Page 110 of Screwged for Christmas

“Agnes does make a fine fish supper.” He steered the car into a parking space along the road.

Inside the pub, a few regulars at the bar greeted Fergus with a hardy greeting. They looked curiously at my clothing, and I couldn’t blame them. I was dressed like a gaudy billboard.

Agnes was a red-faced grandmotherly type who bustled out from behind the bar to greet us. Her Scottish accent was thick, so I only understood about every third word as she handed us menus. One of those words was “Murdoch.” It seemed, Malcolm, with his new fancy title, was the local big shot.

She seated us as far away from the bar as possible, which I immediately appreciated as a handful of fans followed a football game playing on the television, cheering and groaning as the circumstances applied. The pub was homey with county fair posters from years past decorating the dimly lit walls. Pretty quickly, Agnes brought us two pints of beer and our fish dinners.

My stomach rumbled as I tucked into the tender fish and took a few sips of my beer. I was a lightweight in the alcohol department, but I couldn’t pass up trying the local brew in an actual Scottish pub.

While Fergus and I ate, sleet hit the lattice window next to us. Starving, I finished my dinner quickly. I traced my finger along the leaded glass on the window pane while I waited for Fergus to finish his meal. Periodically, the group at the bar erupted.

A sense of nervous anticipation built through me. I was thrilled and scared witless about seeing him again. To say that things ended between us awkwardly was an understatement.

Questions about Malcolm’s life crowded my head. Did he miss practicing medicine? Knowing how much he loved being a physician I couldn’t imagine him giving it up forever. Was he happy being a Duke, and what the heck did that entail in the twenty-first century? If anyone could be a dirty talking Mr. Darcy it was Malcolm.

Speaking of talkers, Fergus went all-in for that whole loyal servant thing. Based on the silence in the car from the airport, he wasn’t willingly going to answer any of my questions. I wasn’t worried. My medical training made me an excellent inquisitor. It was all in the timing; I’d let him have a bit more of his beer first.

The pub’s heavy wooden door opened and a gust of cold, damp air swept inside the pub.

I, along with everyone else, turned, craning our necks toward the door. Who the fuck was letting the chill in?

The door slammed.

Malcolm’s voice reverberated across the room. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

His Scottish burr had strengthened in the months he’d been away from New York. The growly brogue went straight to my core.

Gorgeous eyes landed on me. The hot bastard stalked toward me like he was marching across a battlefield. Suddenly my cheeks heated from my blush.

Murdoch wasn’t dressed in scrubs or one of his favored tailored suits.

Nope.

The man across the room dripped sex appeal and was dressed like some Scottie McHottie I conjured from my wildest fantasies. A crisp white shirt clung to every groove and dip of muscle with a tartan sash cut across said muscles that naturally drew my eyes to a kilt.

My eyebrows shot up. Merry Christmas to me!

Holy. Hot. Fuck.

“Your Grace.” Fergus whipped his cap off and bobbed his head as he jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. “We’re having a bit of dinner. The Miss was hungry.”

Poor Fergus. Malcolm had that effect on people.

Malcolm barely glanced at his servant, who was nervously twisting his cap in his hands. “Finish your dinner, Fergus.” He glared at me. “You and me. We’re leaving now.”

I drew my mouth into a tight frown. Holy Mother of God.

Part of me wanted to slap that arrogant asshole into the middle of next week. And the other part, even more appallingly, was turned on by his He-Man act. Was it something in the Scottish water that made me turn into a village maiden around the massive brooding Duke?

Alas, wet panties or not, the moment passed. Being born and raised in the Bronx, I was made of sterner stuff.

“Nice to see you too, Malcolm.” I turned back to my empty plate. “I’m not ready to go yet. You can’t just slam in here and order me around.”

A cruel smile played at the corner of Malcolm’s lovely mouth. “I just did.”

“Well, you are going to have to wait. I’m going to finish my beer.” This was the same beer that three minutes ago I had no intention of drinking.

Across from me, Fergus remained standing. His round face reddened in discomfort. I could feel the attention of the bar patrons shift from their game to our little drama. I felt terrible for Fergus caught in the middle of our power play.

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