Meet Me in Scotland

Book 2: Kilts and Quilts

by Patience Griffin

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

When a video of her calling happily ever after "a foolish fantasy" goes viral, marriage therapist Emma Castle is out of a job-and off to Scotland. The tiny town of Gandiegow is the perfect place to ride out the media storm and to catch up with her childhood friend Claire. But also in Gandiegow is the one man she hoped never to see again.



She's successfully avoided Gabriel MacGregor since Claire and Dominic's wedding, only to find that he's now the village doctor-and just as tall, dark, and devilish as ever. Claire and Dominic's blissful marriage, however, is not what it used to be. Soon Emma and Gabriel find themselves taking sides even as the sparks begin to fly between them. Can Emma help her friends-or regain her career-as she struggles with her own happily ever after?

Release date: January 6, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 384

Sample

PRAISE FOR THE KILTS AND QUILTS NOVEL

Also by Patience Griffin

SIGNET ECLIPSE

Acknowledgments

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

Aileen (AY-leen)

Ailsa (AIL-sa)

Bethia (BEA-thee-a)

Buchanan (byoo-KAN-uhn)

Cait (KATE)

Caitriona (kah-TREE-na)

Deydie (DI-dee)

Lochie (LAW-kee)

Macleod (muh-KLOUD)

Moira (MOY-ra)

céilidh (KAY-lee)—a party/dance

fash—trouble

Gandiegow—squall

Hogmanay—the Scottish celebration of the New Year

ken—understanding

kirk—church

lorry—truck

postie—postman

Sassenach (Sass-un-nak)—an English person

 

 

 

The Quilters of Gandiegow

Lesson #1

Quilting is the best kind of therapy.

Chapter One

Just as Emma Castle’s plane landed in Scotland, she pulled out her phone and viewed the incriminating evidence once again. Bollocks. The damned video had gone viral. Exactly as her boss back in Los Angeles—now her ex-boss—had feared. She still couldn’t believe it. Fired. Egghead Emma had been fired.

The video wasn’t a sex tape, which her parents certainly would’ve preferred over the reality of what was hitting the Internet. She watched the forty-eight-second clip for a third time. How superior her British accent sounded, how smug she looked, like she had all the answers. Those forty-eight seconds had irrevocably changed her future. Thirty years old and already a washout. Oh, bloody hell, what would she do now?

Well, that’s why she was here sitting on the tarmac—hoping to figure things out with her best friend, Claire.

As the other passengers pulled down their bags and left the plane, she stared out the window to what looked like midnight in the dead of winter. It was early evening, but a huge blizzard was brewing. An accurate metaphor for her life. She slid her phone back into her pocket.

Certainly I’m not the only marriage therapist in the world who doesn’t believe in happily-ever-afters.

But she was the only one to get caught on hidden camera telling a couple how it really was. As a Brit working in America, she’d learned a thing or two about this time of year. At the clinic, they’d called them the Thanksgiving crowd. A week before the turkey and the dressing, marriages were either exploding or imploding because of the approaching holidays. Emma had apparently cracked up right along with them, telling one of her couples how it all was going to play out. Unfortunately, she’d been caught on tape. Don’t waste your money. Marriage therapy serves one purpose and one purpose only: getting you through the inevitable divorce. In her defense, she’d only been telling her clients the truth. It was what she’d seen day in and day out.

She closed her eyes and laid her head back on the rest, trying to put the video out of her mind and trying not to imagine what her parents would say when they found out. Mum, the World’s Leading Sex Therapist, and Dad, Hollywood’s Marriage Counselor, would insist on having her professionally evaluated when the news reached them. But maybe then they would finally accept the truth. Emma wasn’t cut out to be a couples counselor, and her controlling parents couldn’t guilt her into doing it any longer. They’d have to find someone else to collaborate on their books and TV promotions. At times like these, Emma wished she had a sibling. Someone else to fulfill her parents’ expectations. But having a sibling would require her parents to at least be in the same country at the same time, not to mention the same bed.

When the aisle cleared, she hurried off the plane and searched the waiting crowd. God, she’d missed her best friend. She’d hesitated only a moment when Claire had invited her to come to Gandiegow. Running away couldn’t fix the predicament she’d gotten herself into, but it would give her a respite, and oh, how she needed a best-friend booster shot to help make things better. Then she could head to London to face Mum. Hopefully, by then, she’d have a few things worked out, maybe even a plan for what to do next.

Emma’s mobile rang; it was Claire.

“Where are you?” Emma scanned the faces around her. “Are you waiting at baggage reclaim?”

“Nay.” Claire paused. “I sent Gabriel to pick you up.”

“No,” Emma cried. The people around her turned and stared. At the same time, her mother’s voice rang in her ear: Losing one’s temper is not in a proper Englishwoman’s repertoire.

Hissing wasn’t, either, but Emma did it anyway into the phone. “For your sake, Claire, I hope you’re speaking of Gabriel the archangel and not the other one.”

Claire gave her attitude right back. “Don’t grumble at me. It’s not my fault your flight was delayed. You know how early I have to get up.”

“Why couldn’t your husband take the morning shift for you?”

Claire tsked. “The scones are my specialty. The restaurant depends upon them.”

Emma sighed heavily. “Yes, I know. But still.”

“Gabriel was a saint to offer,” Claire defended.

Yeah, right, Emma thought.

Her friend went on. “Is he there yet?”

“I don’t know.” Gabriel would be the perfect end to her perfectly horrible day.

“Buck up, Emma. You’re a grown woman. You can handle a few hours with him.” With that Claire said goodbye and hung up.

Emma’s temples began to throb. Claire was testing her patience as only Claire could do. Gabriel MacGregor was incorrigible, plain and simple. Claire knew she couldn’t stand being around him.

When Claire and Dominic had first coupled up, Emma had spent a fair amount of time in Gabriel’s presence. Dominic and Gabriel were inseparable, closer than most brothers she knew. Not biological brothers, but Gabriel’s father had taken Dominic in when he was orphaned.

Emma had visited Claire often back then and had been thrust into Gabriel’s path over and over. He’d made a lasting impression, but not in a good way. He had a way of flustering her that was very uncomfortable. For years now she’d successfully avoided him, making sure she had plenty of excuses at the ready if Gabriel was to be present. The last time she’d actually seen him was at Claire and Dominic’s wedding, ten years ago. He’d shown up late, roaring in on his motorcycle, wearing a leather jacket, leather pants, and an earring. Undignified and unrefined, especially for the occasion. Even worse, he had stirred something deep inside her she couldn’t name. Ten minutes later, decked out in a tux, he’d smiled at her, tucked her arm into his, and walked her down the aisle, best man to her maid of honor. He’d behaved appropriately during the ceremony, but then at the reception he’d flirted with all the bridesmaids and had taken most of them back to his room for a pajama party. Emma sniffed. Certainly no pajamas had been involved. And Egghead Emma hadn’t been invited, either. Gabriel MacGregor with his deep Scottish burr was a scoundrel—a rake.

She sighed heavily. There would be no helping it. She’d be forced to spend the next several hours with him in the car, but thankfully, it would only be that. Surely his visit to Gandiegow would be over soon and she wouldn’t have to endure his presence in the small Scottish town for too long.

Emma stowed her phone and realized she was being stared at by an extraordinarily handsome man. Tall, dark, and devilish. A rake through and through. As a trained psychologist, she recognized within herself all the telltale signs of instant attraction. Her pulse raced, she involuntarily licked her lips, and she brushed her hair off her shoulders.

Then recognition hit. Dr. Gabriel MacGregor.

Bugger me.

At twenty he’d been handsome and she’d thought him a man. But now she saw she was wrong. Dead wrong. He made the twenty-year-old Gabriel look young and wiry and inconsequential. This man had muscles filling out his long-sleeved polo, the breadth of an American football player, and the stance of a Scottish warrior. She did it again. Licked her lips. I’m in deep trouble.

He made his way through the crowd to her, not smiling, not happy to see her, either. In truth, she couldn’t blame him. She had been a pill at Claire’s wedding, but she had wanted everything to run smoothly for her friend’s big day. Emma might’ve crossed the line by scolding Gabriel at his tardiness. And she’d definitely given him plenty of attitude during the reception about his tart-iness. All those women, indeed. What could one man do with so many at once? From the novels she’d read—for pure research, mind you—she knew. Sex and lots of it.

“Do you have more luggage?” he said in his firm baritone burr.

It ran over her like warm syrup. No, butter. No . . . She fanned herself. She was incensed at her own visceral reaction. And he hasn’t given me a proper greeting. At least she could be civilized.

“Hello, Gabriel.” She felt her nose lift higher in the air. It might be misconstrued as snooty, but seriously, the man was six-three if he was an inch. She cranked her head back to inspect his face.

He gave her a one-sided frown and seemed to be inspecting her, too. But not her face.

“You filled out,” he said.

Instinctively, she put an arm over her breasts. Her cheeks burned. She started to give him a piece of her mind, but then she got angry with herself for letting him provoke her.

Defiantly, she put her arm down and stuck out her chest. “Look all you want. They expanded all on their own. Without surgical intervention.” Although her mother at one time had offered to pay for C cups if her nearly flat chest remained . . . flat.

Emma definitely wouldn’t lower herself and explain to Gabriel—a doctor who should know these things—that Egghead Emma had been a late bloomer. In almost every area, except intelligence.

“No reason to get your panties in a twist. I only meant it as a compliment.” He continued to feast his eyes on her.

She put her hands on her hips and glared back. “Are you done yet?”

“For now.” He gave her an unrepentant grin. Still the rogue.

“Yes, I have more luggage,” she said, answering his earlier question.

“Fine.” Without permission, he reached for her carry-on.

She grabbed his arm, stopping him. In the process, her fingers landed on an anvil-hard biceps. She yanked her hand away and snipped at him, “I have it. Thank you.” She tugged back her bag. “Your hands are filthy.”

As he glanced down at the grease under his fingernails, she took the opportunity to head off to the baggage reclaim, all the while giving herself a stern lecture. Getting grease off her Louis Vuitton luggage wasn’t the issue. He was a dog, and not the harmless type, either.

I can’t be attracted to Gabriel MacGregor. Not again. I just can’t. He was way out of her league. Besides, what self-respecting woman would want to get involved with a cad like him?

And those hands. His hands didn’t look like doctors’ hands—soft and delicate. He had the hands of an oil-rig mechanic.

She also noticed he didn’t wear a wedding band.

Of course, Claire would’ve told her if Gabriel had married, wouldn’t she? She’d told Emma when he’d suddenly gone off to medical school. Emma hadn’t believed it at the time, assuring herself that a do-nothing like him would certainly work in a grimy garage for the rest of his life.

Oh, dear. Her thoughts did sound priggish, didn’t they? But Gabriel seemed to bring out the worst in her. She’d treated him abominably back then, and she felt herself heading down the same path now. She would never be as serene and proper as her mother would like—all that etiquette training down the drain. Over the years, Emma had tried to be the person her mother wanted her to be, but she’d fallen short. She’d also fallen short of the person she wanted to be. But blast it, she was still trying to figure out who that person was.

With his long legs, Gabriel caught up to her. She automatically glanced over. He was all hard lines and pheromones.

“Why are you frowning?” he asked.

“I’m having a difficult time seeing you as a physician.” She probably should keep her sentiments to herself, but they’d always spoken their minds to each other, the truth flowing easily between them. Each of them giving the other more candor than Mum’s society friends would approve of. “Unless, of course, you use your title primarily as a way to pick up women.”

He frowned at her. “Princess, are we going to get off on the wrong foot again?”

“That depends on you,” she spouted. She did her best to sound assertive and unruffled, even though she felt unraveled and unsure. Seeing him didn’t help. And the past thirty-six hours had her more than a little battered and bruised. She’d been fired and displaced. If he could see inside her—see the real Emma Castle—he’d know she wasn’t such a snob. She didn’t have all the answers. In fact, he’d see how she was questioning every aspect of her life and every choice she’d ever made.

She put the focus back on him to take the focus off herself. It helped her feel less uncomfortable. She raked her eyes over him unabashedly. Doctors were supposed to be old and nerdy. Doctors were supposed to instill a sense of calm and trust. Doctors were not supposed to conjure up all sorts of vivid images of a steamy nature. Yes, she could definitely imagine Dr. Gabriel MacGregor in his lab coat, playing doctor. Just the thought sent a warm nervous tingle zipping through her veins, throwing her limbic system into a tizzy. Gads.

It rankled that he, a former grease monkey, had made something of himself. Her only claim to fame was that she’d succeeded in becoming a huge failure. But she couldn’t let him see how vulnerable she felt. No doubt he’d take advantage of it. She had to admit that he had every right to fling back one of her past sermons into her face. It’s time to become an actual adult and contribute something to society. The amount of bull she’d dished out regularly to him in their younger days was embarrassing. Especially since, by anyone’s standards, she was the screwup now. What had she ever done for society? Help people end their relationships?

At the baggage carousel, she intended to corral her own luggage, but she’d packed too heavily. In the end, Gabriel stepped in and hoisted her bag off, acting as if it was nothing more than cotton balls in his surgery. “Saint Gabriel,” she muttered under her breath.

He raised a superior eyebrow at her. “Thank you is the proper response. Has Ms. Manners forgotten how to comport herself?”

Him and his bloody burr.

And accuracy.

Yes, she should’ve taken the high road and been grateful. But he made her forget she was supposed to be a lady.

With a huff, she pulled up the handle on her bag.

“What’s in there, by the way?” He pointed to her rolling suitcase. “It weighs at least ten stone.”

“Books.” She would make no apologies. She’d packed as many books as clothes, planning to use reading as her escape from her disastrous life.

“Psychology books?” He frowned at her. “Certainly not your parents’ books.” His frown deepened.

“If you must know, they’re novels.” Books with happy endings. True, she didn’t believe in happy endings, but she needed a dose of unreality right now. She’d had enough of the real world—its misfortune and misery.

“Well, we’d better get a move on. There’s a winter storm blowing outside,” he offered. “I was afraid you might be diverted to London. But you made it just in time.” He looked up at the board as the announcement came over the loudspeaker: All flights were canceled.

As they hurried through the terminal, she couldn’t stop peering over at him. He was so damned good-looking. A proper English deb did not swear, not even in her own thoughts, but once again Gabriel had her behaving quite horrendously.

“Emma,” he said impatiently, “why are you staring?”

“I . . . uhhh.” She sounded like an imbecile. Had his hair always looked this enticing? Enough so that she wanted to run her hands through it? She wondered if Gabriel was in a relationship.

“Well?” he said impatiently.

“Well, what?” She felt stupid for zoning out.

He frowned at her as if disappointed she couldn’t keep up.

“Listen,” she countered back, “I’ve been traveling for the past twenty-four hours. Cut me some slack.” She’d been in America far too long, adopting some of their terrible language habits.

“Fine. Slack cut,” he said.

She knew a few things about Gabriel. She’d met his father, the Reverend Casper MacGregor, at Dominic and Claire’s wedding. He had officiated and they’d had a lovely chat afterward. Gabriel was raised in the Church of Scotland—Presbyterians. Which didn’t exactly mesh with what she thought of him. Emma had been raised pragmatically—Mum insisted that religion was for those who needed it. Her parents had no need. They had money, fame, and high-profile careers.

Emma felt like they’d been trekking for miles through the terminal. Maybe she’d been rash by not allowing Gabriel to help. Her arms felt like deadweight, tired from maneuvering both her carry-on and the checked bag behind her.

Before they stepped outside, Emma stopped to button her suit jacket. But when she left the terminal, she found her effort was in vain. It was bloody miserable—cold as freezer frost. Wind blew up her long pencil skirt and froze both her legs and her nether regions. Her lined suit jacket couldn’t keep out the cold, either, as the snow whirled all around them. “This is quite an adjustment,” she hollered above the wind.

“Which? The cold weather or the darkness?”

“Both,” she answered.

“The Highlands are extreme, Princess. If you think the short days are something, wait until the endless summer nights.”

“I don’t plan to be here that long.” She pulled her scarf more tightly around her neck, clung to her cases, and hurried along.

He led her to his ancient Land Rover.

“The same auto you had ten years ago?” She wondered if he still had his motorcycle, too.

“Aye. I recently restored the interior.” He unlocked her side of the car. “Get in.”

Even though she was cold, she waited at the back with her bags.

He opened her door. “I said, get in. It’s freezing.”

“Just open the back.” She was stubborn. She intended to prove to Gabriel she wasn’t the pampered princess he thought she was.

He came around to the back and unlocked it. She started to lift her bag.

“Here, I’ve got it.” He reached for her luggage, as well.

A small tug-of-war ensued. Determined to win the battle, she yanked as hard as she could, but the handle broke, sending her backward into the snow. If she’d thought it was cold before, she was mistaken. Instantly, she became crushed ice cold from head to toe.

He offered her his hand to help her up, but she swatted him away.

“I’ve got it.” She stood and shook the snow out of her hair. When she bent over to get her carry-on, Gabriel started brushing snow off her bottom.

“What are you doing?” She leapt away from him. “Stop!”

“I’m just trying to help.” He gave her a grin and one more brush.

“Just get the car going,” she yelled.

“You get in first.”

“Fine.” As she huffed to the passenger’s side, Gabriel threw her bags in, none too gently. When he slid into his seat, he had an nasty old blanket in his arms and moved to wrap it around her.

“Don’t,” she cried, scooting away from him. “What is that smell? Dog?”

“I don’t know. Someone must’ve left it in the back when they borrowed the Land Rover.” He tried again to wrap her in it, this time grazing her shoulder.

“Stop, Gabriel.” She pushed it away.

“Listen, Your Majesty, if you don’t raise your body temperature, you’ll be in a heap of trouble. You’ve heard of hypothermia, haven’t you?”

“I’d rather freeze to death than be asphyxiated by that smell.”

“Suit yourself.” He started the car and cranked up the heat. He glanced over at her. “You should probably take off your gloves and blow on your hands.”

“Great medical advice,” she said.

“Hey, I’m here to help.”

She covered her nose. “Then put that blanket away. Better yet, throw it in the garbage. I can’t handle the smell all the way to Gandiegow.”

“Sure, Princess.” He hopped out, taking the nasty blanket with him.

She wanted to tell him she wasn’t a princess; she was a debutante. Big difference. A princess was a princess. A deb had to be introduced into society, which, in Emma’s case, had been a lot of work.

She looked out the window, wondering what took so long. Gabriel was sweeping the snow from the windshield, rear window, and mirrors, but it seemed to be gathering quicker than he could remove it.

When he got back in, he rubbed his hands together. “Brrr.”

Emma’s teeth chattered a little, but she needed reassurances. “Are you sure we’re going to make it to Gandiegow?”

“Aye. We’ll do fine.” He patted the steering wheel. “Her engine is newly rebuilt and she’s purring like a kitten.”

“So, the car’s female?” She expected him to make a lewd comment, something about all sweet rides are. Or maybe she’d been too programmed by her mother; naughty talk was a huge part of Mum’s Take Back Your Orgasm program. Emma glanced over at Gabriel. With all that masculinity oozing off him, his specialty was clear—Meow.

He gazed through the windshield up at the sky, which was white with blizzardlike snow. “It’s damnable out there. How’s your body temperature?”

“I’m fine.” But sitting next to him made her nervous. “How long will it take to get to Claire?”

“In this weather? I don’t know. We’ll have to take it slow. Just sit back and relax.”

Not even possible.

“Don’t worry, Emma,” Gabriel said, misreading her uneasiness and shocking her by using her name. “I promise to get you to Gandiegow safely.”

Then he did the weirdest thing; he reached out and dusted the last of the snow from her shoulder.

She sat there, stunned. He looked a little embarrassed himself. He jerked his head forward and put the car in gear. Without a word, they made their way out of the airport. The streets beyond were relatively empty and even the highway had little traffic.

After a time, she felt safe to secretly peek over at him. Mr. Perfect handled the auto with ease, his large hands resting on the steering wheel, his uneasiness of a while ago gone. Maybe she’d imagined it. When they slid a bit on the curvy roads, he stayed calm, even then exuding confidence. His medium-length coffee dark hair was perfectly styled to fit his perfect head. When he was younger, his hair had been long and wild and out of control. He’d tamed it and it seemed to suit him now. The only part that spoke of rebellion was the beard stubble. But it wasn’t a full rebellion, like he hadn’t shaved in days. No, he must have trimmed it carefully this morning. Emma ached to run her hand over it to see if it felt prickly or soft or maybe a little of both. She turned away and shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Are you all right?” Concern pinched his eyebrows together.

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” The look he gave her made her feel vulnerable. “Did they teach that compassionate look in medical school?”

The doctor shot her a scowl.

Much better. That she could deal with. They drove on for several more miles, but she couldn’t help sneaking another peek at him.

He sighed heavily. “Emma, ye’re staring again.”

She turned back to her window but saw only darkness. “It’s just that,” she said quietly, “you’ve filled out, too.”

*   *   *

Did Gabe just hear Emma Castle turn his own words back on him? Shocking. So Miss Priss did have a little spunk. From his dealings with her before, he figured she was crammed full, from top to bottom, with her mama and papa’s brand of snobbery. He’d seen Emma on the television recently, standing like a statue beside her famous parents while they’d peddled their books. Books I wasted time reading. Books that were pure rubbish. Relationships were more than manipulations, power struggles, and Kama Sutra sex.

Ah, hell, he shouldn’t judge. It had taken him years to figure out that he wanted more than a nice ass in tight jeans. But now that he had, he was ready to settle down and find himself a warmhearted Scottish lass.

Gabe shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat and turned on the radio. Usually, he was as easygoing as the next guy. But something about Emma Castle knocked him sideways. She was the one woman in the world who could make him feel off his game. It wasn’t her beauty; he was bored with attractive women. Hell, back in the day, he’d cornered the market on gorgeous birds—blondes, brunettes, and redheads. He was looking for something more.

Out of nowhere, he found himself speculating . . . What color is Emma’s hair? He glanced over. Cinnamon?

He swerved and muttered under his breath. What was wrong with him? Cinnamon! For Pete’s sake, he wasn’t a romantic. Sure, he could play the role to get a woman back to his flat—which he’d done many times—but still. Cinnamon! He almost reached down to make sure his balls were still intact.

But he had turned over a new leaf. No longer the hound dog of his youth, playing fast with the girls, or the rogue of his twenties. Now that he was thirty-one, he was ready for a real relationship. Not marriage per se, but something with more commitment than the string of one-nighters or two-nighters he’d enjoyed since his school days.

He glanced at Emma again on her side of the Land Rover. At Dom and Claire’s wedding Emma had been much too uptight to have any fun. He’d tried to get her to loosen up, but to no avail. The more she’d given him her look of disapproval with those big evergreen eyes of hers, the harder he’d tried. In the end, he’d given up and overcompensated by taking a handful of women back to his room. He didn’t stay, but returned downstairs to drink alone at the bar.

“Is the heat set all right for you?” he asked.

“Fine,” she clucked at him with her full, enticing lips.

The conversation died once again. He wondered how long she planned to stay in Gandiegow. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be too long.

Headlights appeared in front of them through the snow-induced whiteout. Gabe pumped the brakes to keep from hitting the car, but in vain. His Land Rover kept sliding toward them. He turned the wheel to avoid the crash, but his maneuver had them skidding into a ditch. Instinctively, he extended his arm to hold Emma in place. It registered that he pressed against her incredible breasts, but only for a moment, before they hit the far side of the e