Page 111 of Screwged for Christmas

I rolled my eyes at Malcolm as I stood up. “Thanks for the ride, Fergus. Please enjoy the rest of your dinner in peace.”

“Ma’am. Your Grace.” He bobbed again.

Malcolm had another thing coming if he thought I would be falling all over him. He marched me to door, pausing before he opened it. His hand on my upper elbow was overkill. And hot. I was in emotional whiplash. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to smack him or smother my body against him.

I reached for the door.

“Wait.” He pulled his tartan sash off, unfolding the thick plaid weave. It was much larger than I thought as he placed it around my shoulders. It was heavy and carried lingering hints of his aftershave. Inhaling that scent sent me back to a time when I stood close to him at work, then to the night he and I piled into my twin bed and he ravished my body.

My panties were soaked and I’d not even made it to the car.

I caught sight of us in the pub’s dark window reflection. Malcolm’s white shirt clung wetly to his chiseled form while his tartan swam on me. There was no missing the message—I was the property of the Duke.

He shouldered the door open, and we stepped outside. The biting wind blew in my face, carrying my breath away. I pulled the tartan tighter around me and Malcolm angled his body to shelter me.

His Range Rover had a black leather interior that smelled brand new. When we settled inside, I snuck a glance at him. Sitting in a fancy car wearing a kilt was a visual mishmash.

I was glad I hadn’t finished that pint. I had the strongest urge to giggle, which was not the tack to take. I had to make it clear to Malcolm that I was not some fainting fucking flower. Sure, I had a stalker who attacked me, but as long as I refused to think about it, I could pretend this was a well-deserved European vacation. I would return to New York in a few weeks, once the detective had apprehended the stalker.

One week I reminded myself. Not weeks.

But I could dream.

Between him cranking the heat, the seat warmers, and the tartan, I couldn’t really complain about the chill of Scotland in December. Though if I were cold, the anger radiating off Malcolm would have generated some heat.

I glanced over at him to see his furrowed brow.

His profile was gorgeous, of course. All rugged manliness and with a slightly scruffy beard. He wore his hair a bit longer now and my fingers itched to brush it away from his collar.

Get a grip.

He was obviously annoyed by my visit. I’d only asked him for help finding a room. He was the one who insisted on the rest. The inconvenience I had caused him was not my doing, but his.

“Thanks for the flight. I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble this time of year.” Dressed as he was, he must’ve come from some swanky function. Probably with some classy Kate Middleton look alike. Maybe at the next one, he’d regale the other guests with tales about his oddball former American colleague who’d arrived from New York looking like a thrift store special. It sure didn’t feel good to think about being relegated to party chatter. My stomach clenched at the thought.

Beside me I could feel his eyes on me.

I turned my head towards the passenger window, avoiding his gaze. There was nothing to see, but the dreary Scottish rain splattering my window.

This wasn’t the reunion that’d dominated my dreams. Maybe I should catch the next plane back to New York. Surely, I could hide out in a dumpy motel somewhere for a few weeks.

Malcolm turned off the highway, taking us over rises and dips on a two-lane road. Scotland sure had more hills than I’d expected.

The rain pelted the car so hard that even with the windshield wipers working on the highest settings, there were seconds that the road before us blurred completely.

Then in a second of clearing, a massive gray stone three-story fortress stood on the hill.

I blinked into the gloom, getting glimpses of the place as we sped forward. It was like a beacon of safety in a black wilderness. It was exactly how I’d pictured Scotland. Maybe I’d been transported to Outlander and didn’t know it.

In the daylight, I’d come back and explore that place on my own. From what little I knew, most of these historic monuments operated on tourism.

Malcolm slowed the car and turned right again. He drove slower now, and a thick hedge of trees lined the road.

But no fucking doubt about it. We were heading toward the fortress.

“Where are we going?” My throat felt tight. Breathing was hard.

“My home.” Malcolm kept his eyes on the road.

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