Lord of the Isles: International Billionaires VIII: The Scots (10 page)

“Ye went to Japan?” This woman had been everywhere, apparently. He’d heard through the village grapevine about some of her travels. She’d been a kind of superstar, the type of person so out of the norm for Fingal that she’d achieved a prime position in any village gossip. He hadn’t paid much attention to it. When he came home to his da, he’d focused on the castle and his father. Malcolm McPherson had insisted he visit the villagers, though, and reconnect with the local scene. Lilly Graham’s travels had been mentioned more than once in his presence.

Strangely, he’d never connected her to the enchanting fairy girl he’d lured up the back stairs and into his castle. Not until she’d arrived once more on his doorstep and he’d recognized the blonde curls and the sea-green eyes.

“Yes.” Stretching her arms above her head, she stood.

All memories, thoughts, and logic flew right out his head.

Her legs.

Jesus. Her legs.

Iain had never thought of himself as a leg man. He had a male appreciation for female body parts. Still, he hadn’t contributed to the frankly lewd talk of his men nor shared the photo spreads of naked girls in the magazines that always circled around when any amount of military men congregated. He’d felt a slight distaste for the practice, so he hadn’t participated.

But Jesus. He’d have kept a picture of these legs if he’d found one.

“What?” Dropping her arms to her sides, she looked down, following his gaze. “I’m covered.”

Barely. His T-shirt did reach to below her thong, yet it didn’t conceal the pretty arch of her feet, the perfect curve of her ankles into her calves, the provocative plumpness of her thighs.

He wanted to bite those thighs.

Glancing back at him, she frowned. “Are you okay?”

No, he was not. He burned. He felt as if he’d turned into a fire and all he could think about was roaring and flashing and blazing until he melted into a puddle of need at her feet.

Damn her.

Now he remembered. He’d slumbered in a foggy stupor for so long. With his trusty whiskey bottle at hand, he’d forgotten, and didn’t care about not being laid in months. Hadn’t taken a woman’s breast in his palm and squeezed, an action that a man rated high on the scale of things to enjoy. Hadn’t stripped a female naked and climbed onto her sweet flesh, sinking into the pleasure of a warm, willing woman. Hadn’t slid his aching cock into a wet, hot core.

Now. Now, he remembered.

“Damn ye.” He stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

“Well, good morning to you, too!” she yelled at him from behind the stone barrier.

Iain glared at the cursed mirror before turning the shower on.

Not the hot water.

The cold.

W
hat a jerk
.

Lilly stomped to the pile of her clothes she’d dropped on the floor last night. Staring down, she folded her arms in front of her in a tight, angry grip and shook her head.

No. She needed a shower before dressing. Last night had been one heated, flip-flopping, sticky mess. But she’d have to wait until His Majesty got done with his third shower in less than twenty-four hours before she could wash the sweat off her skin and banish the mess from of her head.

Slumping onto the bed, she breathed in. And there he was again. That had been her problem last night, one she hadn’t anticipated. She hadn’t changed the sheets, she hadn’t thought she needed to. After all, she’d changed them that morning and the McPherson had only taken a nap.

What a mistake.

By the time she’d tucked the blanket around him, turned the mournful music off, and found a T-shirt to sleep in, she’d been exhausted. Probably the residue of her traveling. Or maybe partially to do with having to handle a man who went from interesting and intelligent to irate and irritating in one flat second. Whatever the combination, she’d sunk into the soft mattress with a sigh of relief.

Only to spend the entire night tossing and turning, because the scent of him permeated the pillow and sheets.

The woodsy, piney, sexy scent of him.

The scent of him had activated her excited imagination and she’d had one dream after another. Of him naked and over her. Of him naked and under her. Of him naked, naked, naked, and her horny, horny, horny.

Lilly glared at the offending pillow and sheets.

She’d be doing another load of laundry today.

Trying to distract herself, she stood and walked to the window. The daylight tried to swim through the fog and rain, but barely succeeded. All she could make out was the storm hadn’t waned, and if she had to guess, she was here for another day.

The realization made her depressed, which surprised her. She didn’t do depressed, it only made things worse. She’d grown up knowing she needed to make people happy, and that worked for her.

Who wanted to wallow in sadness?

Her shoulders slumped as she gazed at the slash of sleet lashing the glass panes. She wondered if her dad was worried. Her cell hadn’t worked when she’d tried to reach him last night. She’d figured he knew where she was, though, and knew the honorable, virtuous Iain McPherson would shelter her from the storm.

Lilly snorted.

Honorable and virtuous. And a total jerk.

The sound of the shower stopped.

“Finally,” she muttered.

She wanted in that shower.

Too tired last night to investigate where the towels and shampoo were, she’d only ventured into the bathroom to use the toilet and wash her face.

But man, what a bathroom.

At once ancient and modern, she’d felt as if she’d walked into a cathedral to cleansing. The stone ceiling arched over the room and her imagination had supplied her with a throng of angels fluttering above. The circular hot tub bubbled out a seductive calling, and the huge, oval mirror shimmered with moisture, making her form hazy and soft.

But it was the shower. Man, the shower.

Built of different shades of rock, it had several shelves cut into the wall, housing an assortment of bottles and lotions. There was no shower-head, only a series of marble slits high above that she’d surmised the water came from.

Her imagination had jumped to life again and supplied her with a picture-perfect image of Iain McPherson in the shower. Naked.

She’d escaped to the bedroom.

Only to find him there, too. All night long.

With a humph, she turned to find him lounging on the stone wall, staring at her. The damn man wore only a towel on his hips, and the punch of him made her dizzy. The water still glistened off his marble skin and the dark curls in the center of his chest slithered in wet glory across his pectorals.

Jerk.

“Are you done in there?” Ignoring what she was pretty sure was heat in his eyes, she strode to her clothes and scooped them up. “Do you honestly need to take a shower every five minutes?”

“With ye around, yes.”

Yeah, she’d thought right. There was definitely heat in his words. She just wasn’t sure if the heat was anger or lust. Or maybe both.

“Then it’s my turn.” She held her clothes in front of her like a shield. “Why don’t you go make breakfast?”

A dark brow arched and he didn’t move. “Ordering me around?”

“Making a friendly suggestion.” Her instinct told her to stay on the other side of the bed from him. Something about the way he stood told her he was ready to pounce. But unlike yesterday, she didn’t think his intent was to throw her out the door this time. She waved at the arch. “Why don’t you get started in the kitchen?”

“Ye want me to cook for ye wearing only a towel?” His full mouth edged into a sensual smile.

“You know, one minute you’re yelling at me like a madman and the next, you’re pretending to be attracted to me.”

“Pretending?” His smile widened. “There’s no pretending, lovely Lilly.”

Her fingers tightened on the clothing in frustration. He needed a friend, a friend who’d have the courage to confront him. He didn’t need a lover, certainly not one who’d be gone in a month. “You don’t mean that.”

Those eyes of his went to half-mast in his signature sultry way. “Ye know me so well, ye can say that?”

It was a put-on, this come-on. She could feel it. He was using his sexual skills to distract her from her purpose. He was using it as armor against her desire to help him. Or maybe not. She eyed him. If she had to guess, that bump right below his waist wasn’t an extra leg.

“Ye like what ye see, I know ye do.” He didn’t move, yet she felt as if he had. She felt as if he’d walked over to her and taken her in. “I like what I see, too.”

She’d never had a problem attracting men. Her style of cute and sassy seemed to work for the most part. And she liked men: their company, their ways, their looks. But she’d never, ever felt the stark terror of wanting a man with such a fever. Never, ever wanted with such a fierce yearning.

She took a step away from him.

“I was thinking in the shower.” Leaning his head back, he contemplated the stone ceiling. Still, she caught the calculation in his eyes. “I was thinking instead of arguing with each other, we could be spending the time in a much more pleasurable way.”

His rough accent rolled through the word
pleasurable,
making her shiver. “I don’t think so.”

“No?” He leered at her, his sky-blue eyes filled with a storm of lust. “Why not?”

“I don’t just jump into bed with men.”

“Really?” His accent rolled that word, too. “I took ye to be the kind of person who jumped before she looked all the time.”

Her child heart broke again. Now, though, she’d grown into a mature woman who could see a manly swipe for what it was—a warning to stay away from his heart and his hurt. The echo of their first confrontation wouldn’t defeat her this time. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.” His lashes fluttered over the blue. “Yet.”

A taunt if she’d ever heard one. He was only playing with her to keep her distracted.

Wasn’t he?

Usually, she had excellent insight into people, but Iain McPherson had befuddled her when she’d been a kid, and she couldn’t be sure she wasn’t befuddled at this moment. Frustration bubbled back into anger.

“Stop it,” she cried. “You are impossible to figure out.”

“What?” He shot up straight, as if an arrow had lanced into his spine. All charm and desire fell from his face. “Who the hell told ye I wanted ye to figure me out?”

“Someone has to.” Before she could stop herself, she stomped around the bed and right into his personal space. His familiar scent swirled in the air, yet she ignored the draw with steadfast determination. “And get this, Iain Arrogant McPherson. I’m going to be the one who does.”

* * *

“
A
rrogant
, eh?” He loomed over her intentionally, wanting to intimidate her. Not into having sex, but into leaving him alone.

Not that he didn’t want to have sex with her.

He did. He would.

What he wanted more than anything, though, was for her to go away once and for all. He wanted her to take her blonde curls and her sea-green eyes and her lovely tush and leave.

Leave him to whiskey and guilt.

“You are.” She didn’t back down, damn her. Instead, she stuck her pretty freckled nose right into his face and yelled. “You think you can just walk around, throw some old lines out, and I’ll fall right into your bed.”

“I’d rather ye fall right out the door.” He was very close to doing something he’d never done before: touch a woman in anger. Two seconds ago, all he could think about was touching this woman with lust and need and desire. But the little
donas
knew how to push every single one of his buttons. “I’d rather ye disappear like a figment of my nightmares.”

Her gaze narrowed. “So you’re telling me you have nightmares.”

He wanted sex.

She wanted to fix him.

The combination was straight out of a hell that for once, he hadn’t chosen or created. He leaned over her, his skin itchy with frustration, the kink in his neck screaming in pain and making him even more furious. “I’m telling ye nothing.”

“You should.” She didn’t cower or move back. “You really should.”

“Listen to me.” His voice ratcheted down, scratchy and hoarse like one of his old vinyl records. “Ye don’t want to hear what I have to tell.”

“I do.” The
donas
said the two words as if she were pledging to him for life.

A fierce, wretched pain swept through his heart. As a young lad, he’d thought of life as one grand adventure. He thought of himself as a hero on a journey. He’d been filled with the naїve belief that if a man did right then everything would turn out right.

He’d been wrong, very wrong.

And because of that, he’d lost everything. His honor, his hope, himself. He’d lost the chance for a bonny lass to pledge herself to him. He didn’t deserve the trust and he certainly didn’t deserve the happiness.

“Iain.” She looked straight into his eyes, a true, pure gaze that reminded him of the fairy tale girl who’d whispered through his memories for years. “Trust me. I want to help.”

He had no more words to ward her off. He couldn’t touch her, either. Jerking around, he headed for the old, oak armoire where his clothes were stashed.

A sigh came from behind him. “Okay. We’ll leave it for now.”

Yanking the wardrobe door open, he focused blurred eyes on the freshly folded jumpers and T-shirts and jeans.

“I’m going to take a shower.” The bathroom door thumped shut behind her.

His cock arrowed straight through his grief with another, inevitable, erection. The water turned on and he couldn’t help himself.

Her naked body in his shower.

The water splashing on her tumbled curls and soft shoulders and breasts. Down her lithe waist and round hips. Down those delicious legs to her pink toes.

Cursing, he pulled out a blue T-shirt and jeans. He focused on the feel of the clean clothes instead of the noise of the water.

A lazy, languid hum came from behind the bathroom’s stone door.

His hands stilled on the last button of his jeans.

The hum came again.

“Shut up!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

The humming abruptly stopped.

Stomping into the kitchen, he started the fire because the storm had chilled the castle’s walls, not because he worried she might get a cold. Then he decided to make a pot of porridge for himself, not because she might be hungry, too. Finally, he set the table like his mum had taught him, because that was the way it should be done, not because he intended to impress the
donas
or try and make up for his bellowing.

“Wow.”

Her soft exclamation made him turn his head from stirring the steel-cut oats. The kink in his neck howled, making his voice surly. “Sit down. Breakfast is almost ready.”

She wore her jeans, yet instead of wearing her other clothes, she’d stolen one of his tops once more. This time she’d chosen a black wool jumper he’d been sent by one of the Irish chaps he’d served with for several years. The black highlighted the blonde of her hair, even though the curls lay damp on her head.

“This is so pretty.” Flitting to the table, she touched the edge of one yellow linen napkin he’d placed on the table. “Nice and cheery.”

Iain snorted while he dished the porridge into two bowls. “Sit down.”

“I’m not going to let your snarling commands ruin this.” She eyed the glasses full of orange juice and the steaming cups of coffee. Then she took in the sterling silver he’d placed on the napkins. “Fancy.”

“Here.” He paced to the table and slapped the bowls down. “Eat.”

Her response was her usual husky chuckle. Before he could obey his cock and grab her, though, she slid onto the bench and inspected the food.

“Peaches. In oatmeal.”

“Aye.” He suddenly realized he’d made a grave mistake. Not only had he used the last of his peaches for a breakfast for this trespasser, he’d also have to spend the next few minutes eating food that reminded him of her.