Page 33 of Wild Scottish Beauty

I shrugged one shoulder. “I think anything to decorate the shop with.”

“I’ve seen the castle shop. It’s well decorated as is.”

“Okay,” I said, determined to ignore his grumpiness. “Don’tlook for tools then.”

Ramsay just grunted and moved to the other side of the room. I watched him go, his broad shoulders moving nicely under his sweater as he reached for a box on the shelf, and my eyes trailed down his backside to his muscular legs beneath his kilt.

Yup, the man was built.

I also wondered just why he was insisting on being so grumpy. I didn’t remember a lot about Ramsay, but I couldhave sworn he’d been a touch friendlier in the past. Maybe life had changed for him since I’d last seen him. I couldn’t just assume that I was the one making him grumpy, not when Agnes had mentioned that he tended to be standoffish with others in town. Deciding to out-cheerful his grumpiness, I reached for a hatbox on the shelf next to me and opened it.

“Oh, this is cool. Look.” I held up a man’s fedora, with a neat tartan band. Turning it over, I noticed a smudge in the material on the brim. Putting it on my head, I reached up, and fingered the smudge. “He was left-handed.”

“Why do you say that?” Ramsay turned and studied me.

“It’s worn on the brim on this side.” I took it off in a smooth motion and tilted it for Ramsay to see. “It would be natural to remove it with the left hand if you grabbed it there, right?”

“Humph.” Ramsay nodded and turned back to his box, not saying anything else.

Right, man of few words.

We worked in relative silence for a while, well, aside from me exclaiming every time I opened a box. Most of the hatboxes indeed held hats, and I was beyond delighted to find a variety of fascinators. It wasn’t a common fashion anymore in the States, and I dearly loved that the Brits still embraced the habit of wearing a fascinator at formal events. I mean, why the heck not? I was a big fan of any excuse to wear something snazzy on my head. I pulled out two of my favorites and set them aside. The first was one with peacock feathers, the lovely deep greens and blues surrounding a faux bird’s nest, with three pearls in the nest to mimic theeggs. I mean,come on. How cool was that? The second had a bundle of silk flowers, hand painted by the looks of it, with a delicate lace bonnet and ribbons that wrapped around the chin. The lace was embroidered with tiny jet beads and shimmered in the light. I wasn’t yet sure what inspiration I’d take from these pieces, but I kept them out because they’d caught my eye.

Humming to myself, I picked up what looked to be a small leather suitcase from the shelf. Different from the hatboxes, something rattled inside when I lifted it. Turning, I put the square suitcase down on a steamer trunk behind me and flipped the locks, popping it open.

“Oh, look.” It was a sewing kit, full of ribbons, thread, needles, buttons, thimbles, and the crowning piece—a stunning pair of dressmaker shears. Crafted with a gold handle that showcased intricate scrollwork with Celtic knots and vines of flowers, the scissors were almost too pretty to use for work. Picking them up, I turned to brandish them at Ramsay but froze when the metal hit my palm.

Mine.

A wave of energy rippled across my palm, as though I’d brushed my fingers across a live wire, and I gaped down at the scissors. Were these my power item? My weapon? My magickal tool of choice? I mean, in fairness, stabbing someone with scissors this sharp would certainly do some damage, so it wasn’t a horrible choice for protection. It would need to be a close-range battle of course, because I’d been horrible at sports growing up and I didn’t see myself having the dexterity to impale someone with these from a distance.

“Och, what’s that look about?”

I blinked at Ramsay, realizing that I was holding the scissors aloft like I was going to stab someone, having gotten lost in my thoughts of battles and destruction. Rightly so, he hung back, his eyes narrowed.

“Just testing their weight,” I said, balancing the scissors on my open palm before putting them back in the suitcase. The instant they left my hand, I felt bereft.

Message received.

“These thimbles are grand, aren’t they?” Ramsay forgot to be rude to me for a moment and held up a pewter thimble with dots and what looked to be the outline of a wolf etched in it. Grabbing another, he turned it in the light to reveal a curved Celtic pattern etched along the rim.

“They are. Oh, look. Each one is different.”

Ramsay’s arm brushed mine as he reached for another, and his nearness made my legs weak. Which, in itself, was unusual. I’m a sturdy woman, used to being on my feet for long hours as I worked, and wasn’t prone to fits of dizziness or instability. And yet. Here I was feeling like my knees were about to start knocking together because Ramsay’s arm lightly brushed mine. Was this how Victorian women felt when a man accidently saw their ankle? Was that what all the swooning was about? Moving slightly to the left to give myself some space, lest I, too, caught a case of the “swoons,” I gestured to the suitcase.

“Should we take some of this stuff to your shop maybe? Or upstairs? I’m sure Sophie wants us to use some of it.”

“I don’t know that we’ll need much of the bits and bobs when it comes to ribbons, but we can take the thimbles.”

“And the shears.”

Ramsay just shrugged and moved away, flipping the latches on a large steamer trunk.

“How did you even get into sewing? It doesn’t seem like…” I trailed off, not sure how to phrase my question without insulting him.

“Seem like what?” Ramsay’s tone was as icy as the wind outside.

“Just…you look like one of those rugby guys.”

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