Page 44 of Wild Scottish Beauty

“Worsted wool,” I said.

“Aye, worsted wool with a twill structure. When woven in a particular sett, it creates the tartan pattern.”

I nod vigorously as though I know what a “sett” is, and Ramsay catches my implication and sighs.

“Go on.”

“So this isn’t mass produced then? It’s woven on an actual loom? Do they still make looms like they once did? Or are they all commercial now? What about the dyes? Where do they come from? And the wool? Is this all done by hand … like in a hut down by the river? How long does something like this take to make? Is it expensive to produce? How do you determine your margins?” I rushed out, assuming he was not going to give me many opportunities to ask questions.

Ramsay looked to the ceiling, clearly attempting to muster the patience to deal with someone like me, and I beamed at him when he dropped his eyes to my face. Shaking his head slightly, he returned to measuring the kilt.

“I’ll give you a wee lesson, lass, but then I need to finish pinningthis kilt.”

“Great, so …”

“Wheesht.” Ramsay tucked a pin in the fabric and then straightened, disappearing from the room. “Cuppa tea?”

“Um, sure.”

I wandered out of the workroom and added another log to the fire, before going to stand at the front window for what felt like the twentieth time that day. Dark clouds had moved in, rolling over each other in the sky, Loch Mirren a sheet of slate grey water. Shadows drew long across the shop floor, cut by the flickering light from the fire, and I shivered, my eyes caught on the loch. She held so many secrets, literal magick moving beneath her surface, and I still was processing everything I’d learned in such a short time.

I’d always been drawn to water, which wasn’t wholly unheard of, being from the land of ten thousand lakes. I’d grown up spending long summers in the water, and my dad had always called me a fish because I never wanted to stop swimming. Our summers were so short in Minnesota that we made use of every moment we could. Because of that, I’d learned to really look at water, not just scan my eyes over it. I looked for currents, for changes in surface patterns, depths, that kind of thing. You couldn’t live near water and not learn to assess the dangers of it. And to me, Loch Mirren was stunningly beautiful, but coldly dangerous. I would absolutely proceed with caution around her shores.

“Right then. Let’s crack on with your lesson, since you’ll no doubt be bothering about it if we don’t.”

“I can certainly Google it, if it’s too much trouble.” I smiled sweetly at his snort of derision.

“Google.”

“It’s a popular internet search engine. You have been onthe internet, I presume?” I crossed the room to where he’d put a tea tray on the table by the fire, and settled into one of the tartan chairs, a pile of books at his side.

“I try not to.”

“Aww, you’re like an Amish person or something then, aren’t you? How cute is that? Living in your little bubble. Weird how this Spotify playlist manages to bring music to your speakers though.”

“I’m instantly regretting agreeing to this lesson.”

“No, no, I’m sorry. I promise to be on my best behavior. Please. Explain to me what sets Ramsay Kilts apart from the others. I should know this, anyway, if I’m going to be speaking to customers.” I pulled out my notebook and settled back into the chair, pressing my lips together to indicate that I wasn’t going to interrupt him again.

Ramsay regarded me for a moment, letting the silence draw out, as though testing my resolve not to speak. I’ll admit, I almost broke the silence, but I really did want to learn about the kilts, and I sensed I could only annoy him so much before he’d chuck me out the front door and call it a day. He’d already stormed out on me once, and I’d only been in Loren Brae a matter of days. Firelight danced across his cheekbones, the teacup looked like a toy in his large hands, and he looked every inch a dominating Highlander sitting in his tartan chair by his fire. I crossed my legs at the response in my body, seeing him like this, because just for an instant, I wanted to straddle him where he sat. To feel his large hands gripping my thighs, reminding myself how it felt to be locked against his muscular body. With his sharp jawline, dark hair, and thick muscular arms, Ramsay couldhave stepped on the set ofOutlanderand been mistaken for an actor.

Ramsay lifted a brow, and I realized something in my expression must have changed. Picking up my pen, I poised it against the paper, forcing myself to look away from him.

Damn it, but my boss was a hottie with a capital H.

“Ramsay Kilts has one of the only mills that still produces tartans in a traditional manner. We do use a commercial loom at times, for bulk orders, but will still bring most of the process in house so our weavers can check the fabric every step of the way. A traditional kilt has a clean-cut edge at the knee.” Ramsay held up a swatch of fabric draped over the side of his chair, showing me the edge of the tartan. “This can only be produced by a traditional shuttle loom, granted though we’ve been able to motorize them, so our weavers don’t have to pedal.”

“No way, that’s awesome.”

“We’re not opposed to modernizing where it makes sense.” A ghost of a smile crested Ramsay’s lips. “A shuttle loom is called that because of the wooden shuttles, which create a back-and-forth motion that allows a clean natural selvedge. A traditional kilting selvedge doesn’t need to be hemmed.”

I forced myself to not think of other back-and-forth motions that I wouldn’t mind trying out with my very sexy boss.

“Versus a commercial loom? The edge needs to hemmed or tucked in?” I asked instead, making a note on my pad.

“A rapier loom will either leave threads loose for hemming or returned into the weave as a tuck-in selvedge.”

“And …” I paused when Ramsay lifted both eyebrows at me. “Sorry. Go on.”

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