Scot of My Dreams (4 page)

As I bent down to slip off my sturdy walking sandals, a sudden flurry of movement and a loud barrage of barking startled me.

A male voice, firm and loud, called out. “No, Brodie,
no
!”

Before I could do more than stand up in alarm, a giant animal of some kind lunged at me and toppled me flat on my back. My vision blurred as my lungs struggled to find the air that had been knocked out of me. A huge tongue wet my face. Hot, panting breath—not so fresh—covered my cheek. About a hundred pounds of what I hoped was a dog pinned me to the ground.

“Brodie! Damn it. What have you done? Are you okay, lass?”

I wasn’t entirely sure I was awake. Maybe this was a dream. The man kneeling at my side and wrestling with the shaggy hound bore a fleeting resemblance to my
Outlander
crush, Jamie. If anything, though, he was better. Like Jamie, he was tall and broad shouldered, but where Jamie was wiry and lean, this man was more mature. His easy smile and blue eyes dazzled me. The sun caught glints of gold in his dark chestnut hair.

I was too flustered to utter a word.

Once the dog was subdued and somewhat penitent, the stranger slid an arm beneath me and lifted me into a sitting position. “Good lord, the stupid beast has covered you in mud.”

He was right. My billowy cotton dress was filthy and even torn in one place. I winced at that. I’d brought the bare minimum of clothing with me to Scotland, determined to do laundry frequently so I could travel light.

I wasn’t a fan of denim, so I’d packed my customary working wardrobe—a collection of solid cotton tees in a rainbow of colors and the thin voile jumpers I wore over them. Mix and match. Comfy, cool, and feminine.

Now that I could breathe again, I studied my rescuer surreptitiously. The man was gorgeous. And yes—pardon my quivering hormones—Brodie’s master was wearing a kilt. It was old and faded, but the forest-green fabric with a yellow and brown plaid was the real deal.

“I’m fine,” I insisted, the social lie automatic. I doubt I could have stood even if I tried. “Who are you? And why do you have an attack animal? He looks like a cross between a wolf and a bear.”

The man’s grin blinded me. “He’s a Scottish deerhound. They were bred centuries ago to bring down stags in the Highlands. And since you’re a wee bit smaller than a stag, you were easy prey. I apologize for Brodie’s appalling manners. He’s eager and friendly but lacks control. I’m Bryce MacBrae.”

The man squatted beside me, his kilt dipping between his knees and thus preventing any research into the topic of whether real Scotsmen went commando under their man-skirts. Bryce’s muscular calves were clad in beige woolen socks. He wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing tanned forearms and an expensive watch.

But all of that sartorial splendor was not the only thing befuddling me. I was mesmerized by his voice. The beautiful Scottish accent was there, of course, the one I had come to know and love thanks to my
Outlander
obsession. But Bryce’s speech was couched in an upper-crust British enunciation that made my knees quiver. It was like taking Sam Heughan and Prince William and rolling them into one fascinating, sexy, irresistible package. “I’m Willow Ryman,” I said, realizing belatedly that he was waiting for me to identify myself.

His smile dimmed. “I think you’ve had a bit of a shock, Ms. Ryman. Let me take you to my house and get you cleaned up. My grandfather and my sister live with me, and I have a very capable housekeeper, so it’s all on the up and up, I promise.”

I prided myself on being independent, but at the moment, I was willing to play the helpless flower if it meant spending more time with Bryce. Besides, I didn’t fancy going back to the hostel looking as if I had wallowed in the mud. “Thank you. That would be nice.” After all, I had promised Hayley and McKenzie, albeit grudgingly, that I would be on the lookout for romance.

This was my most promising lead so far.

Bryce helped me to my feet, grimacing when he saw the full extent of my wardrobe debacle. “Hold still,” he said. “You’ve got something in your hair.”

I managed not to swoon when I felt his fingers brush my forehead. And then it dawned on me. “No,” I said. “Can’t blame that one on the dog. I like to play around with color. The streak of blue and purple is all me.”

My short hair, black at the moment, was cut in a pixie style. I had added the dramatic streak before our trip. Sometimes I went for pink. Fortunately, the current accent was more subdued.

Bryce stepped back, his expression dubious, but he still supported my elbow. “Can you walk?”

“Of course I can. He only knocked me down. I’m not an invalid.” My natural sass returned unbidden. I hadn’t meant to snap at him, but I was feeling vulnerable and out of control. My butt hurt, my hormones were raging, and I was hungry.

“Come along, then.”

When we started out down the path, the dog nudged its nose in my palm as if seeking forgiveness. I petted him absently, feeling a certain kinship with the scruffy-looking animal. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “All is forgiven.”

Bryce glanced over his shoulder, his expression wry. “Don’t let him fool you. He’d do the same thing in a heartbeat given half the chance. He’s goofy and loveable and too smart for his own good.”

“Poor baby. Don’t listen to the mean man. You’re a sweetheart.”

The leader of our little parade snorted. “What is it with women and bad boys? I’ve never understood the appeal.”

It was a rhetorical question, and one I chose not to answer. I’d dated my share of bad boys often enough to know he was right. I’d also learned that the bad-boy-with-the-heart-of-gold was a dangerous myth. Those men might exist, but in my experience, “bad boy” was just another term for selfish and reckless.

Give me mature and fascinating any day. Give me a man like Bryce MacBrae. He was closer to forty than thirty, if I had to guess. Tiny lines at the corners of his eyes and a certain gravity to his emotional posture said he was a man in his prime. Grounded. Sure of his own identity. Not needing a woman, or anyone for that matter, to prop up his confidence with fawning adulation.

I laughed inwardly at my quick analysis. I could be way off-base. I’d known the guy for all of five minutes. He might be gay. Or married. Or both. Thrice divorced? Who knew?

As we walked, I began to enjoy myself again. The sky was blue, the view in front of me top notch, and I had a new canine friend who didn’t care if I was a workaholic and a single woman with zero romantic prospects.

My lady parts had been neglected for so long they were in danger of atrophy. I wondered if Bryce MacBrae was open to flirtation. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but those were less common in Europe. This whole trip to Scotland was based on romantic fantasy. Did it matter if I let myself indulge in a few
what ifs
?

We’d been following the creek. Suddenly, Bryce stopped to pick up a fishing rod and tackle box. Now I understood. Master and dog had been enjoying a quiet morning when Brodie must have heard me at a distance and taken off. “Did you catch anything?” I asked.

Bryce shook his head. “No. But I had only just started.”

I felt bad. “You should stay and fish,” I said. “Really. I’ll be fine. I can clean up back at the hostel.”

He eyed me with an intensity that made my neck tingle. “For me it’s not so much about the fish.”

“Meaning?”

He shrugged. “I needed to be outside for a little while. The fish will be biting another day.”

I had the strangest notion he was trying to tell me something. That perhaps he was intrigued by me and feeling a snippet of the chemistry between us that I was experiencing. Then I looked down at myself and sighed. Not likely.

“I could offer you lunch,” he said.

That tipped the scales. “If you’re sure it won’t be a bother.”

Again that quick grin that turned his features from serious to playful. “It will be a treat to have you. It’s not much farther,” he said.

As we walked on, in the distance I caught sight of a small, beautiful castle. They were everywhere in Scotland, it seemed. This one looked in better shape than most I’d read about. Maybe I could take a tour tomorrow or the next day if it was open to the public. In Hayley’s guidebooks I’d seen pictures of several that were in ruins. They seemed to run the gamut of time periods and architecture.

I was beginning to lose steam. Being trampled by a huge dog and having nothing but an apple for sustenance, plus the still-nagging effects of jet lag, made me less resilient than normal. “Where’s your house?” I asked. “I thought you said we were close.”

He stopped so suddenly I nearly ran into him. There was a look on his face I couldn’t interpret. “What?” I asked. “Was that rude of me? How do I know you’re not luring me into the woods for foul play?”

“Och, lass.” Suddenly the Scottish was more pronounced. “If you look around, ye’ll see there’s no forest in sight.”

I bit my lip. “True.” Yet I was still getting a weird vibe from him.

He shrugged, his expression guarded. “That’s my house,” he said, pointing. “Right there.”

I blinked and refocused my gaze, somehow expecting a traditional Scottish home to appear out of thin air. But there was no mistake. Bryce MacBrae lived in a castle.

“Is this a joke?” I asked. My legs were wobbly, but I told myself we had walked a long way.

Bryce sighed. “Don’t go all goggle-eyed on me. It’s just a moldering pile of rock. Come on. We don’t want to miss lunch.”

I’m not sure I even remember walking the last quarter mile. All I could focus on was the incredible fact that I had met a Scotsman who was not only handsome and sexy, but who owned a freaking castle.

Brodie lumbered along at my side, apparently more sanguine than I about the prospect of lunch in a national treasure. We approached from the back of the building. Though stark and gray, the stone construction held a certain appeal. Particularly to someone who had recently spent a lot of time in eighteenth century Scotland, thanks to a dramatic television series.

I couldn’t wait to tell Hayley and McKenzie. Then my heart fell. I couldn’t. I had promised to use my phone only in a dire emergency. Well, shoot. This was probably the most exciting thing that would happen to me all month, and I was not going to be able to share it with anybody.

Bryce was oblivious to my soul-searching. He ushered me into a small mudroom where a multitude of hooks were available for outerwear of all kinds. He put the fishing gear on a bench. “Welcome to Dunvarstone Castle,” he said with a dry tone, which told me he was at least halfway kidding about the formality. He gave Brodie a firm stare. “Sit. Stay.”

The dog whined pitifully but obeyed.

I was embarrassed now, remembering that my clothes were covered in muck. At that instant, a gray-haired woman wearing a black dress and a white apron appeared. “Och, there you are, sir. Shall I serve the lunch?”

Then she caught sight of me.

Bryce made the introductions. “Willow, this is my housekeeper, Mrs. Bibi Argyle. Bibi, this young lady is Willow Ryman. Brodie accosted her a little while ago. To make up for his bad behavior, I promised you’d see to her clothing and give her some lunch.”

Mrs. Argyle was as tall and thin as the cook at the hostel was short and round. Her eyes widened when she surveyed my clothing. “You puir lass. Of course we must make amends. Come along upstairs with me, dear, and I’ll find you something to wear while I wash your things.”

“Well, I—”

Bryce touched my shoulder. “You’re in good hands with Bibi. I’ll see you at lunch.”

When he walked out of the room, I felt as if he had abandoned me. The no-nonsense housekeeper scuttled me up the stairs before I could protest. Like an actress in a movie, I followed her along the halls of a centuries-old fortress. Though the stone floors were covered with fine Oriental rugs, there was still a chill in the air. I couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to heat a place like this in the winter months. Even so, I loved it.

The crooked hallways, the brass wall sconces, the narrow windows that were once used to fire on an enemy. I wanted to stop and examine every tiny detail, but it seemed my hostess was in a hurry.

We reached yet another landing and another hallway. This one was a gallery of sorts. Enormous portraits of wild-eyed Scots, presumably MacBrae ancestors, hung along one wall. I shivered deliciously. Everything about this place spoke to me. As a young teen I had devoured my great aunt’s gothic romances, my imagination sparked by the notion of dark creepy houses and taciturn heroes.

Dunvarstone Castle wasn’t at all creepy. And the head of the household had been nothing but kind to me. Still, I found myself charmed and intrigued.

At last, Mrs. Argyle opened a door. “This is a guest room,” she said. “You’ll find a decent robe in the bathroom. We’ve no company for lunch today, so ye’ll be fine downstairs whilst I wash your things.”

I gaped. “Oh, no. I don’t think so. If you’ll give me a cloth and some soap I’m sure I can make myself presentable.”

Bibi eyed my muddy dress over the top of her spectacles. “Dinna fash yerself, lassie. “Twill only be the laird and his sister and grandfather. Very informal.”

I gulped. “The laird?”

She frowned. “Aye. Mr. Dunbar is the Laird of Dunvarstone.”

I sat down hard on the side of the bed when my knees gave out. I wasn’t ignorant. I knew that a Scottish laird was not the same as an English lord. But none of that mattered right now. “Seriously,” I said with as much urgency as I could muster. “I’m not comfortable going down to lunch in a borrowed bathrobe. Or any bathrobe for that matter.”

Apparently, my tone of voice got through to her. She pressed her lips together. “Very well. I’ll see if the lady of the house has something for you. Wait here, please.”

She swished out of the room and closed the door firmly behind her. I had gotten off on the wrong foot already, though that was nothing compared to realization that I had just smudged mud on what might be an antique coverlet. Holy hell.