Some Like It Scottish

Book 3: Kilts and Quilts

by Patience Griffin

Genres: Romance; Contemporary Romance; Scottish & Highlander

Synopsis

Kit Woodhouse's matchmaking business is such a success, she's expanding to the Highlands of Scotland, where the hot, prosperous, and kilted are anxious to connect. Now, looking to fill her stable with eligible bachelors, Kit's arrived in Gandiegow to recruit potential Real Men of Scotland. It's not until she meets her tour guide that she discovers just how real they can be.



With his sexy grin, jeans, and black wellies, Ramsay Armstrong is an unpolished hulk of a Scottish fisherman-and a skeptic when it comes to romance. He's not exactly a man of "pairing attributes" when talking marriageable matches, but he does make Kit's heart beat a little faster. Maybe it's the scent of the sea in his hair. Maybe it's the challenge. Maybe it's the thrill of the unexpected. Then again, maybe it's love.

Release date: July 7, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 384

Sample

PRAISE FOR TO SCOTLAND WITH LOVE

More from Patience Griffin’s
Kilts and Quilts Series

SIGNET ECLIPSE

Acknowledgments

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

Aileen (AY-leen)

Ailsa (AIL-sa)

Bethia (BEE-thee-a)

Buchanan (byoo-KAN-uhn)

Cait (KATE)

Deydie (DI-dee)

Lochie (LAW-kee)

Macleod (muh-KLOUD)

mo chridhe (mo hree) my heart

Moira (MOY-ra)

shite (shite) expletive

burn—small river or large stream

céilidh (KAY-lee)—a party/dance

fash—trouble

Gandiegow—squall

Ghillie (GIL-ee)—an attendant or guide for hunting or fishing

ken—understanding

selkie—mythological creatures who live as seals in the ocean but shed their skin and become human on land

Chapter One

Twenty-six-year-old Ramsay Armstrong pulled the fishing boat alongside the dock and hollered to his oldest brother, John. “What’s so important that ye’ve called me back? I haven’t checked the north nets yet.” He threw the rope to his brother.

“I’ll take care of the damned nets.” John tied off the boat. “I have a job for you, and it can’t wait.”

“Do it yereself!” More often than not, Ramsay got stuck with the crap jobs in the family.

“I had planned to.” John ducked his head and, stepping aboard, muttered, “Maggie won’t let me.”

Ramsay grinned. “Yere wife telling you what you can and can’t do.” He pounded John on the back. “There’s the reason I’m still single, brother.”

“Nay.” John shook his head. “Ye’re an arse, Ramsay. That’s why ye’re still single. No woman would have ye.”

“So what’s this job you need done?”

John didn’t meet his eye. “It has to do with the maintenance we scheduled for the boat.”

“I thought we set enough money aside for that.”

“I thought so, too, but a revised quote came in. The price has gone up. Way up.”

“By how much?”

John shook his head.

Ramsay frowned. John never shared the actual numbers with him, always keeping him in the dark, always treating him like the babe in the family. “So what’s this have to do with the favor you want?”

“Ross and I’ll take care of the boat while ye’re doing it,” John hedged.

“Spit it out, man.” Ramsay was about to knock his brother into the drink. “What is it?”

John pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and thrust it at him. “It’s all there. Her itinerary.”

Ramsay took it and opened the crumpled paper. The letterhead read:

Kit Woodhouse Matchmaking, Inc.
Kit Woodhouse, CEO
Real Men of Alaska Real Men of Scotland

Ramsay snapped his head up and glared at his brother. “What the crank is this? Matchmaker? From the U.S.?”

“Read on.” John busied himself with two empty buckets, but really he was avoiding Ramsay’s glare. He should be chagrined.

It was indeed a detailed itinerary—beginning with when this woman would land and her schedule for each day.

“For the next three cranking months?” Ramsay yelled. “Surely, you don’t expect me to play nursemaid for three months to some sappy matchmaker!” The word made him feel like he could breathe fire.

John hung his head. “I saw her ad for a driver on the Internet. We need the money. I thought you and Ross could run the boat for the summer and I’d put up with driving Ms. Woodhouse around. But when Maggie found out, she nearly chopped off my balls.”

“It would serve you right.” Ramsay ran his eyes down the length of the paper. “Did you never think to consult Ross and me in your scheme?”

“I’m the oldest; I make the decisions.” John acted like he had decades on Ramsay, but he was only thirty-five, nine years older than Ramsay.

Ramsay huffed. “Well, ye’ve screwed up this time. You better call it off and tell this woman we can’t do it.”

“But I signed a contract.” John’s brow furrowed as he ran a hand through his hair. “Ms. Woodhouse doesn’t care who lives up to the contract, as long as somebody does.”

Ramsay wadded the paper in his fist. “So you volunteered me.”

“Ye better get back to the house and clean up.” John started the motor. “You’ll have just enough time to get a shower, and shave, before you have to rush off to the airport.”

Ramsay considered cramming the itinerary down his brother’s throat. He stepped off the boat instead, too angry to speak. On autopilot, he loosened the line and pushed the boat away with his foot.

John shouted above the motor. “Be on your best behavior and don’t screw this up. We need the money.”

Ramsay flipped him off, and then, shaking his head, trudged off the dock.

He sure as hell wasn’t going to let John’s asinine matchmaker interfere with his own plans. In one month Ramsay intended to have enough money to buy ole man Martin’s boat. Between the odd jobs at the North Sea Valve Company and helping the surrounding farmers after he was done fishing for the day, he would have enough. One month. And dammit, if he didn’t get the old codger the money by then, the boat would be put up for auction and go for twice what Martin had agreed to.

Well, Ramsay had no intention of losing his chance to get out from under his brothers’ thumbs. He wasn’t born the youngest for nothing. He’d learned early on there’s more than one way to wiggle out of a chore. He would make short work of the matchmaker, he decided. Three days with him and the interfering ole biddy would be paying him to go back to her nice cushy life in the States, where she belonged.

*   *   *

Kit’s plane landed late—way late. Of course she couldn’t control the weather, but she prided herself on being prompt. She’d learned a thing or two about how to come into a remote area and set up shop. First and foremost, she had to gain the locals’ trust. Getting off on the wrong foot wouldn’t do.

After Kit deplaned and made it to the other side of the gate, there was no one there holding a sign with her name on it, no one to pick her up. She waited around a few minutes, in case whoever it was had run to the bathroom. But no one came.

“Dammit.” She marched off to baggage claim to get her luggage. After filling up a trolley, she checked one more time at the gate—no one. She pulled out her folder and found the phone number for John Armstrong. When he answered, the background noise of an engine was loud and obnoxious.

“Mr. Armstrong, I thought we agreed that someone would be here for me.”

“Och, I sent my brother Ramsay to fetch you. He left eons ago. Is he not there waiting?”

Kit looked around in vain, trying to keep her cool. “No.” She started walking, heading for the parking lot. “Do you think he might be waiting outside?”

“Hold on, lassie. I’ll give him a call.” John seemed to be struggling with something on his end, wherever he was.

Kit stopped and snatched a pen from her pocket. “Why don’t you give me his number and I’ll call him?”

“Sure.” John rattled it off. “I’m sorry about this, Ms. Woodhouse. It’s a hell of a way to start out in Scotland.”

Tell me about it. “It’s okay.”

They said goodbye and hung up.

Kit pulled her trolley outside to see if the brother waited at the curb. There wasn’t anyone. She dialed the number. As it rang, a phone in the parking lot played the song “Kryptonite.” She hung up and dialed again—“Kryptonite” played once more. Exasperated, she dragged the trolley out into the lot to hunt for the owner of the phone.

She dialed once more and followed the song to a muddy Mitsubishi Outlander SUV where the door was open and a sleeping man sat inside. He had earplugs in, an iPod on his knee, and the cell blasting “Kryptonite” beside him. She hung up and stared at him for a long minute.

He was the same type of man she’d fixed up with her East Coast socialite clients through her Alaskan operation. A real man. He wore a red plaid shirt, jeans, and black wellies. The boots were awful and she couldn’t imagine anyone wearing them anywhere beyond a fishing boat. His dark hair was long and wavy, and framed a handsome, rugged face that also sported a day-old beard. Very attractive. But definitely not her type.

She dialed again, but this time as the phone rang, she nudged him. “You’ve got a call.”

He came awake on a slow inhalation and focused a heavenly groggy smile on her. “What?”

She pointed to the seat. “Your phone is ringing. It might be important.”

“Oh.” He picked it up. “Hallo.”

She put her phone to her ear, frowning, while maintaining eye contact with him. “I’ve arrived in Inverness. I’d like to go to Gandiegow now.”

The place between his eyebrows squinched together. “Fine,” he said into the phone, a quick flush of pink on his neck. He hung up.

She gave him a curt nod, pleased she’d embarrassed him.

He frowned at her. “They said your flight wouldn’t be in until eight p.m. I came out here to rest my eyes.”

“It’s eight thirty.”

He glanced at his phone and his brows knit together again. He unfolded his tall frame from the SUV. Scrutinizing her, he leaned against the side and crossed his arms over his massive chest. The puppy-dog sweetness was gone now, replaced by a mutt who didn’t like the smell of what had been dropped in his dish. “So ye’re the matchmaker.”

She slapped a smile on her face and stuck out her hand, determined not to let this skeptic get to her. After all, he was obviously not one of the wealthy Scottish bachelors she needed to win over. “Kit Woodhouse at your service.”

He considered her hand, and for a moment, she wondered if he might not take it. Just as she was about to abandon her effort at being civil, his hand enveloped hers. It was callused and firm. Normally, she had a good read on a person in the first five seconds, male or female. But she wasn’t clear on this guy. He was gorgeous if you liked rough-hewn and unpolished, which she didn’t, but that dark gleam he gave her hinted at more.

He held her eyes hostage while he gripped her hand. “Ramsay Armstrong. Unfortunate brother to John Armstrong, who contracted services with ye.”

She dropped his hand and shifted her eyes away from his gray ones. “Why are you the unfortunate brother?” She glanced up at his face again. “Or maybe I don’t want to know.”

He shrugged. “I’m a sea lover, not a land dweller. I understand that I’m to take ye all over the Highlands by auto. To do yere job.” He was indeed unhappy with her.

“Yes, I need to fill my stables.”

“Yere what? Is it man or beast ye’re after?”

“Stables. It’s an expression. I’m after men.” Great! That hadn’t come out right. Her delayed flight had her rattled. “I need to find eligible bachelors to fill my database.”

Her phone rang; it was Donna, her office manager in Alaska. “Excuse me.”

“We’ve got a problem,” Donna yelled into the phone. “Morgan has arrived from Connecticut, but Greg, her date, can’t be found. He isn’t answering his phone, either.”

Kit’s stomach dropped. “Son of a bitch. Greg assured me he’d show up to meet her, but I had a feeling he’d go MIA. Damned bachelor.” She’d been in Scotland all of three seconds and everything was going to hell back home. And here was this Scottish brute listening in on her conversation. She turned her back to him for privacy.

“What do I tell Morgan?” Donna said, fretting. “That’s a long way to come here for nothing.”

“Tell her not to worry. She just needs to hang on. I’ll find her a man in Scotland. Tell her that I’ll take care of her flight, everything.” It would cost a pretty penny, but Kit prided herself on customer satisfaction. It took another couple of minutes, but Kit was able to calm down Donna; then she hung up.

When she turned around, Ramsay was assessing her. “Ye know, don’t ye, that what you want to do here won’t work.” He lifted one of his smug eyebrows.

“What?” She couldn’t believe her ears; he’d given voice to her biggest fear—that she wouldn’t be able to make things work here in Scotland.

Kit had gone with her gut and gotten lucky with her operation in Alaska. The single women she’d known from the country club set—before her family had been forced to exchange caviar for bologna sandwiches—tended to be quiet and romantic; she sensed that what they wanted was a “real man” with a traditional approach to relationships. So she’d foregone the lower forty-eight entirely, bypassing not just the financiers and tech millionaires but the ranchers and oilmen who sounded rugged but who were just business tycoons, and sought out men from Alaska. And she was right. Real Men had proven to be what her clients’ hearts desired.

But when it came time to expand, Kit didn’t go solely on instincts this time. She’d hired a team of consultants to figure out her next move. The consulting firm’s recommendation: Expand her Real Men operation into Scotland. The firm had a great track record, but Kit had been worried ever since that they’d gotten it wrong. She worried whether her clients really yearned for a bigger adventure in a foreign location. She worried about the Scots and their compatibility. And she worried whether her East Coast socialite clients really longed for a Highland romance like the consulting firm said they did.

Kit’s father used to say never let them see you sweat. But right now, she could use more Arrid Extra Dry. She went on the defensive with the Scot before her. “You don’t even know what I do.”

Ramsay crossed his arms over his massive chest again, a man relaxed and sure of himself. “I have a pretty clear idea. If ye think your Alaskan boys don’t like to be told what to do, what makes ye think we Scottish men will?”

The Scottish man standing in front of her may have a lot going on in the looks department, but he had a lot to learn when it came to Kit and her tenacity. “I’m very good at what I do, Mr. Armstrong.” She had a high marriage rate to prove it.

“Why are you even here?” he questioned. “If you wanted to fill yere stables, as you say, you could’ve done that with yere computer from the Hamptons or Martha’s Vineyard or wherever ye call home.”

She took a cleansing breath. The Martha’s Vineyard house had been auctioned off with their other homes to pay their creditors. But she wasn’t telling this brute about her family’s plunge into poverty.

She straightened her shoulders and stood as tall as her five-foot-two frame would allow. She’d endured some stubborn men before and now it looked like she would have her hands full with this one. She stood her ground with the Scotsman. “For your information, Mr. Armstrong, I do things the old-fashioned way. I interview my clients and their prospective dates in person.” It was the best way to get an accurate assessment of them. “Skype or FaceTime might be considered the face-to-face of the twenty-first century, but I believe in the personal touch.”

He raised his eyebrows as if a crude comment was forthcoming.

She put her hand up to stop him. “Computers are for storing databases, not for getting to know one another.” It was bugging her that she still hadn’t pinned down this Ramsay Armstrong. She decided it must be because he was all brawn and no brains.

He had been leaning nonchalantly against the vehicle but pushed away from it, standing to his full height. He skimmed his eyes over her, from her summer sweater to her Lee jeans, right down to her new Doc Martens.

She wasn’t intimidated. She’d learned from her Alaskan adventure to dress properly. For the weather and the culture. And the natives. It was best to try to fit in, but not to try too hard.

When he was done with his perusal, he gestured at her person like she was nothing more than a mannequin. “You don’t look like an old-fashioned kind of lass. You look to me like you saw this outfit in an outdoor magazine and ordered it online.”

“Are you trying to provoke me, Mr. Armstrong?”

He shrugged. “I think what you want to do here is a crock of . . .” He stopped himself as if he’d thought better of it and stepped forward. “I don’t believe in matchmakers. People should come together naturally without the help of a third party, unless it’s the Almighty. Haven’t ye ever heard three’s a crowd?”

“All brawn, no brains,” she murmured. She wished she was taller, but her feminine stature was no match for him. He had to be six-two at least. She made sure her attitude made up for the difference. “You’re arguing against history. Matchmaking has been around since the beginning of time. Look it up.”

“If ye’re so good at this, then how would you match me?” he challenged.

She maintained eye contact. She was going to enjoy putting this arrogant cave dweller in his place.

“First, we’d have to discuss your assets. Do you own a manor house or an estate?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean not exactly?” It felt good to wipe that smirk off his face.

“I live in a cottage.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Is it at least a nice-sized cottage?”

“It’s the house I grew up in.”

“You still live with your parents?” He didn’t look like he’d failed to launch.

“I live with my brother Ross. And of course John, and his wife, Maggie, and their boy, Dand.”

Good grief. “That’s quite a crew.” She bet they were stepping all over one another. But back to the business at hand. She tilted her head back, trying to stare him down. “What about other property? A ranch? Any sheep? Cattle?”

He looked riled, his neck and chest creeping with red. “My brothers and I own a fishing boat.”

She shook her head. “Maybe if you owned a fleet of boats. Sorry, Mr. Armstrong. I won’t find you a bride.”

His eyes narrowed. Brawn looked like he was barely holding back a few choice obscenities.

In Alaska, she didn’t require the bachelors to possess major assets, just a decent job, but she was changing it up here in the Highlands. She was tired of running interference between her socialite clients and their parents. It had been a monumental task, trying to prove to the girls’ families that a man’s substance didn’t lie in his wallet. Kit was done with that hassle. She couldn’t change the paradigm for Alaska, but she sure as hell could require her bachelors here in Scotland to have money, or property, or both. Mummy and Daddy would feel better about losing their daughters to the wilds of Scotland if their offspring were matched with millionaires.

The great hulk of a Scotsman before her stood rod-straight, a warrior ready to make a scene here in the parking lot.

He could bluster all he wanted. Tough guys like him needed to be brought down a notch. Especially if they were attacking how she made her living.

She’d gone on the offensive; now, it was time to help the poor lout out. “I have a list of Marriageable Attributes. You should check out my website.” She reached in her bag, pulled out a business card, and slid it into the front pocket of his flannel shirt, patting it. She couldn’t help but notice he was rock solid, all muscle under her hand. She had the urge to pat a little longer. “Maybe after you review the list on my site, you can work at being a better catch.”

He caught her hand before she’d fully withdrawn it, turning the tables on her. He oozed with latent sexuality. “I do fine all on my own. I don’t need help to find a mate,” he drawled.

The word mate hung in the air. He let go of her hand.

Gads. Her imagination raced into overdrive. She was either extremely jet-lagged or she needed a date herself. She hadn’t been out in ages; she was too busy bringing other couples together. From the beginning, she’d drawn a clear line. She chose rugged men for her clients and picked Wall Street suits for herself. That way she was never tempted to mix business with pleasure. She hadn’t found a man with the qualities she wanted, but one day she would. As it turned out, her greatest gift—reading people—was also her biggest impediment to finding someone for herself. The stockbrokers and bankers she’d dated so far had only had money and sex on their minds, and little else.

Ramsay grabbed her bags. “Let’s get going.”

She glanced up and saw his muscles ripple under his shirt. Her breath caught. Yeah, I need a date.

He opened the back and threw in her luggage with brute force. She started to protest, but inhaled deeply instead. It would be best to choose her battles with this one. Otherwise, it would be a long, long summer.

She slid into the passenger seat and chewed her lower lip. There was a subject she had to broach with him and he wouldn’t like it. But it was important. She turned toward him in the seat.

“Mr. Armstrong—”

“Ramsay,” he corrected.

“Ramsay, then.” She paused. “We need to talk about my expectations.” She scanned his person one more time, really hating those black wellies of his. She steeled herself for what had to be said. “The bachelors I’ve selected to interview are men of substance.”

Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head as if he was barely tolerating her. “Don’t confuse substance with worldly goods; they’re two different things, lassie. Ye mean men of wealth, power, and standing.”

It wouldn’t do any good to try to convince him that she knew the difference. Hell, she’d put it in her business plan. “Yes, I’m speaking of wealth, power, and standing, as you put it.”

“Then what’s the rub?” he asked.

“I was wondering if you might reconsider your attire. Wear something a bit more upscale.”

He glanced at her with raised eyebrows. “Ye have a problem with me being a fisherman?”

“No, of course not. It’s an honorable profession.” She meant it but hurried on. “There’s nothing wrong with being casual and comfortable.” She gestured toward her own clothing. “But when I interview these men, I’ll be dressed professionally.”

“I see. And since I’ll be with ye, ye’ll be wanting me to convey the right image as well.” He put his eyes back on the road and jammed the gearshift into drive. “Don’t worry, lassie. I’ll be dressed the part.”

“Thank you, Ramsay. I appreciate your cooperation.”

She didn’t tell him that everything was riding on this trip. Every dime she’d made and saved. Her sister Harper’s fall tuition for graduate school. The cost of community college for her younger sister, Bridget. Kit expected she’d have to help her mother with her living expenses now that Bridget had graduated high school and her social security survivor benefits from Daddy had run out. Even Kit’s self-worth and ego were on the line. Everything. She had to make a go of it in Scotland or lose it all.

As silence filled the car, Kit gazed out the window. It was late and the sun still hung in the sky. The summer days were long in the north of Scotland, the view desolate and beautiful. The mountainous hills rose out of the earth like giants. There were few trees and she couldn’t help but compare it to the Alaskan bush with its vast forests of green. The stark landscape around her had a soothing quality, but Kit couldn’t tamp down the fear rising within her. Fear of the future and the unknown. In the past, she had never let the fear overtake her. She’d always made it through the tough times and she would again this time, too, wouldn’t she?

She must’ve dozed off because she came awake abruptly as Ramsay brought the vehicle to a stop.

“Are we here?” She looked out and saw the roadblock in front of them.

“Nay. But we’ll be there shortly.” He shifted into four-wheel drive and drove the car down an embankment.

Warning bells should’ve gone off, but the man in the seat next to her must’ve instilled a walloping dollop of trust. Or she was too exhausted to be concerned at his sudden foray into off-road four-wheeling. “So do you want to share with me what’s going on?”

“The road into Gandiegow is being repaved. We’ll have to go in by boat.”

Dread swamped Kit and she twisted her hands in her lap. She hadn’t been on a boat since her father died. “Is there another way?” She hated how weak her voice sounded.

He glanced over at her. “Ye have my word that ye’ll be safe.”

She nodded. He couldn’t know what this did to her. As they rose over the last dune, the water appeared. Her father’s grave.

Ramsay pulled the SUV to the edge. “There it is.”

A wooden dinghy was tied to a post with a long rope that drooped in the mud. “Low tide, I presume?” She looked down at her new Doc Martens, not happy to have to break them in this way. But more importantly, did Ramsay have a life vest?

Her father used to call her trout because she was a born swimmer. But that was before.

Ramsay turned off the car and shoved the keys in the glove box. He jumped out and retrieved her bags.

They walked through the grass to the edge of the mud. There Kit hesitated.

Ramsay shook his head and muttered, “New shoes.” He dropped her bags, scooped her up, and began trudging toward the boat like she was nothing more than a piece of luggage.

She gasped. “What are you doing?” She clung to him for dear life as he walked her toward the water. “Stop!”

“Ye’re lucky I don’t sling you over my shoulder.” His wellies hit the water and he held her higher, making sure she didn’t get wet.

She could only stare into his determined face, forcing herself to calm down, focusing on his chiseled features, weathered from the sun and wind. His solid arms and shoulders made her feel safe, reassured he wouldn’t drop her.

She relaxed just enough to get why he wore the wellies.

Whatever lingering thought she’d had that he’d behaved gallantly slipped away as he none too gently deposited her in the boat. She had to grab the gunwale to keep from falling on her butt.

As he waded back to shore for her bags, she scrambled for the life jacket stored under her seat and quickly secured it around her, buckling it into place. She ignored that it was wet.

He frowned at her in the life vest for a long second before putting her bags in the boat. She didn’t care if he thought she was a chicken or not.

He untied the rope from the post and looped it to the front of the dinghy before climbing in next to the motor. “You better hold on.” He pulled the rip cord and they were off.

Thank God the ocean was calm tonight or else she might’ve flung herself at him for a stronghold as they bounced through the water. She’d never been afraid of the ocean as a little girl on her father’s yacht. How times had changed. How she’d changed. Just another example of what she’d