Page 107 of Some Like It Scot
Definitely the faeries.
Every Scottish legend I’d read over the past week burst through my mind, intermingled with a few BBC costume dramas. My Scottish folklore knowledge didn’t go that deep. The scenarios included my being turned into some weird creature—or possibly sea-foam—or being stolen away to the faery kingdom to live out my days without a memory of the human world. Or I would be driven into the sea by kelpies. Or, my favorite of the scenarios, I’d hear the sweet tones of my dream guy’s Scottish accent recounting his fear of losing me and my love in the form of a sonnet.
Did kelpies have riders?
The hoofbeats grew closer, and through the clearing of the mist came Graeme MacKerrow.
I blinked. Graeme MacKerrow on a white horse in the rain wearing an open-collared blue shirt.
My jaw dropped. Dream-status achieved.
Maybe I had died and gone to heaven.
And proved a Scot on a white horse swoonier than any other knight.
By lots.
Thank you, Seamas.
“You’re the most troublesome woman I’ve ever met.”
So much for the undying love sonnet.
At which point I lost my hold on the cliff’s rim and slid right back down to land quite dramatically on my softest spot.
Maybe I’d rather face the kelpies.
I pushed myself back to my feet, groaning as the bottom of my cello protested the movements. The wind from the sea brushed up with a fury, tossing its cold chill all the way up my damp and thin Edwardian undergarments.
Why did every one of my mishaps end in meeting him somewhere along the way? Couldn’t I, at least once, show up without a catastrophe in my wake? I’m sure I’d look more appealing. And actually dateable.
I desperately wanted to tell him that I was much smarter than these encounters suggested, but Gran’s adage “Actions speak louder than words” stilled my defense.
A rope dropped in front of me, and I looked up to find Graeme staring down with Wedge at his side. One boasted a very bunched brow.
Not the furry creature.
“This wasn’t my fault.”
His gaze caught mine, and he blinked. “It’s no time for a conversation. Take the rope.”
With a grumble, I took hold of the rope, and within less than a minute, Graeme held me in his arms again. I nestled into the familiar hold with renewed appreciation, pressing my face into the side of his neck and burrowing as close as I could.
“God help me, woman, you’re determined to die.” His bass tones reverberated in his chest, his arms tightening around me.
“I’m not reallytryingto die.” I sniffled, refusing to move from this cocooned spot. “I just have bad timing.”
A growl-like snort, very similar to that of Seamas, rose from him. “Aye, that’s a fact.” And he pulled me away from him, giving my body a quick once-over. “What on earth are you wearing?”
Before I could answer, he grumbled out something in Gaelic, I presumed, and jerked his collared shirt off to reveal a white T-shirt beneath. “We need to get you to the cottage straightaway.”
“You... you have a horse.” My whole body shivered as he wrapped the shirt around my shoulders.
“’Tis Greer’s.” He took my arm and stared down at me, rain dripping off those curls. “And my sister must be watchin’ out for you from heaven for you to have fallen on that ledge instead of... “
He didn’t finish but merely shook his head and marched with me to the horse.
The very idea of the alternative sent another shiver through me. And then, as if it were the most normal thing to do, he placed me on his horse, mounted behind me, and raced up the hillside.
