Page 93 of Filthy Lovin Heroes

“Of course, Your Grace. I’ll see to the bags.”

“I don’t have any bags. I won’t be staying.” I was pleased to have found my voice, no matter that it cracked at the end.

Dammit. I wasn’t a piece of luggage they could discuss transferring.

Malcolm put the car in park. I reached around to pull my backpack off the back seat when my door was opened.

“What?” I pursued my lips at him, hoping to hide how the sight of him looming next to me with his now partially wet white shirt open at the neck. I could see his nipples and remembered how his chest felt flattened against me.

Malcolm lifted one leg up on the running board of the vehicle. effectively blocking my exit. His kilt rode higher and exposed the skin above his black boots. My gaze devoured a bare calf, knee, and lower thigh.

The answer all women want to know what within my grasp. A flick of my wrist and I would finally know what a man wore under one of those things.

Another thought hit. At the thought of exploring all that delicious landscape with my tongue, my mouth watered.

Malcolm’s fingers tipped my chin up to meet his gaze. His dark brown eyes bore into me. “My house. My rules.” He dropped his hand to help me out the vehicle.

Heat radiated from his touch, sweeping over every part of my body like a flash fire.

My spine stiffened.

“Fine. Whatever.” I pulled my arm from his grasp and I headed for the back door of the fucking castle. “For the record, Your Grace is kind of an asshole.” I tossed over my shoulder.

Malcolm’s dark laugh echoed behind me.

Thank God the door was open. I was ready for something to go my way. Any ground I might have gained with Malcolm would have been lost if I had to wait for him to unlock the door for me.

But my victory was short-lived. I was standing in a modern high-end kitchen. Professional stainless-steel appliances paired with wooden prep tables and cabinets. In one corner, a black metal Aga stove dominated the alcove.

A gray cat dozed on a cushion near the stove opened one green eye to inspect me. Unimpressed, it went back to sleep.

I glanced around, thinking the kitchen looked like Downton Abby and the Food Network’s secret love child. I adjusted my backpack for lack of anything better to do.

Malcolm was soon inside, shutting the door behind him. “I see you met Smoky.” He nodded to the cat. “Follow me. We’ll get you taken care of.”

He took my hand and led me along darkened hallways lined with large portraits of long-gone ancestors. Smaller paintings of rocky hilltops and loyal dogs also caught my eye as we moved along briskly. Thick wool area rugs covered the stone floors. Intricate woven tapestries hung against the walls, depicting hunting scenes from long ago.

“Malcolm.” I tried to pull my hand away, but he held fast.

Locking eyes, we stood there a minute in silence. He gave my fingers a squeeze but didn’t let go.

The castle was, not surprisingly, huge. Then again, a Tiny House castle would be rather pointless. The lighting was dim with the wall sconces accentuating the moody feel of the place as we progressed up a wide staircase to the second floor.

Malcolm turned left at the top of the stairs, taking us down a long hallway. In the end, he opened a heavy wooden door.

“Here we are.” He led me inside. I hadn’t seen another living soul inside the house since we entered.

“In a place this big, you could have your own wing.”

Malcolm shot me a glance, raising one eyebrow and it did things to me that made me blush hard.

“You have your own fucking wing?” I whispered.

“There’s no need to whisper, Holly. These stone walls dampen sound.”

Malcolm’s bedroom was massive and surprisingly dated. It contained a four-poster bed with drapes and heavy, dark furniture. There were more landscape paintings on the walls. Judging from fleeting images of the sun and blue sky, Scotland was pretty cloudy most of the year.

I moved around the edge of the room, as far away from Malcolm as I could get, while he set to work on starting a fire in the fireplace.

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