Some Like it Scottish

“A magnificent triple-hankie debut written straight from the heart, by turns tender, funny, heart-wrenching, and wise. Prepare to smile through your tears at this deft, brave, and deeply gratifying love story.”

—Grace Burrowes,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Lonely Lords and the Windham series

“Griffin has quilted together a wonderful, heartwarming story that will convince you of the power of love.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Janet Chapman

“Griffin's style is as warm and comfortable as a cherished heirloom quilt.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Lori Wilde

“A life-affirming story of love, loss, and redemption. Patience Griffin seamlessly pieces compelling characters, a spectacular setting, and a poignant romance into a story as warm and beautiful as an heirloom quilt. Both heartrending and heartwarming,
To Scotland with Love
is a must-read romance and so much more. The story will touch your soul with its depth, engage you with its cast of endearing characters, and delight you with touches of humor.”

—Diane Kelly, author of the Tara Holloway series

“Griffin's lyrical and moving debut marks her as a most talented newcomer to the romance genre.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A well-written and emotional story. It was heartfelt throughout . . . a good first book to a very promising series.”

—Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews

“A lovely blend of quilting, romance, and poignant events. Don't miss this debut book in what I hope will be a long-running series!”

—Romance Reviews Today

To Scotland with Love

Meet Me in
Scotland

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014

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penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

Copyright © Patience Jackson, 2015

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

ISBN 978-0-698-14530-6

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Cagney

The most wonderful daughter in the world, who shares my obsession with fabric and my love of quilts. Thank you for being my girl.

A big thank-you goes to Lori and Lisa for sharing their childhood game with
me.

Aileen
(AY-leen)

Ailsa
(AIL-sa)

Bethia
(BEE-thee-a)

Buchanan
(byoo-KAN-uhn)

Cait
(KATE)

Deydie
(DI-dee)

Lochie
(LAW-kee)

Macleod
(muh-KLOUD)

mo chridhe
(mo hree) my heart

Moira
(MOY-ra)

shite
(shite) expletive

DEFINITIONS

burn
—small river or large stream

céilidh
(KAY-lee)—a party/dance

fash
—trouble

Gandiegow
—squall

Ghillie
(GIL-ee)—an attendant or guide for hunting or fishing

ken
—understanding

selkie
—mythological creatures who live as seals in the ocean but shed their skin and become human on
land

Quilters of Gandiegow

Rule #2

Quilt with all yere heart.
It's the best investment ye'll ever
make.

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 ye've called me back? I haven't checked 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 the 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 done?”

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

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

“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 want?”

“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 is it?”

John pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and thrust it at him. “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 her 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 Ramsay, but he was only thirty-five, nine years older than Ramsay.

Ramsay huffed. “Well, ye've screwed up this time. You 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 in his 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, shaking his head, trudged off the dock.

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 couldn't control the weather, but she prided herself on being prompt. 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 we agreed that someone would be here for me.”

“Och, I sent my brother Ramsay to fetch you. He left eons ago. 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 rattled 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 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 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 maintaining eye contact with him. “I've arrived in Inverness. I'd like to go to Gandiegow now.”

The place between his eyebrows squinched 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 eight thirty.”

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 had been dropped in his dish. “So ye'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 dark gleam he gave her hinted at more.

He held her eyes hostage while he gripped her hand. “Ramsay Armstrong. Unfortunate brother to John Armstrong, who contracted services with ye.”

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.”

Her phone rang; it was Donna, her office manager in Alaska. “Excuse me.”

“We've got a problem,” Donna yelled into the phone. “Morgan has arrived from Connecticut, but Greg, her date, can't be found. He isn't answering his phone, either.”

Kit's stomach dropped. “
Son of a bitch
. Greg assured me he'd show up to meet her, but I had a feeling he'd go MIA.
Damned bachelor
.” She'd been in Scotland all of three seconds and everything was going to hell back home. And here was this Scottish brute listening in on her conversation. She turned her back to him for privacy.

“What do I tell Morgan?” Donna said, fretting. “That's a long way to come here for nothing.”

“Tell her not to worry. She just needs to hang on. I'll find her a man in Scotland. Tell her that I'll take care of
her flight, everything.” It would cost a pretty penny, but Kit prided herself on customer satisfaction. It took another couple of minutes, but Kit was able to calm down Donna; then she hung up.

When she turned around, Ramsay was assessing her. “Ye know, don't ye, that what you want to do here won't work.” He lifted one of his smug eyebrows.

“What?” She couldn't believe her ears; he'd given voice to her biggest fear—that she wouldn't be able to make things work here in Scotland.

Kit had gone with her gut and gotten lucky with her operation in Alaska. The single women she'd known from the country club set—before her family had been forced to exchange caviar for bologna sandwiches—tended to be quiet and romantic; she sensed that what they wanted was a “real man” with a traditional approach to relationships. So she'd foregone the lower forty-eight entirely, bypassing not just the financiers and tech millionaires but the ranchers and oilmen who sounded rugged but who were just business tycoons, and sought out men from Alaska. And she was right. Real Men had proven to be what her clients' hearts desired.

But when it came time to expand, Kit didn't go solely on instincts this time. She'd hired a team of consultants to figure out her next move. The consulting firm's recommendation: Expand her Real Men operation into Scotland. The firm had a great track record, but Kit had been worried ever since that they'd gotten it wrong. She worried whether her clients really yearned for a bigger adventure in a foreign location. She worried about the Scots and their compatibility. And she worried whether her East Coast socialite clients really longed for a Highland romance like the consulting firm said they did.

Kit's father used to say
never let them see you sweat
. But right now, she could use more Arrid Extra Dry. She went on the defensive with the Scot before her. “You don't even know what I do.”

Ramsay crossed his arms over his massive chest again, a man relaxed and sure of himself. “I have a pretty clear idea. If ye think your Alaskan
boys
don't like to be told what to do, what makes ye think we Scottish
men
will?”

The
Scottish man
standing in front of her may have a lot going on in the looks department, but he had a lot to learn when it came to Kit and her tenacity. “I'm very good at what I do, Mr. Armstrong.” 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 Hamptons or Martha's Vineyard or wherever ye call home.”

She took a cleansing breath. The Martha's Vineyard house had been auctioned off with their other homes to pay their creditors. But she wasn't telling this brute about her family's plunge into poverty.

She straightened her shoulders and stood as tall as her five-foot-two frame would allow. She'd endured some stubborn men before 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 prospective 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.”