direction of the bathroom, the inflection heavily Scottish.
Gate-tin-the-beid
, luv. Water ran, the skinny cat came sauntering in the door, and Megan climbed—as in scrambled up—into the bed.

“Last one in’s a rotten egg,” she called, taking two condoms from the purse she’d set on the nightstand. The cat aimed a disgusted look at the pillows piled on the chair and half-climbed, half-leapt onto the hassock. “Does the cat stay?”

Declan sauntered out of the bathroom, a water glass in his hand. “The cat stays. You’re on my side. Obliging of you.”

“Obligin’ of yew,” Megan muttered. “You get more Scottish when your clothes fall off.” He got more something else too. Magnificently more.

Declan set the water glass on the night table and the bed dipped like a hammock when he settled in beside her.

“Alarm goes off at five thirty though, of course, you’re welcome to sleep in.” He threaded an arm under Megan’s neck, and just like that, she was cuddled against his side. “I’m all for a bit of foreplay, but you might want to bear the early start in mind when you’re arranging my schedule tonight.”

He was warm all over, the only softness in his tone of voice. He was teasing, probably.

“I get to arrange the schedule?”

“You’re the lady, and you’re my guest, so you get to arrange
me.
I suggest you be about it.”

Dixie plucked a stray daisy leaf from Tony’s hair and tried to recall where she’d thrown her shirt.

“You going somewhere?” Tony asked, propping himself up on his elbow. He was all Michelangelo curves and tousled dark hair as he lounged on the work table, not a stitch on him.

“I’m cold,” Dixie said, picking up her jeans. A few unlucky daisies hadn’t made it back into the water bucket. She pulled her T-shirt over her head and rounded up the strays except for one with a bent stem. She clipped off the long end and tucked the daisy behind Tony’s ear.

“You upset, Dix?”

“Insane, maybe. We just screwed on the work table like a pair of bunnies drunk on mint, with five dozen innocent daisies looking on.”

And Dixie hadn’t felt this good since… forever. She sat on the table and lay back so her head rested on Tony’s flat stomach. His touch drifted over her features, his fingertips as cool and delicate as rose petals.

“Do rabbits get drunk on mint?” he asked.

“Peppermint is one of the oldest aphrodisiacs. I’ve told Megan she should keep some herbs on hand, not just the kitchen herbs, but the useful ones, too, right up near the cash register.”

Would Megan know the work table had been used after hours for something other than arranging flowers?

“Megan’s pretty focused lately,” Tony said. “Her plans, her dreams. I’m glad she’s happy.”

Tony was a good guy, and a fantastic lover. He deserved to be a happy guy, though. “Megan’s plans, Megan’s dreams, and Megan’s floral empire. You want your own shop, Tony?”

That slow, magic hand slipped down to cup Dixie’s breast through her T-shirt. “I want you, Dix. Already. Again. A lot.”

“Then let’s go to my place,” Dixie said. “You didn’t answer my question, Tony. Do you want your own shop?”

“Let’s get dressed. Anybody ever tell you that work tables are hard on a guy’s knees?”

They weren’t exactly comfortable for a gal’s back, but Dixie hadn’t cared. “We’ll keep some kneepads under the sink. See how long it takes Megan to ask about them.”

They finished dressing quickly, though Dixie hadn’t bothered with her bra. Before leaving, they stuck the daisies back in the cooler, cleaned off the table, put away the clippers.

Tony locked up, and they hung out between their cars just kissing like fourteen-year-olds for a few minutes. The evening was warm, sunset still an hour away. Dixie leaned into Tony’s embrace and decided to risk something at least as precious as Tony’s knees.

“I want my own shop someday, Tony. I want a place where organic herbs are front and center, right where everybody has to at least look at them when they’re standing at the register. I want books on the language of flowers. I’ve been sitting on a little nest egg I got when I turned twenty-one, and I know what I want to use it for.”

Tony’s hand swept her hair back in a slow, sweet caress. “I want to give classes in flower arranging. Nothing fancy, just the basics, enough to show off the yard flowers.”

Tony fell silent, but that he’d offer even a single wish was an enormous admission.

“We owe Megan,” Dixie said. “But we also work hard, Tony, and she doesn’t always listen.” She never listened, lately.

“If we stay out here another minute, I’ll be humping you on the hood of your car, Dix. We can’t just cut and run on Megan when she’s getting ready to open a second shop.”

“So we won’t cut and run. We’ll give her plenty of notice, and let her do the flowers at our wedding.”

One sodden night at the age of seventeen, Declan had found himself chasing sheep. His grandmother had
shepherded
sheep, a collie ever at her side. Between the woman and the dog, two hundred bleating contrary Highland crosses had been easy to control.

Declan had been alone when he’d come across the jailbreak, and they hadn’t even been his sheep. Spooked from a storm that had left the thigh-high hayfield sopping, and unused to their liberty, the sheep had ducked, dodged and generally behaved like livestock confronted with a human of questionable intent.

A semblance of order had begun to restore itself, no thanks to Declan’s efforts, when in the dark and damp, he’d charged straight into a hot electric fence. From wet jeans to damp sweatshirt, he’d lit up the night in a blue flash of pure, human startlement.

For two hours afterward, he’d been able to feel the ends of his own hair and hear his heartbeat in his head.

Finding himself in bed with Megan Leonard, and her wearing nothing but his favorite work shirt, was a comparable experience. One day, he’d been farming away, reminding himself not to miss the quarterly accounting appointment at the end of the week, the next, he was silhouetted against his internal sky, once again an aching blue flash of pure startlement.

And not entirely happy startlement. The sex would be great fun, the two weeks would go quickly, but then what?

Then shearing, then haying, then another quarterly meeting with the accountant, and fifty more years of same?

“You’re quiet,” Megan said, her hand drifting over his chest.

“I know the tune,” Declan said, “I’m trying to recall the words. I like how you touch me.” Liked the gentleness and confidence of Megan’s hands on his body.

She straddled him, the tails of his shirt brushing against his thighs. He’d left the bathroom light on, mostly because he’d been in such a hurry to get back to the bed, but the light was helpful now. He was less likely to charge into hot fences when he could see that Megan’s expression held both wonder and caution.

“How about you let me touch you for a while, then?” she suggested. “I’ve delegated so much of the floral design at my shop that I forget what a sumptuous pleasure it is to work with my hands.”

Megan had wonderful hands. They traced Declan’s features, one by one, measured the breadth of his shoulders, brushed over nipples gone sensitive with wanting.