Page 90 of Filthy Lovin Heroes

Sounded like a solid plan to me.

A nine-hour flight gave me ample time to fret over seeing him again. Except for a bit when I’d been distracted by flying first class, which was pretty damn awesome. I wish I’d had a chance to dress for the trip, but the fucking stalker had grabbed me on my way home from work and pushed me down in a pile of stinking garbage while I fought him off. He obviously didn’t know that, being a New Yorker, I’d studied more than a passing amount of self-defense.

My coat was ruined by the garbage that broke my fall and I had to toss it because it smelled like chow main and rotten fish. As a result, the detective gifted me with an “I Love New York” sweatshirt that formerly belonged to some unfortunate tourist.

I didn’t ask how it had come into his possession, but I knew the story had ended badly for the tourist not to need it anymore. Luckily, I salvaged my blue scrub bottoms, but now I looked like a walking cliché of a New Yorker. At least I had my running shoes; life’s trauma was always better tolerated with supportive footwear.

My guide, Fergus, navigated us through the airport and loaded us into a dark green Land Rover. It looked just like the type I’d seen the Royal family traveling in from those tabloid pictures. It hit me—I was actually in Scotland.

It was dark and raining, so I couldn’t see much. I imagined that Murdoch lived close to Edinburgh because I knew how much he loved cities. But as the city fell away behind us, I realized I knew nothing about Scotland and very little about Malcolm. Maybe this was a terrible idea.

After more than an hour of driving, we slowed as we entered a village. Through busy windshield wipers, I spied The Pig and Thistle pub. It was a low stone building with a sloping roof. At the thought of food, my stomach rumbled, ready for a pit stop.

I turned to Fergus breaking the silence in the car. “Can we stop? I’ve never been to a real Scottish pub.”

He shook his head, but his eyes didn’t leave the road. “His Grace wouldn’t like that. I’m to bring you straight to the cottage.”

Indignation swelled up inside me. His Grace, indeed! That fucker hadn’t even bothered picking me up from the airport.

I was hungry, dammit. Guilt about all my fellow passengers eating pretzels for nine hours back in the main cabin made me pick at my fancy first-class dinner. “I’m starving, and I’m sure you are hungry too. Let’s stop.”

“I don’t know.” The car slowed.

“The least I can do is buy you a pint for picking me up.” There, I’d used up all my knowledge of local Scottish culture with an hour of arriving.

“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.

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