Page 30 of Scotlander

‘I suppose your friend—’ Finn began just as Willa started pointing at things and naming them as if she’d never seen furniture before.

‘Sofa!’ she cried as her eyes lit on a hay-bale sofa covered in a beautiful duck egg blue blanket. ‘Stool!’ She pointed and grinned at the hay-bale dressing table.

Finlay stood silent during her little vocabulary display. When she’d exhausted the number of inanimate objects she could name, he tugged off his flat cap, shoved his big, farmery hands through his hair, then began a fairly obvious health and safety speech.

Low beams. Watch her head. Uneven floorboards. ‘There’s no wood stove in here for obvious reasons, but the straw round the walls should act as insulation for you.’ Finlay pointed to a big chest at the foot of the bed. ‘Orla’s charged the dower chest there with a few more blankets and quilts if you need them or I can up and away to the house for a hot water bottle if you like.’

As tempting as it was to make him run and fetch things for her, she declined the offer.

There was a bath in the corner of the room – one of those old tin ones that could double as a washing tub. And, she noted, a curtain to pull around it. Not far from it stood a big old Butler sink big enough to wash a toddler in and, to her surprise, behind a wooden door Finn was opening, her own wee wee shoppe.

‘Yours is the only room with an actual loo.’ Orla appeared at the door, her cheeks flushed and expression slightly strained. ‘Has Finlay shown you the loo?’

‘He sure has!’ They both looked to Finn who did some lacklustre jazz hands.

With a flick of her head, Orla indicated Finlay could be done now. They traded micro-glares as they passed one another.

‘Is there anything we can get you?’ Orla’s eyes darted round the room as if she’d lost something. ‘A hot water bottle? A cup of tea? Och, my brain’s not right.’ She gave herself a little shake. ‘See, there’s a flask of hot water there if you—’ At the sound of a door slamming, Orla went stock still, as if she’d just remembered something incredibly important and then, as if the moment hadn’t happened at all, dropped one of those dainty curtseys of hers and said, ‘I’ll wish you a good night now, Willaford. Your new dress will be hanging on your door in the morning for the handfasting ceremony!’

Hand-fastening ceremony?

And then she was gone.

Chapter Twelve

A bell clanged once, twice, then several times in rapid, increasingly loud succession. Willa leapt out of bed fairly certain she’d only just got to sleep. Between panicking Gabe had fallen into some sort of after-accident coma and wondering what on earth a hand-fastening ceremony was, she was pretty sure she’d seen more of the night than slept through it. In the part when she had slept? She’d pretty much had the most erotic dream in the history of erotic dreams. There had been moaning and groaning and fingers digging into flesh in a way that had only made her hunger for more. There had been kissing and straddling and lots of urgent thrusting. There had even been spanking. And she’d liked it.

The bell sounded again.

Too groggy to think clearly, she tugged on a fitted, scoop-neck T-shirt over some yoga leggings, jammed her feet into her rattiest but most comfortable pair of Uggs, then put the bodice on over her T-shirt and climbed into her petticoats and overskirt, which she’d left in an ungainly pile on the floor last night. It wasn’t a very comely olde worlde aesthetic, but it was warm and would have to do. There was no mirror to check herself in and, to be honest, she didn’t want one. Her dress was wrinkled and her Princess Leia whorls had undone themselves. The best she could do was pray no one had brought a travel iron and whip her hair into a big, long plait with straw accents. And then her boobs began to escape the confines of her bodice.

As she tried to stuff them into some sort of submission, her hand grazed against her nipples, reminding her of the stubbly cheek shifting across them in her dream before a tongue swirled round each one, lazily bringing them to taut peaks. It had been such a heated sensation she’d grabbed whoever’s head it had been and begged for more. Definitely not a move in her real-life repertoire. She was more of the completely-grateful-for-what-she-got-so-long-as-it-wasn’t-painful camp versus the bring-it-here-big-boy school of sexy nights in.

A knock sounded on her door. ‘Hola, bendita. It’s your Jamie here!’ Gabe pronounced Jamie the Spanish way, giving it an extra sexy twist.

Willa flushed hard and stuffed her phone in the front of her bodice.

Did Gabe know she’d been having pornographic dreams about—

She stopped and thought a moment. Had it been him? She tried to remember the colour of the thick, wavy hair she’d grabbed.

He knocked again before she could nail anything down.

‘Coming!’ She pulled open the door and there he was, looking all sexy gorgeous in his kilt. His head was no longer wrapped in bandages, but still sported a solitary plaster over his cut. He had a big, warm smile on his lips and a huge swathe of beautiful fabric over one of his arms.

‘I didn’t kill you!’ She flung her arms around him.

He gave her back a pat that felt a bit more like being burped rather than hugged, but, hey, it was friendly. She’d take it.

‘I’m guessing this is for you?’ He held up the swathes of fabric which turned out to be a gorgeous dress in a fawn-coloured plaid with burgundy stripes. ‘Ready to get your Jacobite on?’ he asked, handing it over.

‘Am I ever!’ She sagged under the weight of the dress, then high-fived him, not really having a clue what getting her Jacobite on would entail, but the first rule of taking risks was to say yes to the unknown, right? She was pretty sure Gwyneth had said that at some point. Gabe said he’d wait while she’d changed but another round of bell clanging suggested waiting until later to put the dress on was probably wise.

‘Good morning, everyone. Time for your morning porridge!’ Orla was at the firepit doling out huge dollops of oatmeal to the rest of the guests, all excitedly chatting away about what was yet to come. When Willa and Gabe approached, Orla gave them both a warm smile and, after a quick glance up to Gabe’s head, asked, ‘And are your accommodations to your liking?’

This would be interesting. There was absolutely no mistaking Balcraigie’s stables for the ‘rural chic’ retreats she was pretty sure Gabe would be used to with his membership to Soho House.

‘They’re perfect.’ He gave Orla’s arm a squeeze and dropped one of his (trademark?) winks. ‘It’s exceeded my expectations.’