Page 6 of Some Like It Scot
With a catch in my back and a groan of my own, I sat up, my auburn hair blocking my vision for a full two seconds as my one hand gripped my camera and the other held—wince—a broken piece of the stair railing.
Some guttural rain of unidentifiable words rasped from the breathless man who’d broken my fall, and I scooted off his stomach just in time for him to come to a sitting position in front of me.
He was huge, and as a six-foot-one lady, that was saying something. My mom lovingly referred to me as sturdy, and my brand of sturdiness had succeeded in protecting half the female population in middle school from a notorious set of bullies determined to make small girls cry. But still, when this man sat up, I felt small and the sudden curiosity of watching him unfold into his full height distracted me from the current debacle I’d quite literally fallen into.
A wild array of mingled hues of brown curls splayed across hishead in all directions. I tilted my head in closer examination. Maybe they couldn’t be tamed.
My fingers twitched for a second.
His nose sat a little crooked, like it might have been broken once or twice. I cringed—hopefully I hadn’t added a third. But what snagged my attention most were his eyes. A piercing light blue beneath those dark brows, and their intensity snatched the gratitude right from my brain. Who had eyes that unearthly shade of blue?
I tried to open my mouth to say something simple like “Thank you for saving my life,” or a not so simple “How do you fit those shoulders through the doorway?” Or even something much less expected like “Your eyes are the same color as Chile’s Lake Pehoe at sunset.” But the only thing that came out was a squeak. It wasn’t every day someone saved your life. I flinched at that thought. Okay, I’d had it happen three times, but how was I supposed to know that sharks were nearby and attracted to beef jerky if the scuba instructor didn’t happen to mention it in his overview of the diving class? And the rock-climbing incident was due to poor directions on the guide’s part.
The massive man’s attention slipped from my face to my right hand, which clutched my camera, and then to my left, which held the incriminating stair rail. Those periwinkles of his flashed back to my face, and the shade of his cheeks moved from a suntanned hue to definite carmine within a span of two seconds. Something like a growl erupted from his chest, and he jolted upright, leaving me to stumble back and fall, unceremoniously, on my softest spot.
“You broke my stairs!”
The accusation blustered out beautifully in Scottish curls, especially thebr, but with none of the warmth of Archie’s welcome. I blinked, still trying to comprehend what on earth was going on, but comprehension wasn’t emerging quite as quickly as usual. Or maybe it was and none of it made sense anyway.
My mouth dropped open again, resulting in another annoying squeak.
The man leaned forward, and I thought for a second he meant to help me stand, but he merely plucked the piece of railing from my hand. “I’ve worked on that railing for three days, and in five minutes you took out two meters of freshly hewn ash.”
My jaw locked in a frown, and I released my own growl, though it wasn’t nearly as impressive as his.Fine.He didn’t seem the type to enjoy a sea sunset anyway.
Mesmerizing eyes or not, all six foot three hundred—or whatever he was—of him was Highland jerk.
“Are you kidding me?” I pushed myself to a quaking stand and barely stood as tall as his crooked nose. “The stairs?” I yelled back into his reddening face. “I am immediately accosted by some wizard macaw on the loose carrying a hat, followed by a collection of Agatha Christie actors, then nearly lose my life—not to mention my camera—by falling off a flight of stairs, and you’re concerned about your railing?”
I considered taking the broken piece of railing back and poking his inflated chest with it.
Both of his too-bushy brows shot high for a split second and then crashed over his highly uninteresting eyes. “If you dinnae like the company, find a new place to stay and leave the rest of us andmystair railing in peace.”
“I couldn’t care less about you, this madhouse, or your precious stair railing.” I reached for the broken railing to turn my thoughts into action, but the size of his hands wrapping around it distracted me for a full second. Were there giants in Scotland, along with faeries and dragons and birds named Merlin?
“Ms. Campbell?”
The pristine voice pealed through the cavernous room and pulled me from my near assault on Mr. Scottish Grump.
The lean woman wearing the Edwardian dress who’d been chasing Merlin stepped forward, smoothing a palm over her ruffled hair. Her lips seemed to wrestle with an expression, finally ending on a tight smile as she folded her hands in front of her.
“I’m Mrs. Elizabeth Lennox.” She offered her hand. “And I do hope you won’t base your opinion about Craighill House on this most unexpected initial impression.”
My bottom lip dropped for a split second, and then I sucked it back up for a smile. “I’m used to stumbling into unexpected adventures, but never with a hat-stealing parrot.”
Her manicured brow rose almost imperceptibly as she followed Mr. Highlander’s march up the stairs. “Well, I can assure you, my husband’s delinquent, Merlin, will remain well hidden for the extent of your and our other guests’ time here.”
I followed Mrs. Lennox’s gaze to the top of the stairs where a middle-aged man, perched a floor above us, smiled, while rebel Merlin perched on his shoulder. The former offered a welcome—the latter... well, I avoided looking into those beady little eyes.
“At least this time it wasn’t the weasel,” the younger lady with the red boa offered. “Marzipan may not pinch anything, but he is notorious for trying to bite off people’s heels.”
Mrs. Lennox offered a nervous laugh. “This is my daughter, Ana, who will be referred to as Miss Lennox during theexperience.” Mrs. Lennox gave a flourish of her hands as she said the last word and a new glow lit her pale eyes.
The nervous feeling returned. I opened my mouth to say, “Maybe I’m the wrong gal for this sanatorium,” but Mrs. Lennox continued, completely unfazed by my disarray, Mr. Giant’s grumblings, and the way her curls had come loose from her bun and stood to electrified attention in contrast to the uniformity of her dress. “I just received the most delightful phone call from Dave Carson, and he raves about you. We are looking forward to the publicity your experience will provide.”
My shoulders deflated. I’d promised Dave, assured him I could do this extended assignment. And in exchange, he’d promised me a raise, editorial position or not. “He’s a great guy.” Though saying it through gritted teeth sounded less believable.
“Oh yes, and he assures me you will help bring guests to Craighill and our EdwardianExperience”—again with the hand flourish—“to the magazine, social media, and even your personal blog. He shared that you often give more personal accounts on your blog, which lead to your articles in the magazine, reaching a broader audience.”
