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Real Men Wear Plaid!
Rhonda Nelson


These Highland hotties are about to meet their match!The WandererSexy Ewan MacKinnon meets fellow soul-searcher Gemma on a hiking trek through Scotland. They have wildly creative sex along the way, leaving them both with delicious memories of their journey. But at the trail's end, will their adventure be over, too?The WarriorProud Cam MacKinnon is king of his castle. And he has a castle. Really. But he gives up all semblance of control when Summer shows up for a murder mystery party. Because he has to have her. And one weekend of uninhibited sex should be plenty…shouldn't it?The WayfarerHeart-stoppingly hot Alec MacKinnon is honorable to a fault. So he shouldn't sleep with his friend's gorgeous daughter, Isla, right? But when Isla falls into his arms, what's he to do? After all, aren't some things just meant to be?









Look what people are saying about this talented author…


“Well plotted and wickedly sexy, this one’s got it all—including a completely scrumptious hero. A keeper.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Ranger

“This highly romantic tale is filled with emotion and wonderful characters. It’s a heart-melting romance.”

—RT Book Reviews on Letters from Home

“Wonderfully written and heart-stirring, the story flies by to the deeply satisfying ending.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Soldier

“Totally entertaining, emotionally satisfying and very sexy, this is a super-strong book.”

—RT Book Reviews on Blazing Bedtime Stories, “Sexily Ever After”

“If you want a sexy, steamy set of Christmas tales, guaranteed to make you blush and giggle, then you need to read Better Naughty than Nice. You won’t regret it. I give this collection 5 books.”

—Long and Short Reviews







Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for picking up Real Men Wear Plaid! This book holds a special place in my heart because the idea for it was conceived during a trip to Scotland with fellow writers and friends. (Check them out at the writingplayground.com.) I absolutely loved the country—the lochs and mountains, the shaggy Highland cows, the thistle and sheep. And the history… I felt like I was breathing it in as we visited all the castles and ruins. I couldn’t think of a better place to set my first Blaze Encounters. I also couldn’t come up with any sexier men.

But these guys aren’t just hot—they’re brothers! Ewan MacKinnon finds the woman of his dreams wandering on the West Highland Way. Cam MacKinnon’s soul mate blows him away at a murder mystery weekend at his Highland castle. And Alec MacKinnon meets his match when his mentor’s daughter takes up residence in his seaside town.

Nothing brings a smile to my face faster than hearing from my readers, so be sure to check out my website at ReadRhondaNelson.com. Also, the Blaze authors have just started up a cool Pet Project. Be sure to visit blazeauthors.com to see what we’re up to and how you can help.

Happy reading!

Rhonda




Real Men Wear Plaid!

Rhonda Nelson







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


A Waldenbooks bestselling author, two-time RITA


Award nominee and RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice nominee, Rhonda Nelson writes hot romantic comedy for the Harlequin Blaze line and other Harlequin imprints. With more than twenty-five published books to her credit and many more coming down the pike, she’s thrilled with her career and enjoys dreaming up her characters and manipulating the worlds they live in. As well as a writing career, she has a husband, two adorable kids, a black Lab and a beautiful bichon frise. She and her family make their chaotic but happy home in a small town in northern Alabama. She loves to hear from her readers, so be sure and check her out at www.ReadRhondaNelson.com.


To my Scotland travel buddies.

Most specifically to Kim, for all her planning,

wonderful in-laws, her car and her ability to

drive on the wrong side of the road.

To Kira, for the unforgettable horseback riding

excursion across the Highlands. (You know I didn’t

type that with a straight face.) To Andrea, the

ultimate navigator who made sure we were

never lost. And to Danniele, who patted my back

while I emptied my full Scottish breakfast

onto the sidewalk a block off the Royal Mile.




Contents


THE WANDERER

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

THE WARRIOR

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

THE WAYFARER

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Epilogue



The Wanderer




Prologue


GENEVIEVE MACKINNON OFTEN marveled over the fact that brilliance and stupidity could occupy the same body—the same mind—and a perfect example of that phenomenon was seated at the desk in front of her.

“Sons,” her father, Hamish MacKinnon, railed for what felt like the upteenth time. “I’ve got three of them—three,” he repeated, as if she weren’t aware of how many brothers she had. “And not one of them willing to take on MacKinnon Holdings so that I can retire properly with your mother and spend our golden years fly-fishing and vacationing in Majorca.”

Genevieve dutifully handed over another paper that required her father’s signature. She cast a glance out the window, observing passersby three floors below in Edinburgh proper. “I wasn’t aware that Mother wanted to take up fly-fishing,” she said mildly, her lips twitching with humor.

Her father shot her an impatient look. “You know very well what I mean,” he told her. “I’m sixty-five. It’s time for me to enjoy the fruits of my labor, to hand over the reins. With three sons at my disposal I never worried about not being able to pass the torch, as it were.” He grimaced, his face settling into one of heart-breaking disappointment. “Instead I’ve spent my life building a family business that none of them seems to want.”

Genevieve wished that she could disagree, but her father was right. Her brothers—Ewan, Cam and Alec—were all either carving their own path, or in Ewan’s case, still looking for it, and weren’t the least inclined to continue along the road their father had built.

They weren’t…but she was and always had been.

Pity that her father didn’t see it.

She handed him another document and inwardly sighed. How much harder could she work? How many hours must she log in before he realized that his company was her life, the only one she’d ever wanted? She was in her element at MacKinnon Holdings, had a knack for making good investments and had a better understanding of the business world than any of her dear brothers ever would. And yet they were better qualified in her father’s eyes because they had a penis? Ridiculous. Utter stupidity.

“Marshall Anderson will be here at one,” she said, trying to get a handle on her temper.

Her father’s keen eyes instantly found hers. “You’re ready for him, I presume?”

“I’ve reviewed the past ten years’ financials, interviewed all pertinent staff—” not to mention the non-salaried workers, who tended to give a better picture of a man’s character “—and am confident that the company is sound. It is not, however, worth what he wants us to pay for it.”

“Then I’ll leave the negotiations to you,” he said. “I’m meeting your mother for lunch.”

She nodded, presuming as much. He often “left things to her” yet seemed inexplicably reluctant to leave her in charge of the company.

“Don’t worry, Genevieve,” he said, sending her an indulgent smile. “At some point one of your brothers has to come round and when they do, I won’t depend on you so much.”

Could he hear the enamel grinding off her teeth? she wondered as it resonated through her own ears. Not trusting herself to speak, she merely managed a weak smile and left the office.

Obviously a talk with her brothers was going to be in order.




1


“SOME BEST friend,” Gemma Wentworth muttered between clenched teeth.

He’d left her? Here? In the wilds of Scotland, a little over half-way along the famous West Highland Way?

Gemma felt the impact of what he’d done fully smack into her. She stared at the young Irish couple who’d delivered his message.

“Are you certain?” she asked faintly. Her stomach gave a sickening little pitch. “You saw him leave?”

The girl nodded sympathetically. “We did. He climbed right into the lorry and took off, he did.”

But—but she’d only gone to the bathroom, Gemma thought, her mind gauzy with shock. She turned toward the little store, then scanned the parking lot and surrounding area just to make sure that Jeffrey—her oldest and dearest friend—wasn’t going to magically appear.

“He said to give you this,” the guy chimed in, handing her Jeffrey’s backpack. It felt lighter, meaning he’d taken his clothes and pounds of grooming products. Her friend was more particular about his appearance than she was, the great jerk. “Said he wouldn’t need it anymore and that…he was sorry,” the young man finished, evidently finding the message and the words distasteful.

Sorry? Anger bullied the initial shock aside as she considered what he’d done to her. Sorry? She gave a grim laugh. Oh, he’d be sorry all right. What sort of friend abandoned another so-called best friend without so much as a goodbye in the middle of a foreign country? One entirely too sure of her devotion, obviously. One who was certain he’d be forgiven. One who had met an attractive Scot ten miles back and, given the choice between her company and that of a handsome stranger, chose the latter. Argh!

In retrospect, she should have predicted this. After all, hadn’t Jeffrey disappeared at many a ball game and party over the years? Particularly when the possibility of romance had presented itself? She whimpered low under her breath. Still, the coward should have had the nerve to tell her he was leaving, not just disappear and leave it to this couple.

“You’re welcome to walk with us,” the girl offered with a pitying smile that confirmed she was under the mistaken impression that Jeffrey had been Gemma’s boyfriend. They were often mistaken for lovers, but aside from the fact that she’d never felt romantically interested in him, Gemma lacked something Jeffrey needed in a partner—a penis. The girl looked up at her companion. “Isn’t that right, Willem?”

Red-headed, gangly and freckled, Willem nodded. “Spot on, Jenny. It’s better to be with a group than off on your own,” he said.

“You are going to continue, aren’t you?” Jenny asked anxiously, as though the thought had just occurred to her. “You’ve come so far. It’d be a shame to quit now.”

That was true, Gemma knew. Still… The West Highland Way was a ninety-five mile hike that began in Milngavie and ultimately concluded at Fort William in the Scottish Highlands. Both her grandmother and mother had made the walk. It had been a rite of passage, so to speak, for the Wentworth women, who were of Scottish descent. While everyone had their own reasons for treading the path, according to her mother, Wentworth women had never failed to find clarity and peace on it, a sense of their higher purpose. They insisted that, for whatever reason, walking this trail had some sort of mystical way of putting their feet on their life’s proper path.

Truthfully, Gemma didn’t know if she bought into the hocus-pocus aspect of it—she was definitely dissatisfied with her life at the present—but she’d felt compelled to make the journey all the same, had felt this bizarre need to do as the Wentworth women before her. Though she would admit to feeling a strange sense of homecoming upon landing in Scotland, a loosening in her chest as it were, she was still no closer to discovering what it was that was going to make her life worthwhile, a credit to the world.

She grimaced. But she did know that her position at the bank, where she worked as a loan officer, wasn’t doing it for her and if she didn’t make a change soon—the right one—she was going to suffocate under her own skin.

Initially Gemma had imagined that she would have rather traveled the country in a car or luxury coach, but she had to admit she was happier making the actual walk. There was something about knowing that her feet were walking the same ground as her mother and grandmother, that they were seeing the same things—albeit generations apart—and that, while the actual journey was the same, their experiences were wholly unique. She’d met a host of interesting people, all of them of the same mind with the same ultimate goal—reaching the end of the journey—and the breathtaking views of moors and lochs were something she knew she’d never forget.

Though there were several people who were camping along the way—in designated areas, of course—most were like her, looking for an open room at a bed and breakfast or hostel. It was nothing to pass someone at one juncture of the journey and later have them pass you, sling-shotting across each other’s path over and over again. That’s what had happened with Willem and Jenny, which was probably why Jeffrey had entrusted them with his message and pack. The traitor, she thought again. She still couldn’t believe that he’d actually left her. That he’d bailed in such a cowardly fashion, gallingly, via proxy.

They’d also been crossing paths with a beautiful, bold Scotsman she wished she hadn’t noticed. Ewan MacKinnon had first caught her attention on day one from the corner of her eye and her heart had given a strange sort of jolt. Before she could get him properly in her sights, he’d vanished behind a small crowd of people, leaving her curiously dejected, as though she’d had a present snatched out of her hands. By the end of day two she’d been covertly watching for him with a keen sort of unprecedented anticipation, she’d been gratified to catch him watching her. Jeffrey’s gimlet eyes hadn’t missed it, either, and he had tried to get her to act on her obviously mutual interest.

An incurable romantic, Jeffrey had cited the once in a lifetime opportunity to “bag a Scottish hottie” and had reminded her entirely too helpfully about her non-existent sex life. She and her last boyfriend had parted ways eight months ago—oddly enough, she didn’t like sharing and fidelity turned out to be beyond Andrew’s grasp—and, despite Jeffrey’s insistence that she needed a little orgasm therapy, she simply hadn’t been in the mood.

Until now.

Until him.

She’d been having fantasies about Ewan, dreaming of him at night and daydreaming about him come the dawn. Wicked, depraved scenarios which had involved lots of heavy breathing and copious amounts of clotted cream. It was insane and yet completely undeniable. Her belly clenched, remembering, and she felt heat sizzle over the tips of her breasts. The need was secondary to the strange expectation she felt, though, this bizarre sense of destiny all tangled up with the desire.

Neither of which she had time for, especially now.

With effort, she pushed his distracting image aside and told herself to focus. She’d just been abandoned by her best friend, quite unceremoniously, on foreign soil. She grimaced.

Clearly she had bigger issues.

A quick inspection revealed that Jeffrey had left her a first-aid kit, a package of granola and quite a bit of cash. Guilt money, she thought, but it would spend just as easily and now that she’d be footing the bill for her room by herself she was going to need it.

No doubt he’d be seeing Scotland the way he’d wanted to see it to start with—in grand style, touring all the places she’d like to see as well. Rosslyn Chapel and the Royal Mile, Sterling Castle, Culloden Battlefield, Loch Ness. Though she hadn’t had a chance to talk to him about it, she’d planned on asking him about changing their return tickets and spending another week in the country. It seemed a shame to leave when there was still so much she wished to do. And curiously, the idea of going back to Jackson, Mississippi—even to the quaint little farmhouse she called home—filled her with varying degrees of dread and panic.

Bizarre.

Regardless of anything, she refused to become Willem and Jenny’s third wheel. Though she and Jeffrey had started on the trail early in the week, planning ahead so that the end of their walk would fall on the more congested weekend, there were still plenty of people along the way. Sticking strictly to the path, she would be safe. Or as safe as she could be, at any rate.

Perhaps this was for the best, Gemma told herself. Neither her mother nor her grandmother had taken a friend along when they’d made their walk. Maybe this was a journey she was meant to make on her own. Her gaze took in the beautiful, lush green landscape—the shaggy highland cows in the field across the street, the enormous rhododendrons—they were more like trees here than the decorative shrub variety she was used to seeing at home, the lovely thistles bobbing in the breeze—and a little sigh slipped past her lips.

Determined to think of the glass as half full, she couldn’t imagine a better setting.




2


NO DOUBT ABOUT IT, Ewan decided. The animated hand-talking American guy had left her. Gemma—he’d overheard her tell someone in that lilting southern drawl. Something about her name conjured a soft warming in his chest. Caused a bizarre shift that made the balls of his feet tingle and his heart race.

Ridiculous.

He muttered a few choice expletives under his breath and passed a hand over his face. This was not his concern. She was not his concern. He shouldn’t care that her happy-go-lucky boyfriend had abandoned her and yet…

He couldn’t seem to overtake her, had purposely hung back so that he could make sure she was okay. His lips curled. Which sounded chivalrous, until one considered he’d been ogling her ass for the past six miles.

And intermittently and hungrily over the first forty they’d traversed.

There was nothing bloody noble in the way his dick had been straining against his drawers, that was for damned sure. Over a plump-reared American female whose laugh made his pulse leap.

It boggled the mind.

He’d first noticed her when they’d left Milngavie, just a fleeting glance as she blended in with the initial crowd, but there’d been something…significant, for lack of a better explanation, about that small glimpse that had stuck with him and made him purposely continue to seek her out despite the fact that she was obviously attached. But not too attached, he thought, smiling. Because inasmuch as he seemed to be insanely fascinated and attracted to her, she appeared to be equally affected by him. Bad form since she clearly wasn’t alone, but gratifying all the same. Hell, who didn’t want to be irresistible?

Nevertheless Ewan was supposed to be taking this opportunity to figure out just exactly what it was he wanted to do with the rest of his life. This journey was supposed to be about inner reflection, getting away from the noise—the expectations of his family—and simply discover what his true path was meant be. He’d jumped around from job to job within MacKinnon Holdings, his family’s business, and hadn’t been even marginally satisfied with any of them. Sales, marketing, web innovation…they’d all left him feeling bored and unfulfilled. He needed to be moving, to be making a difference on a larger, global scale. To make matters worse, his father had made no bones about the fact that he was ready to retire and, as the oldest, Ewan was certain his father wanted him to step in and fill his shoes.

The mere idea made him physically ill.

Holed up in an office all day, wearing a suit and tie to work, making decisions which would impact the family’s bottom line and the ultimate income of hundreds of people, decisions that, despite having a business degree, he felt no confidence in making.

At least he was in good company, Ewan thought, because none of his younger brothers wanted to take over for their father, either. In fact, his little sister was the only one who’d ever been interested in the workings of the family company and certainly had a better grasp of it than any of the rest of them did. Surely their father would see sense soon and realize that putting Genevieve in charge would be best for all of them.

It was disconcerting that this journey was more than half through and he still didn’t have a bloody clue what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. The only thing he could confidently say he wanted to do was…her. He chuckled low, pulled his water bottle from his side and took a healthy drink. Gemma trudged on ahead of him, her shapely rear making those horrid cargo pants she wore look impossibly sexy. He could tell she was tiring. She’d slowed a bit and paused every once in a while to stretch and gaze at the scenery. He wasn’t fooled, of course. She needed the break.

Though he hadn’t spoken a word to her, he’d be willing to bet that she’d never attempted a hike of this sort, or any other, for that matter. Her boots were new—no doubt her feet were killing her—and he’d glimpsed the top of a plain cotton tube sock when she’d paused to retie her shoe. Tube socks? Seriously? He’d thought, smiling. Newbies always underestimated the value of a good sock. He’d paid fourteen pounds for the pair he was wearing and didn’t regret a single cent of it.

Self-preservation told him that he needed to avoid her, that her misfortune didn’t mean he had to be her hero. He didn’t have time to be anyone’s hero, reluctant or otherwise. Just because she was an inexperienced hiker alone in a foreign country didn’t make her helpless. After all, she’d pressed on when her boyfriend had left, right? Definitely ballsy. But could determination, irritation and stubbornness get her up Devil’s Staircase and down into Fort William? Unharmed?

Shit.

They were nearing Crianlarich and he fully expected her to find lodging there. He had planned to do the same thing, but had hoped to have enough daylight to press on to the other side of town before stopping to get a jump on the next day’s hike.

He’d lagged behind her instead and now that was no longer an option. Because he’d abandoned any semblance of objectivity or good sense, Ewan knew he would “conveniently” find lodging where ever she stayed and would continue to “conveniently” mother duck her along the rest of the journey, following behind to make sure that she didn’t come to any harm.

And, of course, he would stare at her ass. His lips quirked.

One had to find perks where one could, after all.

He slowed as she stopped to take another picture of another cow. How this animal could possibly look any different from the sheep and cattle they’d passed up until this point, Ewan had no idea, but she seemed determined to document every bit of wildlife between here and their final destination. It was irritating as hell and he briefly wondered if she were doing it on purpose. He didn’t recall her taking so much time before. But she’d had to keep pace with Jeffrey then, and now she could move along as she saw fit.

He wasn’t opposed to taking pictures—he’d snapped a few himself, particularly when they were walking the Loch Lomond stretch. Beautiful land. The mountains, hills and valleys, the taste of the loamy air. Ewan was sure the rest of the world was just lovely—and had even seen a great deal of it on various trips—but nothing could ever compare to this splendor. Cities held no appeal for him whatsoever. Too crowded, too loud, too…much. A man couldn’t see the sky for all the buildings—and the smell? The combination of car fumes and concrete? No offense to urbanites, but it wasn’t for him.

But then what was for him? He didn’t have any problem figuring out what he didn’t like; it was nailing down his preferences which seemed to be the problem. He had no idea what prevented his family from being exasperated with his continued indecision, but miraculously—sometimes irritatingly—they were all behind him, waiting patiently for him to find his true course.

Truthfully, what Ewan liked to do wouldn’t be of any help to the family business. Somehow he didn’t see going into war-torn countries or natural disaster–affected areas—like New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, where he’d volunteered with the Red Cross—or any other place he was needed—just his two hands and a willingness to work—contributing to MacKinnon Holdings’ bottom line. Just the opposite, really, because in seeing the need, one also saw how much capital was required to truly make a difference.

Foolishness, Ewan told himself, scowling. He needed to be figuring out what skill he could bring to the company, something profitable his father would be proud of. MacKinnon Industries had many diversified holdings, from woolen goods to boat-making—his youngest brother’s calling—and all services in between. His father had given him a list of their interests and had told him to look it over, to see if anything struck his fancy. Because he’d wanted a more organic epiphany, Ewan had avoided looking at it. He glumly suspected he’d be perusing it soon.

While he’d anticipated that she’d stop at the first B&B they came to, Gemma inspected the garden and moved on. For reasons he couldn’t explain, B&B number two didn’t make the cut, either. Dusk was settling and though he had out a torch, he wasn’t sure if she did. Sure enough, she paused and began rummaging through her bag. She set it aside and started rifling through another—Jeffrey’s no doubt—and the sound that emerged from her throat when she didn’t find what she was looking for made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

It also made him grin. She had a bit of a temper, that one. For some irrational, crack-brained reason, he liked that.

“He took the damned flashlight!” she exclaimed to no one in particular in a voice that brought the phrase “last straw” immediately to mind. Another growl of frustration. “Why would he need a flashlight? He’s not here. He left.” She kicked his bag with her little booted foot.

Ewan was so startled, he laughed aloud.

“He’s sorry,” she said in mocking tones, gesturing wildly. She gave it another kick and when that didn’t satisfy her irritation, to his astonishment, in a fit of pique she started jumping up and down on the backpack. She continued to mutter under her breath and, though he couldn’t make out everything she was saying, the occasional word came through.

Traitor was the running theme.

Ewan sidled forward and with a flick of his finger, trained the beam on her delightfully startled face. Big green eyes rounded and a sharp inhaled gasp wheezed through her soft, pink lips. She stopped jumping at once, which was good because it made it easier to stare at her.

And stare was really all he could do.

Every muscle in his body had decided to atrophy, with the exception of the one in his chest, which was pounding harder than ever; a rush of heat swept over him, followed by an immediate cold sweat. Something happened to the air in his lungs—there seemed to be less of it—and a whirling sensation tugged behind his navel, making his stomach pitch in an expectant roll. Ewan didn’t have to be a psychologist to know that he was on the brink of something—insanity, probably—yet something about this moment—this particular instance in time—was oddly more important, more singular than any other. And for reasons he couldn’t explain and would sound completely irrational to any right-minded person, he knew without a shadow of a doubt, with absolute unwavering certainty, that whatever his purpose, this girl was a part of it.

His legs wobbled, startling the voice out of him.

“Any particular reason you’re abusing your cargo?” he asked, his voice more normal than he would have imagined given his recent revelation, an epiphany of epic proportions.

Bloody hell. This was so not what he’d been looking for.




3


“GOOD GRIEF! You scared the hell out of me!” Gemma panted, clutching her hand to her chest to keep her heart from bursting through. One minute she’d been in the middle of a good old-fashioned bucket-kicking fit—or in this case, backpack-kicking fit—and the next, he’d startled the life out of her with his flashlight.

Her cheeks burned when she realized he’d obviously seen the whole thing. Which he would have, because he’d been following her since lunch. She’d just gotten so irritated over the fact that Jeffrey had taken the flashlight—which she knew he wasn’t really going to need, since he’d gone off with his friend and was probably in a cozy hotel room by now—that she’d forgotten about Ewan being there. Truth be told, though she’d tried to embrace the whole zen approach to her friend abandoning her on this journey, the more she’d walked the more irritated she’d become. Hell, this wasn’t a party or a ball game or some other social event he’d left her at—this was in the middle of a foreign country. Furthermore, the more time she’d spent in her own head the more she’d been forced to realize two things: One—other than wanting to make a profound difference of some sort, she was no closer to knowing what the hell she wanted to do with her life than she had been during the first mile. And two—if she didn’t stop thinking about/lusting after/burning for the sexy Scot who’d been trailing her since midday, there was no way in hell she was going to get any closer to what she was looking for.

Unless of course, she was looking for him…

Nonsense, Gemma thought before the idea could take hold. Leave it to Jeffrey to plant ideas in her head. This was supposed to be a spiritual experience, one with true meaning.

Although staring into his eyes—a warm hazel that put her in mind of sunlight through lacy cedar leaves—she could see where being with him, in any capacity, could have true meaning. Her heart gave a sudden lurch in her chest and the air thinned in her lungs, leaving her momentarily breathless and light-headed. She felt like she was floating, tethered to the earth only by his gaze and the longer she looked at him, the more the sensation strengthened. Her palms tingled and her heart vibrated faster and suddenly it was all too much.

He blinked then, thankfully severing the strange connection.

How on earth had she forgotten that he’d been behind her? Especially when she’d been keenly aware of him all day? Though she didn’t have any proof, per se, she seriously suspected he’d been staring at her ass a good majority of the time. Wishful thinking? she wondered, but secretly hoped not. Truth be told she was quite vain about her ass. It was by far her best feature. Though she wasn’t the president of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, she was a card-carrying member who was especially thankful for the padded push-up bra. False advertising? Possibly, but she preferred to put her best boobs forward, as it were.

“My apologies,” he said in a voice that made her insides shiver. It was slightly husky, deep and masculine. “I’d only thought to help.” He gestured to the flashlight. “I take it you were looking for one of these?”

She chewed the inside of her cheek as renewed irritation rushed through her. Damned Jeffrey. She was so going to make him pay for this. “Yes, I was.”

“And your boyfriend took it?”

She snorted, picked up both packs and dusted them off before putting them back on her shoulders once again. She wasn’t at all herself and talking to him was only making it worse. “Jeffrey was not my boyfriend.”

“He’s definitely more boy than man, that one,” Ewan said, an unmistakable chord of anger in his intriguing Scottish brogue. She loved the accent, the rolling lilt to it. It was so different from what she was accustomed to hearing. And the misplaced irritation on her behalf was quite nice, she thought, suppressing the urge to preen.

She started forward and he fell into step beside her, lighting their path. She felt the air crackle around them, wishing vainly that she’d gone ahead and stopped at the last B&B. Her feet were aching, she was hungry and it was getting darker and darker by the minute. She wasn’t exactly certain why she’d pressed on, been so reluctant to stop, but imagined it had something to do with the long lonely evening that stretched ahead of her. She was supposed to have shared this experience with her best friend. They were supposed to have sighed over hot tea, salivated over scones, clotted cream and jam and then bitched about their respective blisters.

Instead he’d answered a cock call and she was all alone.

Her gaze slid to the imposing presence beside her and she felt a knife of heat slice through her.

Okay, she silently amended, not all alone.

“So he just left? The boy you were traveling with?”

Gemma released a long-suffering sigh. “He did.”

Had Jeffrey really been her boyfriend, this could have been potentially as humiliating as the time she’d walked out the bathroom with her skirt tucked into the back of her pantyhose at church. The choir and pastor had gotten quite a little peep show as she’d made her way down the central aisle of the sanctuary. Thankfully, Ms. Betty Billings had come to her rescue, jerking her into the pew beside her before Gemma’d been able to go any farther. Ms. Betty had had quite a grip for someone so old and frail, Gemma remembered.

“You seem more angry than heartbroken,” Ewan remarked.

“I’m extremely pissed, a bit disappointed, but not the least bit heartbroken.”

“Strange,” he said, giving her a good once over. She felt that perusal slither over her like a caress and had to squelch a shiver. Something hot and achy curled in her womb and she found herself lessening the distance between, curiously longing for any contact, even that of the casual variety. “You don’t seem the least bit drunk to me.”

She felt her eyes widen. “Drunk? I’m not drunk.”

“But you said—” He sighed and shook his head, his beautiful lips curling into an endearing smile. “Sorry. When you said pissed I—”

Understanding dawned and she thanked public television for the many Britcoms she’d watched on Saturday evening TV. She chuckled. “Pissed as in angry,” she explained. “And don’t get me wrong, my feelings are hurt.” She kicked an errant rock out of her path. “Jeffrey and I have been best friends since the fourth grade. He knew how important this trip was to me—” she shot him a glance “—both my mother and grandmother have made the walk,” she explained, “and the fact that he abandoned me in a foreign country for a potential hook-up is a bit disturbing, but—”

His eyes rounded and he gave his head a little shake. “He’s your best friend? A hook-up? You aren’t—?”

“Together?” she finished for him. Gemma grinned. “No, not the romantic sense of the word. I’m not Jeffrey’s type.”

She couldn’t be sure in the failing light, but she thought she saw a little bit of smugness light his smile. “Well, if he’s left you for a hook-up, then he’s obviously not altogether right in the upper-story.”

She laughed. “He’s not right on any level,” she said, releasing a small sigh. “But he is dear and at some point I might even forgive him.” Her eyes narrowed. “But I will make him suffer a bit first, I think.”

A bark of laughter erupted from his throat. “You sound like you look forward to that.”

“Of course. He deserves it.”

“So beautiful women aren’t his type?” he asked, once again treating her to one of those all-over glances that made her middle go all warm and gooey.

“No,” she said, chewing the inside of her cheek. “In fact, women aren’t his type at all.”

A beat slid to three, then “Oh,” he said, shooting her a significant look. “He’s—”

“—gay,” she finished. Coming out hadn’t been a particularly easy experience for him, but he’d had the support of his friends and family and was determined not to live a lie. She admired her friend for that. It took a tremendous amount of courage to be different.

Ewan merely shrugged. “To each his own,” he said, earning golden brownie points for his attitude. Any guy who’d ever been uncomfortable being around her friend went immediately on her Do Not Date list.

They walked in silence for a few moments and she simply enjoyed the kiss of the breeze on her face, the sound of music ebbing in and out of a pub farther up the street. The shop fronts were smaller here—she hadn’t seen a single big box store—as were the cars and streets. Odd when one considered the vastness of the land, the sheer size of the mountains, burns and lochs. Stone houses with roses climbing their faces and spilling over the fences marched in cozy rows along the street, reminding her of Thomas Kincaid paintings. She was hammeringly aware of Ewan—he towered over her, making her feel quite dainty as he walked beside her, adjusting his longer stride to accommodate her shorter one, and a smooth woodsy fragrance accompanied his heat.

Because she’d taken every opportunity to covertly observe him for the past several days, she knew his hair was more brown than red, naturally curly and his ruddy complexion complemented his striking hazel eyes. Those eyes… They simply made her melt when she looked into them—and his smile? Mercy. He had a noble brow and a bold nose and a mouth that was unrepentantly sexy. Beneath it was an auburn soul patch and something about that little bit of groomed hair made him look strangely aristocratic and rebellious. She rather liked it and found herself struck with the urge to rub her thumb over it, to see if it was as soft as it looked.

Furthermore, because she was innately curious, she couldn’t help but wonder what it felt like when he kissed a woman. Gemma had never cared for a mustache or a beard—too abrasive—but she suspected the soul patch would feel different…particularly against the more sensitive parts of her body. Like her nipples. They instantly pearled behind her bra and she smothered a whimper.

She’d bypassed ogling and moved directly into lust.

Not good. Particularly when one considered the way he made her feel, breathless and shaky and expectant.

“I’m Ewan MacKinnon, by the way,” he told her extending his hand in a courtly gesture. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”

They hadn’t, but she’d known his name because she’d overheard him say it to someone else. His hand engulfed hers and the combination of warmth, size and electricity made her fingers tingle and a tangle of sensation snake low in her belly. She felt the reaction to his touch spread through her, setting off a bizarre warning she knew she wasn’t going to heed. He made her ache, made her want, made her need in a way more powerful than she’d ever experienced, as though something stronger than sexual attraction was pulling them together.

“Gemma Wentworth,” she said breathlessly.

“From the States,” he remarked. “The South, I would assume.”

She laughed. She was used to getting the you’re-not-from-around-here speech when she was visiting other areas of her own country, but having people an ocean away remark upon it was a bit surreal. “Mississippi,” she confirmed. “Jackson, specifically. What about you? You’re a native, right?”

“I am.”

When he didn’t elaborate, she didn’t press. “And have you always wanted to make this walk?” Was that a B&B ahead? Gemma squinted. It definitely looked like it. Her kingdom for a scone, a hot shower and a bed.

“Not always,” Ewan admitted with a chuckle. “It was more of a spur of the moment thing.”

For whatever reason, she imagined that Ewan Mac Kinnon and spur of the moment were well-acquainted.

“It was supposed to be a journey of self-discovery,” he confided, shooting her a charmingly wry smile. Her heart gave another jump in response, then a squeeze for good measure.

She inclined her head. “Ah. And what have you discovered thus far?”

He blew out a breath and grinned, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Not a whole hell of a lot, actually.”

She laughed, finding both the admission and the accompanying smile ridiculously endearing. “I know what you mean,” she murmured under her breath, her eyes widening significantly. Her gaze darted ahead. That was definitely a bed and breakfast. The Waterhouse, the sign said. It sounded wonderful. Beyond wonderful. Heavenly. Though she was thrilled to be walking with him and appreciated his company, she quickened her pace.

“In a hurry now, are you?” Laughter lurked in his voice.

“There’s a B&B ahead and I’m beat.”

“You passed two already,” he remarked.

“Did I?” she asked breezily, knowing full well that she had. She cast him a sidelong glance and that bizarre sense of expectancy struck her again. She hadn’t looked forward to the evening alone, but now that he was walking with her—and clearly had no intention of leaving her—her outlook had changed.

Most drastically.

In fact, she might be inclined to forgive Jeffrey more quickly than anticipated because she suspected her friend had, through his own selfish nature, done her a big favor.

And that big favor was walking right beside her.




4


HER CHEEKS PINKENED from the change in temperature, a rosier hue on her especially ripe mouth, Gemma Wentworth was even prettier in proper lighting. There was a stubbornness in the tilt of her chin, and something about her up-turned nose and the slope of her jaw, the creamy porcelain skin, was particularly adorable.

Just looking at her—and he couldn’t seem to be able to keep from looking at her—made an odd sensation swell in his chest. Though he’d only met her, everything about her seemed strangely familiar, new but…not. His hands perpetually itched to touch her—just to feel her skin against his—and though it was counterproductive to what he was supposed to be doing on this walk, he knew that he was going to have to touch her.

A lot.

In intimate places.

Furthermore, though it sounded improbable to his own mind, he felt on a level deeper than logic and intuition that he was supposed to meet her, that their paths had crossed for a reason. He could feel that connection even now—a low thrum between them—and wondered if she sensed it as well.

With brisk efficiency the innkeeper checked them in and assigned rooms. “Dinner’s over, of course, but I’ve got meat pies, bread and cheese.”

Gemma shuddered with unabashed delight. “That sounds marvelous.”

The older lady smiled kindly. “Why don’t you go upstairs and wash up and I’ll put a tray in the parlor for you?”

“Thank you,” Gemma told her.

“Hungry, are you?” Ewan asked her as he followed her upstairs.

She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Ravenous,” she admitted. “I skipped lunch and the granola I snacked on along the way isn’t staying with me.”

She’d likely lost her appetite at lunch, Ewan ruminated, when her friend bailed on her. Best friend or not, that was badly done. Of course, Ewan was reaping the benefits of Jeffrey’s bad behavior, so he wasn’t going to rake the man over the coals too much. Had her friend not left her, no doubt he’d still be watching her from a distance instead of basking in her company. Point of fact, if he ever saw Jeffrey again, he probably should thank him.

“Ah, here we are,” Gemma said, slipping her key into the lock. She shot him a gratifyingly hopeful look. “See you downstairs?”

“Certainly,” he said. “I’m pretty hungry myself.” He could quite happily eat her up, as a matter of fact. He imagined licking a path up her inner thigh and felt his dick harden.

Damn, he was in trouble.

She smiled then, almost shyly, and then turned and ducked into her room. Ewan released a pent-up sigh and shook his head at his own stupidity. He found his own room, fortuitously located right across the hall from hers, then let himself inside. Single bed, floral wallpaper, local prints. Lacy curtains covered the windows and a door opened to the en suite bath. Though he hadn’t planned on doing any checking in, he pulled his cell phone from his backpack and called Cam, his younger brother.

Predictably, he was busy—a tour bus of happy murder mystery party goers were en route to the castle and a stalking party had just left for a two-day hunt—but also predictably, Cam always had time for a chat.

“I didn’t expect to hear from you,” his brother said. “I take it the road of enlightenment hasn’t been too illuminating?”

Ewan chuckled. “Something like that, yes.”

“Keep wandering, big brother. It’ll come together for you. And if what comes together for you doesn’t coincide with Dad’s plans, then so be it. Sometimes you have to fight for what’s important.”

Cam knew all about that, Ewan thought. He’d certainly bucked the status quo when he’d gone against their father’s wishes and bought his estate. But Cam had always been like that—fearless, always ready for a challenge and never afraid to face life head-on.

“What makes you so sure that he doesn’t think you’ll come through for him?” Ewan asked. “Don’t think that he has given up on the idea,” he warned him.

Cam chuckled darkly. “He might as well,” he said. “I know where I belong and it’s here at Castle MacKinnon.”

He envied him that knowledge, Ewan thought with an inward sigh.

“Alec is dead set against taking over the company as well,” Cam said.

“Even if Dad let him do it from a boat?” Ewan teased. His youngest brother had an affinity for the water that bordered on the mystical. He’d been obsessed with floating things from the time he was a little kid and had studied with one of Scotland’s premiere boat builders. He was happiest, they all knew, when he was on the seas, looking at a horizon. Hell, even when he came home he was taking the skiff out on the loch in front of the house within half an hour of being there. His soul would shrivel up and die if he had to take over for their father.

“Genevieve called me yesterday,” Cam said. “She’s losing patience. Dad told her that when one of us stepped up to do our duty he’d stop relying on her so much.”

Ouch. He could see where his sister, who’d been their father’s shadow since she was old enough to walk, would have a problem with that.

“For such a smart man, he’s been unforgivably stupid, don’t you think?” Cam remarked. “Genevieve is the obvious best choice. Why can’t he see it?”

“Who knows?” Ewan said. “Mom’s going to have to say something, I think.”

“She doesn’t want to interfere and says that it’s better if Dad works it out on his own.”

“But he’s not working it out.”

“When the three of us refuse, he’ll have no other choice, right?” He hated forcing his father’s hand like that because it made him feel ungrateful when, in truth, he wasn’t. He just wanted to do his own thing, that was all.

Of course, his argument would be better if he actually had his own thing.

Instead of coming up with a viable job in the company, what he really wanted was to go to Haiti and help the earthquake victims. According to the article he’d recently read about the need, there were more than fifty-five thousand people still living in tents. He had no idea what he would do—what he could do even—but he was able and willing to do whatever was needed. There was honor in that purpose, a sense of satisfaction from knowing that whatever he did was going to make a difference. Was that too much to ask?

After catching up on a few more things and promising to call when he reached Fort William, Ewan disconnected. He made quick work of unpacking his bag, washed up and made the return trek back downstairs to the parlor.

He was taking his first sip of hot tea when Gemma entered the room. She’d exchanged her boots for pink bunny slippers and had taken her hair out of the ponytail she’d worn all day. Long fawn-colored curls—the exact shade of tablet candy, his favorite, naturally—tumbled over her shoulders and down her back. She’d washed her face, making her nose and cheeks shiny in the firelight. He didn’t know what was more endearing, that glowing button nose, or the slippers.

“Better?” he asked, feeling unaccountably nervous. This woman did something to him, affected him on a cellular level.

She settled into the chair opposite him and selected a meat pie from the tray. “Immensely,” she said, taking a bite. She groaned with delight.

She had the sexiest mouth, Ewan noted. Full and bow-shaped, the lower lip considerably plumper than the upper. She had a bit of pastry stuck in the corner and he watched with rapt attention as her pink tongue darted out and captured the errant bit. He knew she didn’t mean it as a sexy gesture, but that didn’t keep his blood from heating all the same. The nagging sense of awareness that had plagued him since again setting eyes on her had quadrupled in the past hour, pushing an already irrational attraction into especially dangerous territory.

Ewan was well acquainted with sexual desire and every nuance that entailed. What he wasn’t used to was wanting someone with this level of intensity. The combination of the virulent attraction and the warm, melting sensation in his chest when he looked at this particular female was, in a word, terrifying.

If this desire didn’t begin to wane soon then he might just self-combust.

“Is something wrong?” she asked. “You look a little strange.”

True enough, he imagined. He certainly felt strange. “I’m fine,” he said, expelling a heavy breath through a grim smile. He helped himself to a piece of bread.

“So I take it you’re going to continue on to Fort William?” He knew the answer, of course, but needed a conversational opener.

Chewing thoughtfully, she nodded. “Of course. Jeffrey was here for company, but my goal hasn’t changed. This is a rite of passage,” she said. “Both my mother and grandmother have made the walk.” She frowned. “I thought I’d mentioned—”

He nodded. “You did,” he said.

“I’ve come to a bit of a crossroads in my life,” she admitted, another scowl wrinkling her brow. “One path is clearly marked and utterly unfulfilling.”

That sounded eerily familiar, Ewan thought. He took a sip of tea. “And the other path?”

She smiled and let go a whooshing sigh. “That one is completely dark,” she said, laughing. “In fact, I’m not even sure there’s a path there. More like a goat trail.”

He chuckled, sensing a kinship he hadn’t expected. He knew the West Highland Way was a lot of things to a lot of different people, but what were the chances of him finding someone as interesting with the same reason as himself for making the journey? Call it coincidence or fate, he’d been right when he’d thought there was a reason for them meeting.

“What about you?” she asked. “What made you decide to take the walk?”

“I’m dealing with my own goat trail,” he said. “I take it you’ve never been on a hike like this before?”

She smiled and leaned back fully into her chair. She crossed her legs and a slippered foot bobbed up and down, making the bunny ears flop. “Er…no, unless you count hiking from one end of the mall to the other. I’ve walked a lot of Civil War battlefields though, so in a way I guess that has helped. Physically, I can go a lot farther than my feet can, if that makes sense.”

“New shoes?”

She winced adorably. “That was a mistake, wasn’t it? My mother warned me.”

He chuckled. “Look at it this way. They’ll be good and broken in by the time you’ve finished.”

She laughed, the sound soft and husky. “I’ll try to remember that tomorrow night when my blisters burst.”

“It’s the socks,” he told her. “You need merino wool.”

She gasped, feigning outrage. “My father’s a third-generation cotton farmer. He’d have a problem with that.”

“He’d want you to be miserable?”

“No,” she said, laughing. “It was a joke.”

“So your father isn’t a cotton farmer?”

She grinned. “Nope, he’s an accountant. These miraculous socks you speak of, where can I find them?”

“I’ll loan you a pair until we can find a shop that carries them.”

“Much appreciated, thanks.” She looked at him from beneath lowered lashes. “So why didn’t you pass me today? Have you adopted me as your damsel in distress?”

He felt his mouth twitch with a grin and took another sip of tea, wishing it was something stronger. “Something like that, yes.”

She winced. “While appreciated, you really don’t have to do that. I can manage on my own. I’ll stick to the path. Were something to happen, someone would be along soon enough to help me.”

She was right and yet he knew he wouldn’t leave her. For reasons which escaped him, he couldn’t. Since there was no way he could confess that to her—how could he admit something he couldn’t even explain?—he decided to take a different tack. He passed a hand over his face and donned what he hoped resembled an appropriately sheepish expression.

“Unless you object to making the walk with me, I’d rather us stay together. I started this journey on my own and, to be honest, it’s a bit lonelier than I expected.” He essayed a smile. “Evidently I don’t like my own company as much as I thought I did.”

She studied him a minute, a direct gaze that seemed to somehow take his measure, peer directly into his soul. “I don’t object,” she said, and there was an inflection in her voice that alerted him to the fact that she’d just made some sort of decision. “I started this journey with a companion and am now on my own.” She peered at him from beneath a sweep of dark lashes. “Looks like we need each other, doesn’t it?”

Need wasn’t nearly a strong enough word.

He nodded, unable to speak.

“I should probably call it a night,” she said, getting to her feet. “We’ve got an early morning and, if the itinerary I’m following is to be believed, that large conic mountain looming in the distance is Ben More.”

“It is,” he confirmed. “A bit of a steepish climb.” He stood himself.

She paused. “Thanks, Ewan,” she said.

“For what?”

“For making sure that I was all right. It was a nice thing to do.”

“Would I lose your good opinion if I said I had ulterior motives?” he asked, sidling closer to her.

A grin turned the corners of her lips and she chuckled softly, then bent forward and pressed a kiss against his mouth. Blood boiled beneath the surface of his skin and a sensation so exquisite it stopped the breath in his lungs ricocheted through him. Every muscle in his body went rigid, then seemed to liquefy beneath her soft lips. She tasted like tea and strawberry jam and something else…something that was much more substantial.

Just as he finally came to his senses enough to deepen the kiss, she drew back and smiled, her warm eyes sparkling with delight and enough uncertainty to stroke his ego.

“I suspect our motives are the same,” she said. “Goodnight, Ewan.”

Yes, Ewan thought, dazed and ablaze. Yes, it was a good night.

And if he was reading her correctly—and he was relatively certain that he was—he’d make damned sure tomorrow night ended even better.




5


OH, SWEET merciful hell, Gemma thought as she wobbled shakily up the stairs to her room. That kiss…

Wow. Just wow.

She let herself into her room, then stripped down and moved immediately to the shower. Actually, knowing that she desperately needed to bathe and remove the hair from her thorny legs was the only thing that had prevented her from taking that kiss a whole helluva lot further. She was all in favor of dirty sex, but preferred to be clean while she was doing it. She adjusted the tap. Cave people must have had a keener sex drive to compensate for the odor, Gemma thought absently, otherwise she didn’t see how the human race would have survived. She lathered up with her scented soap and sighed. She would have been a terrible cave woman.

But that didn’t keep her from having Neanderthal fantasies about Ewan MacKinnon. Actually, the idea of dragging him into her bedroom held an infinite amount of appeal. She’d light a candle—her hat-tip to fire—and have her wicked way with him. Repeatedly.

And she knew he’d let her.

That was probably as intoxicating as the idea itself.

He wanted her and, despite his excuse about not enjoying his own company as much as he thought he would, she knew that he was every bit as enthralled with her as she was with him. And given the state of her hormones—the ones he’d kept at fever pitch for the past several days—she had every intention of letting this play out. There was more at work here than mere physical attraction—something almost destined, for lack of a better description. She’d felt it since the first instant she’d clapped eyes on him and the feeling had only intensified the longer she was in his presence—or even near his presence, for that matter.

Yes, she was supposed to be here to make some decisions about her life—what to do with it, specifically—and, other than knowing that she wanted to do something worthwhile, something that would make a difference, she was no closer to that goal than she’d been when she first started off in Milngavie. Regardless, she knew one thing she wanted to do and at the moment, that was him.

She could think of a thousand different reasons why she shouldn’t do this—she barely knew him, for starters—but Gemma also knew she’d ignore them all. Her sex drive was strangling any reasoning or good sense and, though she knew it was fanciful thinking, there was a part of her that believed that this was supposed to happen. That she was supposed to be here, to meet him, specifically. That he was part of her path. Or maybe she was part of his.

Either way, there was something magical—fated even—in the way things had happened and, continual hum of sexual tension aside, she felt oddly relaxed when she was with him. As though a hidden part of her which was always wound tight…suddenly gave way. It was as frightening as it was wonderful.

And she could quite easily become addicted to the sensation.

Or more accurately, addicted to him.

How intriguing that they were both seeking the same sort of answer.



“YOU’D BETTER GIVE me a time limit or you’ll never get me out of here,” Gemma warned him. Here being The Green Welly in Tyndrum, a fantastic shop which featured everything from its own whiskey store to outdoor wear and all items in between. Gemma had already spied the heather jewelry and cashmere scarves. Her eyes had simultaneously glazed over and lit up.

Ewan consulted his watch. Despite the Ben More section, it had only taken them a couple of hours to reach Tyndrum, but if they were going to make Kingshouse by dark, then they really couldn’t afford to linger here long.

“Twenty minutes,” Ewan told her, which seemed completely fair to him.

They were there for an hour, during which she bought heather earrings, a cashmere scarf, a floppy hat, whiskey for her father, scone mix and clotted cream and jam for her mother and countless other items for various members of her family back in the States. Thankfully, rather than lug it around for the rest of the trip, she had it all conveniently shipped directly to her door.

Since she’d spent what should have been their time allotted for lunch in the store, they’d bought take-away sandwiches, crisps and Mars Bar Krispies, and picnicked in a shady little glen next to the River Orchy. The water rushed over the ancient stones, lending its own music. Various birds flitted among the branches above their heads and the scent of thistle and heather perfumed the dewy air.

He had no complaints.

The food was excellent and the company… The company kicked ass.

He’d learned a lot about his little damsel in distress this morning. She greeted the day with more enthusiasm than he was accustomed to, for starters. Ewan preferred to slide gently into the day. Gemma grabbed it by the balls and tugged it along in her wake. She liked extra sugar in her tea, was delighted over Nutella—something she’d never tried before—and occasionally hummed when she walked.

Still, there was so much more he wanted to know about her and he’d just thought of a clever way to make that happen. It was a camp game, but it would have the same effect.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said.

She stopped chewing and her guarded gaze found his. A half-smile turned her lips. “Why does that instill my heart with a bit of panic?”

He laughed, struck anew at how easy it was to be with her, how right the world felt when they were breathing the same air. “I don’t know, but it’s completely unwarranted, I can assure you.”

She relaxed once more. “Then what’s this idea of yours?”

“I want you to show me five things in that backpack.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. Five things from your backpack. It’s an icebreaker of sorts. You can tell a lot about a person by what they carry with them on a journey such as this.”

Her gaze turned speculative. “And you’re going to do the same? Show me five things in yours?”

“Of course.”

She nodded succinctly. “Okay, I’m game. Do I take them out or do you? Draw at random or select?”

“We’ll do yours first, and I draw at random.”

Gemma reached over and grabbed her bag, then opened the larger compartment. “You’re probably going to pull out a pair of my underwear,” she said, blushing slightly.

He hoped that he’d actually have her out of her underwear this evening. “Possibly.” He reached in and withdrew the first thing that his fingers touched, a dog-eared tome of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.

Ewan quirked a brow.

She dimpled. “I can read it over and over again and never tire of it.”

Fair enough. He could do the same thing with his Louis L’Amour collection, but he kept that little tidbit to himself. Her choice was a literary classic—his was pure fun.

He reached in again and this time found a digital camera. “May I?” he asked.

She nodded and he powered on the device and flipped through her pictures. There were various snaps of her in front of Scottish landmarks, of those Highland cows she found so fascinating, blooming thistle, lots of sheep and the occasional ruin, but beyond that he found a few she’d taken somewhere else, presumably at home. “Who’s this?”

She leaned forward, bringing her scent with her. Something light and flowery, like bottled sunshine and roses. Mouthwatering. Heat slithered through his loins. “Ah, that’s my sister, Eloise.”

“Younger?”

“Yes, by a couple of years. She’s twenty-four.”

So she was twenty-six then. He’d guessed as much. “And this?” he asked, when an image of an enormous Persian cat appeared on the tiny screen.

“That’s my cat, Fitzwilliam. Fitz for short.”

He turned to her and grinned. “That attached to Mr. Darcy, are you?”

She chewed the inside of her cheek. “He’s one of my favorite Austen heroes, although I have to say that Mr. Knightley is a contender as well.”

He sighed dramatically and scratched his chest. “How are real men supposed to compete?”

She chuckled. “They could begin by emulating,” she said.

“Ah,” he breathed knowingly. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Do you want to read the book?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with humor. “Perhaps brush up on your hero tactics?”

“I thought I did an admirable job being a hero yesterday.”

She chuckled again. “Had I needed rescuing it would have been heroic indeed. Since I didn’t, it was merely nice.”

“Nice?” he repeated. “That was all?”

“Nice is excellent,” she said.

“But still not heroic?”

She gave her head a lamentable shake and bit her lip. “Sorry, no.”

His gaze tangled with hers. “Then I’ll just have to try harder.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said, giving a little rah-rah gesture.

Laughing softly, he pilfered through her bag and extracted the last three items. A little sewing kit, a package of prawn-flavored crisps and a folded letter.

The letter instantly piqued his curiosity, but opening it felt a little too invasive. Gemma frowned when she saw it. “Let me have that, please,” she said.

“You don’t recognize it?”

“I recognize the handwriting on the outside, but don’t know how it got there.”

He dutifully handed it over and she quickly scanned its contents, blushing a deep red when she was finished.

“Something wrong?” he asked, concerned.

“No,” she told him, her voice curiously strangled. “It’s a note from Jeffrey. He must have snuck it into my bag before he left yesterday. I don’t know how I missed it last night,” she remarked, quickly folding it back up and stowing it in her pocket.

“I hope that he apologized at least,” Ewan said, wondering very much what had put that particular shade of red in her cheeks.

“He did.”

“Did he offer any excuse?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he held up the crisps. “You like these?” he asked skeptically.

She grimaced. “Of course not. They sound terrible. They’re proof. No one would have believed me if I’d just told them about them.”

He smiled. “So you bought them?”

“Yes. As proof. I don’t have a dictionary in that bag, otherwise I would give it to you.”

“Oh, I understand the word,” he said, laughing. “I’m just having a hard time comprehending the reason behind it.” He sighed and shook his head, felt something in his chest lighten and ripple like a single pebble against a pond’s surface. “You’re an interesting woman, Gemma Wentworth.”

“Thank you. I think.”

He smiled at her, reached forward and loosened a strand of hair that had gotten stuck to her lower lip. “It’s a compliment. Much better to be interesting than boring and predictable.”

She smiled. “No one has ever accused me of being either of those things.”

And he imagined no one ever would. She was a breath of fresh air, smart and pretty, clever and irreverent and sexy as hell. He knew that she couldn’t be perfect—perfect people didn’t exist and if they did he suspected they’d be boring—but she was about as perfect for him as a girl could get. Ewan stilled, jolted.

Now there was a frightening thought if there ever was one.




6


“I know you’re going to want to kill me, Gemma, but you’ll thank me for leaving later. I’m going to find my Scottish hottie and am confident that yours will make his move when I leave. Do everything I would do and more if you have the opportunity. See you at the airport. Always yours, Jeffrey.”

SHE WAS SO ETERNALLY thankful that Ewan hadn’t insisted on reading the letter, Gemma thought. Though Jeffrey had been right, it still would have been a bit embarrassing. And considering that she was going to do just what her friend had urged, she hoped he was equally successful as well.

“I don’t know why you think it’s weird that I’m taking these strange chips home,” she said, unzipping his backpack now that it was her turn. “I guarantee that if you ever came to the South and had the opportunity to buy a package of white dirt, you’d do it.”

Looking strangely distracted, Ewan blinked. “White dirt?”

“It’s clay,” she clarified, feeling around, trying to decide what to take out first. “People eat it. You can buy it in convenience stores next to the candy bars, chocolate roses and cigarette lighters.”

His handsome face went comically blank. “You’re putting me on.”

She chuckled grimly. “I wish I was.”

His brows winged up his forehead. “People actually purchase it? And eat it? Dirt?”

“It’s because of some sort of vitamin deficiency.” She settled on his MP3 player, curious about what sort of music he liked to listen to.

Ewan looked at her askance. “Do you eat dirt?”

She tried to power the device on, but the battery was dead. “Only on special occasions,” she muttered, thwarted. She looked up at him. “What’s the first song on here?”

“Otis Redding’s ‘Sitting On the Dock of the Bay.’ You’re joking right? About the dirt thing?”

“Otis, huh?” Gemma hummed under her breath. “I like Otis. And the last?”

“Flogging Molly. ‘The Devil’s Dance Floor.’ About that dirt…”

“Nice,” she said. She pilfered around a bit more, avoiding removing anything that felt like clothes because they were the least interesting. She pulled out a Swiss Army knife and grinned. “Ready for rabid badgers, eh?”

“Of course.”

She felt something odd—cloth, but plush—and pulled it out. A startled laugh broke in her throat before she could swallow it. “Winnie-the-Pooh?”

Looking adorably mortified, Ewan chuckled and passed a hand over his face. His lovely hazel eyes sparkled with embarrassment. “Er…I’d forgotten that was in there.”

“You mean you really don’t sleep with it at night?”

“It’s my little cousin’s,” Ewan explained. “Henry. He put it in there so I wouldn’t be lonely.”

And he carried it instead of taking it out. That spoke volumes about the kind of person Ewan MacKinnon was. And the beauty in that? He didn’t know it. “That was thoughtful. And heroic,” she added.

“Carrying that stuffed animal is heroic?” he asked, a hint of incredulity in his voice. He gave his head a baffled shake. “Seriously? Why?”

“That you don’t know makes it all the more heroic. Very Knightley-esque. Are you often lonely?”

He chuckled and popped a chip into his mouth. “No more so than anyone else I would think.”




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