Men in Kilts

  “What is it you were meaning, then?” he asked, still watching me intently, a serious Iain with a frown above those two handsome eyes. I reached out to smooth the frown away.

  “I know it’s probably none of my business, but yet, in a way, it is. Iain, I can’t stay here with you if I don’t ask— were you and Bridget still seeing each other when you went to Manchester?”

  He caught my hand and stared at my fingers for a minute, then gently, oh so gently, nibbled on the pad of my thumb.

  “Is that what’s been worrying you, love? That you’re taking Bridget’s place?” His voice sounded so hurt, I was thoroughly ashamed of myself. What sort of a person was I that I could doubt he would act in an honorable manner? Hadn’t I had a discussion with myself on this very thing on the way up here? Why all of a sudden was I assuming the worst about Iain?

  I’ll tell you why. Bridget and her damn darlings . I was too ashamed to look him in the eye, so I nodded and watched his lips.

  “Kathie, look at me.”

  “I am.”

  “No, you’re looking at my mouth. Look me in the eyes, love.” I looked. His laugh lines stood out white against the tan of his skin. I wanted to smooth those out, too, but Iain still had a hold on my hand. “I haven’t been with Bridget in close to four years, so set your mind at ease.” Four years? Four years! Four lovely, long, deliciously Bridget-free years? Let fly the doves, it’s been four years!

  “Oh,” I said happily, and proceeded to smother his face in kisses. Suddenly, something occurred to me. I stopped abruptly. “If it’s been four years, then why did she insinuate—”

  He made a disgusted sound. “She’s playing her game. She’s been after me to marry her so I’ll join my farm with hers, and hasn’t forgiven me for turning her down.”

  I stared at him. Iain turned her down? That meant… “She asked you to marry her?”

  “Oh, aye,” he laughed, and reinitiated an activity he had stopped earlier to answer my questions. “Several times. Must be five or six at the last count.” Life suddenly looked very, very good. Exceptionally good. My heart swelled and sang and flew around the room without the slightest effort. I pushed Iain back into the pillows and leaned over him, filled with joy, happiness, and achingly sweet love. The tears of an hour before were forgotten, never happened, never could happen with such a wonderful, marvelous, fabulous man.

  My mind knew what I was going to do before I did. Warning bells and sirens went off loudly in my head. Don’t do it , my brain shrieked at me. Don’t say it.

  It’s only Day Seven. You know the rules, it has to be Day Fourteen at the very least!

  It’s much, much too soon. Don’t say it! Not now — wait! Wait, you fool, wait!

  “Oh, Iain,” I said, leaning over him and kissing his nose and his eyes and his cheeks, then trailing kisses all around his adorable lips. Common sense? What was that? “I love you so very much.”

  The words were out before I realized it. I gasped. I didn’t… just…say… the L

  word! Oh, my god, what had I done?

  Iain looked thoughtful.

  Immediately, my mind whipped into damage control status.

  “Three things could result from the folly of our declaration, ” my brain informed me. “One: he could tell us he loves us. Two: he could make a joke of it. Three: he could say nothing. Defenses in place, please, people! We have a frail ego to protect! ” I left my brain to handle the defensive actions while I considered the three possibilities; of the three, the second was sure to be the worst, but the third option wasn’t far behind it. And yet that’s just what Iain did. He said nothing.

  He just looked thoughtful and continued to hold me.

  I’m sure that most, if not all, of you have been in a relationship where one of you had to be the first to mention love. In some relationships, like my first marriage, it is incredibly easy to toss out because it means nothing.

  “Do you want to go ice skating tonight?”

  “Oooh, that sounds like fun. Gosh, you’re so sweet to me— I just love you to death, Kevin.”

  “Yeah, I love you too, Kathie.”

  That is, as close as I can recall, a verbatim conversation I had with my first husband. We were both eighteen at the time, were married a month later when we eloped to Vegas, and divorced a few months after that.

  That was not love. It was a big crush, and nothing more. But with Iain, it wasn’t only my body involved in worshiping him, it was my heart and soul, too. So when my brain shut down and allowed me to tell him just how I felt, I was putting more on the line than just the opportunity to play mump the cuddle with him for a few weeks. I wanted Iain for the rest of my life.

  And there he was, flaked out like a great lummox, not saying a damn thing, just humming softly to himself and stroking my back. It was at such a moment that one is allowed a peek at what one’s true inner self is like, and let me tell you, mine was not a pretty sight. I wanted to grab him and make him tell me he loved me in return. I wanted to scream and yell and throw things at him, everything but that lovely desk with the excellent action. I wanted to wail over the injustice of the situation and spend the next three years crying. I wanted to run away and never face him again.

  Instead I reminded myself that Iain deserved to be given the time to figure out what it was he felt for me without me pressuring him to give me the right answer. So I bit back everything I wanted to say, fought down the urge to throttle the hum right out of him, and instead determined to show Bridget there was more than one way to make a lion roar.

  “You’re moaning,” I gasped some time later, wanting him to admit he was the moaner, but was too distracted by his hands locked onto my hips to do anything but allow him to increase the rhythm of our dance until his moans and my cries of pleasure wove into one bright, beautiful song of euphoria.

  Iain didn’t answer with words but moaned louder as I moved along his hard length, rising up until my body sobbed with the sorrow of losing him, then sinking back down upon him, sliding so far down that he bumped up against my womb, stretching me, filling me, completing me. His hands slid along my behind, sweeping up the curves of my hips as I rose and fell upon him, my breath coming hard and fast, matching his rasping gasps for air. His thumbs circled my breasts as I arched back on him, angling myself to take even more of him within me. He pulled his legs up behind me, supporting me, his groans of pleasure increasing as my hair swept across the sensitive bare skin of his thighs.

  His hips thrust up as I sank down on him, tightening all of my inner muscles around him, squeezing and gripping until his moans took on a desperate quality, his fingers hard on my hips as he urged me faster, thrusting into me hard and deep, joining with me, merging with me until I thought I would scream from the joy of it. His muscles tightened beneath me, his body gathering as it rocked against me, his heartbeat strong and wild deep within me.

  I leaned down and scraped one adorable nipple with my teeth, tugging gently on it before lathing it with my tongue, sucking hard as he bucked beneath me and gave a wordless shout of completion.

  As he shook within me, he pushed me over the edge, into a deep, blindingly bright abyss where I fell, saved from the fathomless depths only by the strong arms around me and the pounding heart beneath my ear. He was joy, he was rapture, he was everything that had been missing from my life, and I wasn’t going to let him go.

  “I love you,” I whispered, gasping for air, my eyes wet with tears of happiness.

  He kissed my tears away.

  I had started out to prove something to myself, to prove I could drive him to distraction, to prove I could go one better than Bridget, but in the end all I proved was that whatever was between us was of such a great magnitude, I had lost myself to him. It frightened me, this power he had over me, this ability to make me forget myself, to lose myself in him, but at the same time it overwhelmed, it also comforted me, bonding me to him in a manner I had never guessed possible.

  I cracked an eye open to look at the cloc
k as I collapsed onto his still heaving chest.

  “I did it,” I said, kissing the wildly beating pulse in his neck. He tasted salty and aroused and very, very satisfied. “It took me an hour but I did it. You didn’t roar like a lion.”

  Iain turned his head just enough to shoot me an exhausted and unbelieving glare. I let my lips curl into a smug grin and snuggled my head back down into his neck. “You didn’t roar like a lion… you howled like a banshee.” That was all to the good, of course, but where there’s good there’s bound to be bad, and my bad was what followed: yet another Morning Ordeal.

  Iain sighed as I burrowed deeper beneath his duvet. “Is it going to take you long to overcome this shyness? It can’t be easy on you to be blushing every morning.”

  I pulled my hair off my face just enough to peer out at him. He was lying next to me, arrogantly male, completely oblivious to the fact that he was stark naked.

  “You’re never shy any other time,” he grinned, and twitched at the duvet cover.

  “Just in the mornings.”

  I grabbed the cover and pulled it up to my chin, glaring at him. How could he be so casual about this? Didn’t the man have any modesty?

  “It’s all well and fine to be uninhibited when one is getting a leg over, but there is such a thing as dignity, Iain.”

  “Oh, love,” he laughed. “You’re a bit of a prude, that’s what it is.” A prude? Me? Never! Of all the nerve! “I’m not a prude, I’m just… discreet.” He snorted. He actually snorted, he was laughing so hard. “Were you discreet last night downstairs on the carpet before the fire, then?” He would have to bring that up. I slapped his hand away from where he was trying to pull down the cover. “That has nothing to do—”

  “And later, on the desk there, when you wrapped your legs around my hips and told me you had a better way to polish furniture. I reckon you’re thinking that was discreet as well?”

  I was hoping he had forgotten that as well. I had no idea what possessed me, but I would forever be fond of that desk.

  “And half an hour ago, love, when you—”

  I shot up out of bed and slapped a hand over his mouth. “I think we’re both aware of what we did half an hour ago. You’ve made your point, thank you, Iain.”

  He waggled his eyebrows and looked down. I followed his gaze. He was happy again.

  “Modesty be damned,” I sighed and gave up, pushing the duvet away as I grabbed his shoulders and pulled him toward me.

  It’s a distinct disadvantage to find yourself introduced to someone when you aren’t sure of your relationship to the person presenting you. For one thing, there’s that whole label situation. Friend, girlfriend, bird (or in parts of Scotland, hen), lover, significant other, domestic partner, buddy, mate—the list of possible labels is endless. Fortunately, the first person Iain introduced me to, outside of his family, caused no problem for any of us.

  “This is Mark, my shepherd. Mark, this is Kathie. She writes books.” That was it. No other explanation of who I was, what I was doing there, or why my hands were, at that moment, stuffed into Iain’s pants pockets (they were cold and my smart suit blazer didn’t have any pockets).

  Mark simply looked at me, nodded twice, and spat neatly next to my loafers. I had more interaction with his dog, Foster (named for the Aussie lager), than I had with him. Foster at least shook hands with me. Mark just sucked his teeth and turned his stunningly brilliant green eyes on Iain and started telling him in great detail about a problem with one of the rams’ personal equipment. Men tend to feel a great affinity for any male animal that has problems with their plumbing, but the issue takes on red alert status as tupping season approaches.

  It doesn’t do for a ram to be running on only three thrusters then, if you get my drift.

  I stood next to Iain, my hands jammed into his pockets to keep warm, listening with great pleasure as they discussed whether or not to bring in the vet or try treating the ram themselves. I almost hugged myself with glee. Here I was, a week after meeting the man of my dreams, standing shoulder to armpit with him, his trusty helpmeet, part of this wonderful new world. It was a Disney sort of moment.

  Visions of a grand life rolled out before me as I shifted from one frozen-block-of-ice foot to another. Iain and me, side by side, watching the adorable little lambs on a lovely spring morn. Iain and me taking long romantic walks, holding hands and exchanging kisses. Iain and me sitting with his dogs in front of a roaring fire, snuggling and sending each other glances fraught with meaning. Iain baring his soul to me, sharing his thoughts and deepest, innermost feelings. Iain and me giving that desk in his bedroom another whirl.

  Oh, yes, life was looking very, very good. If only I hadn’t lost the feeling in my lower extremities it would be perfect.

  “Go back to the house and get David’s anorak, love.” Iain finally got tired of me trying to crawl into his jacket.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said around the chattering of my teeth. “It’s just a bit brisk out here. I’ll warm up once we get moving.” I didn’t want to admit that it was my vanity that kept me from donning the hideous navy-and-red parka that David had outgrown some ten years back.

  “Brisk? It’s bluidy freezin‘, lass.” Mark looked at me like I had gone mad.

  Maybe I had, I couldn’t tell. I was too cold.

  “Screw fashion,” I muttered to myself two minutes later, and started for the house and the anorak Iain had dragged out for me earlier, along with a pair of David’s old wellies, a ratty white-and-blue scarf, and fingerless gloves.

  “Don’t forget the trousers!” Iain bellowed after me. He turned back to Mark.

  “Would you believe the daft woman didn’t bring any trousers with her to England?” They shook their heads over the folly of women and continued to discuss the ram’s dangly bits.

  “Ha!” I said aloud to myself as I dragged my frozen carcass to the house. “I draw the line at wearing the pants. I will wear the parka, I will wear the gloves and wellies, but I’d be damned if I wear a pair of ugly, old, smelly, itchy unlined wool pants. No siree. Not me. I might not be a fashion maven, but I do have certain standards.”

  I straightened my lovely, expensive, russet tweed wool suit jacket (bought especially for this trip), made sure the matching pleated skirt wasn’t bunched up in the back, patted the complementary cream-colored raw silk blouse, and with a sigh, donned the parka. The wellies took a bit more ingenuity. I ended up peeling off the parka while I fought with the boots. They were about four inches too big for my feet, and flapped around my legs in a nasty, flesh-slapping sort of way. Crumpled newspaper took care of the feet part, but there wasn’t anything I could do about the leg slapping, so I gathered up the gloves, put on the parka, and dashed back outside to Iain.

  I took perhaps five steps out to them and suddenly lost my footing. Right onto my behind. In the mud.

  “Bloody effing hell,” I muttered as Iain ran over to help me. “No, I’m not hurt, it’s these stupid boots. They’re too big and my feet are sliding around in them. How bad is my bu— er… behind?”

  I hiked up the parka and turned around to present Iain with an unobstructed view of my derriere. No response was forthcoming. I peered over my shoulder at him. “Well?”

  “Well, what, love? Do you want a compliment on it?” I sighed. Men. They simply had no sense where important things like fashionable and expensive wool suits were concerned. “No, of course not! How muddy am I? It feels wet.” I tried to look over my shoulder at my butt, but couldn’t see anything but wadded up parka.

  “Oh, aye, you’re muddy. It’ll dry.” He turned back to Mark, who had been examining my muddy behind with a disapproving eye.

  “Iain!”

  He looked back at me, his eyebrows raised in question.

  “Aren’t you going to wipe it off for me?”

  He grinned. “I would, love, but there’s no use in dabbing at wet mud. Wait till it dries before you clean it.”

  Lovely. I would get to walk around
all day with a big old mud print on my butt. I mused sourly on this for a bit, men gave myself a little lecture about enjoying the day (which was not raining) and company (Iain, Iain, Iain!).

  I ignored the faint wet feeling around the calf of my right leg, determined to enjoy the experience of seeing real live sheep up close and personal. We started off for one of the hills, both Iain and Mark whistling up their dogs. I slid around in the wellies, falling twice on the rain-slicked grass until Iain told me to hold on to the back of his mac as we climbed the hill.

  Going up wasn’t too difficult, but crossing the hill demanded all of my attention. And breath.

  “All right, love?” Iain yelled over to me as he paused next to an outcropping of rock to wait for me.

  “Oh… mercy… yes… just… fine… lovely… outing,” I gasped, trying to smile. No wonder the man was so fit, climbing mountains every day. I tried to focus on how good the day’s trek would be for my heart and not on the wet wool skirt clinging to my equally sopping legs. Just then it started to rain.

  “Just… what… I… needed,” I grumbled to myself as I plopped down on the rock next to Iain.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I panted. He looked at me for a minute, then hauled me up next to him, planted a kiss on my forehead, and told me to sit where I was while he and Mark climbed higher to check for strays.

  “You’re fagged out,” he pointed out when I protested— between gasps for air—that I could follow. “You just sit here and enjoy the view. We’ll catch you up on the way back.”

  Oh yes. The view. The one I would have enjoyed if I could have seen it, but the misty rain that had chosen that moment to commence effectively blotted out most of it. I sat shivering in David’s parka and made rude faces at the sheep.

  Iain has two breeds of sheep, he told me on the journey up. The Hill Cheviots are the pretty ones of the bunch, being lovely white beasties with black noses, which look very scenic and pastoral spread out on the hills. Their wool goes for the sweater trade. The rowdier sheep were the Scottish Blackfaces, a shaggy gang that were always jostling about with one another. As I looked around me at the sheep grazing nearby, I came to the conclusion that up close, sheep lost a lot of their attraction.