Some Like it Scottish (8 page)

They walked around the compound, stopping in all the buildings, while Davey explained the process of forming the liquid gold. They would've been done in half the time, but Ramsay asked a million questions about everything from making the maltings, to the mashing, to the fermentation. He'd been pleasant, but she wanted to mash his time-consuming extraneous questions under his heavy black boots. As they were leaving the final building, Ramsay winked at her.

“Davey, I think our little matchmaker would like to have a taste. I doubt if she's had any real whisky in her life.
Real
single malt.”

She started to protest that she'd had a drink from the flask in the jeep, but Ramsay gave her a pointed look. She got his meaning—he meant to help her convince Davey to sign a contract.
Finally a little cooperation!

Davey gave her a dazzling smile. “I think I can accommodate that request.”

When they walked into the big house, Kit saw her dry clothes sitting on her suitcase. Unfortunately, her pink panties were displayed prominently like the cherry on top of a sundae.

“Excuse me.” She rushed to the bag to stow her things while the men went down the hall, deep in whisky conversation.

When she got back to the parlor, Davey and Ramsay were in the corner with their heads together, seated at the tall cocktail table. Three nose glasses—special whisky-tasting snifters, curved in at the top—and a thick glass bottle with amber liquid inside sat in front of them.

“Come, lass, sit.” Davey patted the tall barstool closest to him.

She ignored Ramsay's raised eyebrow and tried to do as Davey bid. In the end, she needed a hand up from Davey to plant herself on the tall wooden stool.

Ramsay shoved her nose glass toward her. “Davey here is going to show us how to be official taste testers.”

“Aye.” Davey went into a lengthy discourse while pouring them each a whisky. When he was done, he showed them how to smell the whisky before tasting it. But he didn't even take a sip.

Kit did, though. It was smoky and smooth. Davey had
explained that since it was top-quality whisky and properly aged, it wouldn't burn. It could be sipped and
not
knocked back like other whiskies.

“Very nice,” she said.

Ramsay gave Davey an exaggerated frown and put his glass down before taking a drink. “I won't drink alone.”

Alone?
Was she invisible?

Ramsay continued on, ignoring her pout. “Davey, man, ye're sacrificing the finer things in life. You don't fish. You don't hunt. You don't drink. Only moments ago, ye declared you're going to turn over a new leaf, enjoy life more. Ye said you're not going to get bogged down in business and let it suck the life out of ye. Not drinking yere own whisky is nearly as bad, if not worse, than having all this land and not using it.”

Davey seemed to mull over his words. “Perhaps ye're right.”

This was the first time that Davey's brogue had shined through, Kit realized. Up until now, he seemed to have tamed it into submission.

Smiling, Ramsay raised his glass. “To good living. Good times. And to good whisky.”

“Aye.” Davey clinked his glass and drank his Scotch.

Ramsay gave a low whistle. “Aw, now that's good.” He clunked his glass down.

“Should be. It's the best in the house.” Davey poured all three of them another. Even though the first drink had been very good, she didn't have more. She wouldn't break her two-drink rule
.
The slug of whisky in the jeep counted.

But the men didn't notice her lack of imbibing. They drank and told fish stories, acting like they were at a men's-only club
.
When the talk turned to hunting, Davey marched them off to his gun room to view his ancient weaponry. She
followed but wasn't needed. The round room was more of a museum than an arsenal. It was filled with swords, shields, and crossbows. Pretty soon, they were back in the parlor with a bottle of fifty-year-old Scotch on the coffee table now, the two men having a grand time.

Ramsay and Davey were old buds now, exchanging one story after another. A maid brought in a tray with sandwiches, which would've been useful three drinks ago, but now the men were too far gone. Kit checked her phone for the time and sighed heavily.

“Davey?” She tried again to get his attention. “Can we talk business now?” At this point, she didn't care if she got his signature while he was drunk or not. The day was wasting away and her anger with Ramsay was growing. She thought he'd meant to help her.

Ramsay pounded the whisky-maker on the back. “Tell her, mate.”

Davey gave her a wobbly grin. “I don't think I need a woman right now. I need to spend some time doing the things that I want to do first
.
I have to make up for lost time. When I'm done hunting and fishing and doing what a man damn well pleases,
then
maybe I'll get a wife.” He nodded, looking as if those words had hit the spot. Both he and Ramsay collapsed into laughter.

Kit jammed her stack of contracts back into her messenger bag. “I see.” She glared at Ramsay. He grinned back. It wouldn't do any good to say they should leave because her chauffeur was too stinking drunk to take her anywhere. “I'll find a bedroom to settle into for the night.”

“Make sure there's a double bed in it,” Ramsay hollered.

“In your dreams.” She stood and put her hands on her
hips. “I expect you to be ready first thing in the morning. Hangover or not. Good night, gentlemen.” She marched out the door. It was only six o'clock.

The men broke into song; the tune followed her into the hallway. The maid gave her an understanding glance as she helped Kit carry her things upstairs and settle her into a luxurious bedroom for the night. The bed was a double, so Kit locked the door. She set up her laptop. Instead of working, though, she laid her head in her hands. What had she gotten herself into?

H
alf asleep, Ramsay rolled onto his back as his wadded-up shirt hit his face.

“Get up,” Kit hissed. “If you think you're sleeping the livelong day, well, think again.”

Something heavier hit him. His jeans. He opened his eyes. “Is this a habit of yours, kitten—coming into a man's bedroom uninvited? Not that I'm complaining or anything.”

“Don't flatter yourself, Ramsay. You're not that bodacious. Besides,
real men
don't get drunk on the job.”

Oomph.
His boots landed on his stomach. One bounced and almost took out his stones.

“Careful there, lass. My privates are sacred.”

“Get a shower. You reek of alcohol.” She picked up his backpack.

“Want to join me?” he offered.

She hefted his backpack at his chest. “I don't shower with
boys.
A
real man
 . . . maybe.”

“Gawd, ye're a saucy wench.” And he liked it.

He sat up and saw her check him out. He liked that, too. “I need help in the shower, though. There's this place, ye see, on my back that I can't reach.” He shifted,
pretending to show her, and the sheet fell enough that it should've had her bolting for the door.

Instead, she froze. He loved that her eyes grew to the size of a captain's wheel. Large. Turned on.

“Aye, ye're curious, aren't you?” he challenged.

“I only have business on my mind.”

“Don't kid yereself. Ye're interested.”

“Yeah, I'm
interested.
Interested in getting on the road.”

“Where are we headed?” In other words, what could he do today to thwart her plan?

“North. Way north.” She spoke more to herself than to him. “I will get this one signed today. I have to.”

Not if I have anything to say about it.

He dared her with a raised eyebrow. “I suggest, if you don't want to see more than you bargained for, that you skedaddle.”

She put her hands on her hips. “I don't like being told what to do.”
The typical sassy American woman.
Then she licked her lips.

“Aw, gawd.” Either she was one hell of a tease or the bravest woman he'd ever met. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Before the sheet hit the floor, she was gone.

He did as Kit said—showered and generally got ready. He hadn't gotten drunk yesterday as she thought. He'd only pretended. He'd needed to keep his wits about him to control Sir Davey. And, aye, he had controlled him. Ramsay hoped his winning streak would continue until Kit was gone, so he could get back to his life. His boat. His plan.

He pulled out his smartphone and checked the list. Into the wee hours of the morning, he'd downloaded
every bagpipe tune he could find. Most outsiders couldn't stand the wail of Scotland's national instrument. Hell, even some Scots found it annoying. Ramsay would test both her eardrums and her patience today, hopefully to the breaking point.

Downstairs, he scribbled Davey a note, as the man was still abed. When he gave it to the cook, he noticed Kit's note lying on the table as well.

She waited at the front door. “Ready?”

He grabbed her suitcase and headed out. In the vehicle, he cued up the music.

Kit turned it off. “I think we should talk.”

He reached over to turn it back on, but she blocked his hand.

“What is it, lass?” He gave her a disarmingly patient smile, but when he looked into her eyes, he saw only pain. “Are ye okay?”

“It's about yesterday. The drinking.”

He gave an exasperated sigh. “Now ye're going to lecture me. Don't I look like a grown man to ye?”

She pursed her lips together and looked over his person. “I'm not questioning your manhood.” Her cheeks turned ruddy red. “I'm questioning your judgment.”

“Can't a man have a drink or two without being nagged?” But the pain in her eyes told him that more lay beneath her puritanical stance. “Sorry. Tell me what you have against whisky.”

“Not just whisky, but alcohol in general. It just brings back a lot of bad memories when someone, anyone, overdoes it.” She chewed her lower lip as if the memory were fresh.

“Who was it, lass?” he said quietly. “Who overdid it in your life?”

“Start the car. I'll tell you while you drive.” She stared out the window.

He turned the key and pulled down the driveway, waiting for her to continue.

She didn't speak again until he'd turned onto the main road.

“It was my father.” She spoke in a whisper, looking as serious as the clergy at a funeral.

“Go on, lass. I'm listening.”

“He didn't always drink, but when we hit a rough patch as a family, he began to drink a lot.”

“Does he still hit the bottle?”

“He's dead.”

That felt like ice water to the chest.
Dead
was a harsh word when said about a loved one. “Do you want to talk about it?” He sounded exactly like Emma, Gandiegow's psychologist. But dammit, Kit looked to be in physical pain, the way she had her arms wrapped around her waist so tight.

“No. I don't want to talk. I just thought you should know.” She reached over and turned on the music.
And then turned it up.

He hated to see her upset. But as the music wailed on, it surprisingly seemed to fix what ailed her. However, after a few hours of the bagpipes blaring through the speakers, he thought his ears would start bleeding. Kit, on the other hand, was swaying like she loved the bloody noise.

He punched the off button.

“No.” She reached to turn it back on. “I adore that song.”

He glanced over at her, incredulous. “Nay. You can't know it.”

“I can. I own this CD.” She named three more tracks
from the album and all but one of the group members' names.

He shook his head. “I'm officially impressed.” He grinned while keeping his eyes on the road. “Are you one of those Americans who wishes they were Scottish?”

She gave him a coy shrug. “I have a little Scottish blood in me. My grandmother was from Pittenweem.”

He laughed. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“What?”

“Ye have the ire of a Scot.”

She put her hands on her hips, which looked funny, the one elbow jutted forward because of the confines of the vehicle.

“See?” He nodded toward her semicramped stance. “A typical Scottish lass. Do ye look like yere gran as well?”

She shook her head as her expression changed to sadness. “She passed away nine years ago.”

“Sorry.”

“It's okay. But I miss her.” She patted her day planner.

Even though she had Scottish blood in her, he couldn't let it change the fact that he needed her gone. But in some small way, it did.

He turned the music back on, to a tolerable level this time, and they went the rest of the way in companionable silence.

*   *   *

Kit stared at the map. It showed they had arrived at the premier potato provider of the U.K., but there was no outward proof that they had. No ostentatious signage. No castle. No stone cottage compound. Only a dirt road bisecting the green fields of potato plants. “Turn here.”

Ramsay stopped the vehicle. “Are you sure? It doesn't look like this road is used much.”

“I'm fairly certain.” But she was beginning to doubt her information.

He turned onto the dirt path and drove between the fields. About a mile down the road, dilapidated greenhouses began to pop up, and that sinking feeling washed over Kit, like she'd been tossed in the ocean with concrete wellies. Then the old stone house appeared and her stomach sank further.

Half of the roof was missing shingles. The other half was hidden by a downed tree, never removed, its green leaves looking as if they'd been painted there. The window panes were either broken or missing, cardboard filling in spots. The metal fence around the house was mangled—kind of like Kit's emotions.

Ramsay laughed. “I see yere standards are a bit stricter than I thought. I dare not aspire to such heights.”

“Not another word from you, mister.”

A man dressed in filthy overalls came out of the equally dilapidated outbuilding next to the house, holding a shovel in his hand.

“Ah, this must be the lord of the manor himself.” Mirth spilled out with Ramsay's words.

“It can't be.” Kit held up the picture he'd sent her. “We must have the wrong place. Hurry, back away now.”

“Nay.” Ramsay pulled the keys from the ignition. “Let's ask directions.”

Kit stared at him, incredulous. “You must be the first man to ever utter those words.” She undid her seat belt and opened her door.

The man walked up to her, letting go with a low whistle. “Aren't ye the prettiest thing I've seen? I hope all the young misses ye have for me have the face of an angel like you. And stacked like you, too.” He eyed her hungrily.

Ramsay came around her side of the car and stood close.

Crap! Crap! Crap!
“You're Morven Kerr?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He pounded the handle end of his shovel into the ground with one hand and slicked back his greasy hair with the other. “I've been waiting for ye.”

She took a step back, wanting to make a run for it.

Ramsay stilled her with a hand on her shoulder. “Ye must need help with the potatoes. You got another shovel?”

“Right inside the doorway there. I appreciate the offer.” Morven smiled, showing off one missing bottom front tooth.

Ramsay sauntered the few steps into the outbuilding and came back with the shovel. “Here.” He thrust it at Kit.

She glared at her chauffeur. She could put the shovel to good use and whack Ramsay in the head to wipe that grin off his face.

“We've an old Scottish proverb.” Ramsay put his free hand over his heart and looked heavenward. “When ye know a man's potatoes, ye'll know the man.” He looked the picture of sincerity.

Old Scottish proverb, my ass.
She latched on to the handle begrudgingly.

Morven smiled and revealed another missing tooth—up top, on the right. “I hadn't heard that proverb before, but I like it. It's so true. Come on, missy. Come see my potatoes.”

Ramsay winked at her. “Aye. Go see his potatoes.”

She glared at her driver a second longer and then followed Morven into the field.

“Ye know,” Morven said, speaking over his shoulder, “ye're the first woman I've seen in months.”

That didn't surprise her. She expected he hadn't seen a mirror or a comb lately, either.

Morven stopped in front of a row. “We need to see how the potatoes are coming along.” He thrust the shovel deep into the rich ground and exposed the roots. He squatted down and rubbed the dirt off the tubers. “Not ready yet. Why don't ye check that patch behind you?”

“You know, don't you,” Ramsay said, “I've heard potatoes aren't really good for you.”

Morven stood to his five-foot-six height, turning red in the face. “Potatoes are too good for you. They have fiber.”

“Or is it the sour cream on top that does?” Ramsay countered innocently.

“Potatoes have important nutrients.”

“But the bacon bits ye have to eat with them have too much sodium.”

“Potatoes are delicious.” Morven looked ready to put up his puny dukes.

“Now, there's a point we both can agree on.”

But Morven had worked himself into a dither and went into a long speech about the various attributes of the twenty different varieties of potatoes he grew on his farm. Kit stood nearby, wondering at Ramsay's mastery. He'd agitated the farmer with only a few well-placed words. But she had to hand it to him, Morven had forgotten she was supposed to be digging for the potatoes.

Finally, poor Morven ran out of steam. “Let's go into the house and have our tea now.” He glared at Ramsay for a moment. “You can come, too.” On the way into the house, he told them about the new fertilizer he'd bought and how it was supposed to increase his crops.

“He's a keeper,” Ramsay whispered, taking her shovel and leaning it against the house on their way in.

Kit was careful not to touch the front door, as it hung precariously on its hinges. She probably should've prepared herself for the chaos inside, and actually had to pause in the entryway to keep herself from bowing out of the invitation for tea.

Morven was part hoarder and part zookeeper. Livestock—two pigs, three chickens, and a lamb—freely roamed throughout what little space was in the packed front room. Stacks of farm journals, four feet high or so, were scattered about. The farmer scooped up a chicken and held him like a football. “Watch this.” He grabbed a pellet and stuck it between his lips. The chicken pecked it out of his mouth. “That's something, isn't it?”

Gross, is what it is.

She pulled out the picture he'd sent her and held it up. “Whose picture is this?” She figured it wasn't rude to ask since he'd misrepresented himself.

Morven gave her his dentistry-free smile. “Some bloke off the Internet. From what I hear, everyone stretches the truth online.”

In the future, she'd triple-check her potential clients for honesty and accuracy. But for now, she'd seen more than enough. “Sorry. I think we need to be going.” Appearance and manners could be fixed. But lying outright had ruined the deal for her.

“But, but . . .” Morven faltered. “Will I at least see you at the Highland games tomorrow in Crossmere?”

“Ye're participating in the games?” Ramsay asked with a heavy dose of doubt.

Morven chuckled. “No. I have a hot-potato booth. Can't have the games without steaming potatoes. So will ye be there?”

“No,” she answered.

At the same time Ramsay said, “Yes.”