The Great Scot

by Donna Kauffman

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Loch And Load, Baby

Location coordinator Erin McGregor has finally found the perfect setting for her romance reality show, Your Prince Charming. The Chisholm clan stronghold in the Scottish Highlands has it all--romantic moors, windswept cliffs, misty lochs, a four-hundred-year-old castle, and possibly the most gorgeous man she's ever laid eyes on in chieftain Dylan Chisholm.

His three youngest brothers spoken for, Dylan Chisholm is at the top of his village's matchmaking list. Now they've sent some impish, forthright American lass up to tempt him into a devil's bargain: a foolish romance show for the money his village so desperately needs. It took a tragic loss to get Dylan to embrace his heritage. He can't turn away from such a promising offer. But keeping his thoughts off Erin McGregor is another matter. She's everything he never wanted in a woman, and suddenly, she's everything he craves in every way possible. . .

Release date: January 24, 2009

Publisher: Brava

Print pages: 353

Sample

D


ozens of sheep surged across the single track road and surrounded Erin MacGregor’s car, pushing the tiny rental to and fro, bleating and carrying on as if the event was one giant sheep rave. They leapt in hordes over the low stone wall on the opposite side of the road, apparently dying to discover if, in fact, the grass was greener on the other side. Erin could have told them that was impossible. As it was, the grass in Scotland already looked like Astroturf.



Her forward progress temporarily halted, Erin used the break to once again study the directions given to her by Brodie Chisholm, the pub owner back in Glenbuie. She’d already gone past the family-owned Chisholm distillery, driven through endless stretches of Chisholm-owned farmland, and was finally nearing the mountains north of the little highland village. During the time she’d spent nursing a pint of ale at Hagg’s and chatting up the locals, she’d learned, among other things, that the Chisholm whisky label was the backbone of Glenbuie’s economy and had been for several centuries. “Well, just maybe I can add to that bottom line a little,” she explained to the sheep, who paid the announcement little attention; quite unlike the villagers, however, when she’d mentioned the same thing to them.



She drummed her fingers steadily on the steering wheel, no longer cringing as, one after the other, the sheep banged around her car. She’d already learned that the horn didn’t faze them in the least. The first time the little bleaters had suddenly gone from being innocent woolly bystanders to abruptly leaping over the stone wall directly in front of her car in an apparent mass suicide attempt, she’d screamed and slammed on the brakes, terrified she might hit one of the adorable little black-faced darlings. One hour and four sheep-jackings later, her humanitarian instincts had rapidly receded. One of them gave her wheel well a thump as it passed, and she made a mental note to try the lamb before she left the country.



She nudged the car slowly forward, earning a few sheep glares, but was finally able to move past them. Minutes later the valley was behind her and no longer in sight, her rear view swallowed up by towering pines as she wound her way into the mountains.
Almost there.





“Please, please, please be what I’m looking for,” she prayed, downshifting as the climb grew steadily steeper. She’d scouted locations a million times, confronting language barriers, cultural differences, and any one of a number of complicated obstacles, and usually got what she wanted. So there was no reason to feel nervous or edgy. Yet, she did.



When their London site burned to the ground ten days ago, it had been Erin’s bright idea to go to Scotland. She’d first gone to Edinburgh, convinced she’d find something in the ancient city to suit their purposes, but nothing had really grabbed her. So, this morning she’d headed north, intending on Inverness, and its proximity to both the mountains and the sea, but had gotten sidetracked the instant she’d wound her way into the tiny village of Glenbuie. It didn’t have the cosmopolitan feel they usually went for—the “class factor” as her boss, Tommy, termed it—but what it lacked in urbane sophistication, it more than made up for with its intimate charm and romantic appeal. Glenbuie was like Brigadoon come to life.



She rounded the tight turn near the peak and found herself facing a narrow rock strewn lane, fronted by two, massive stacked stone pillars. There was a small brass plaque on one of them, long since oxidized green from exposure. She rolled to a stop and read the raised lettering.
Glenshire
. She was here.



Low, stone boundary walls jutted out from the pillars and disappeared up into the rocky hills, but as they were mostly covered with ivy, and backed by more thick stands of towering pines, she couldn’t see how far they extended, or any of the property that lay beyond. She drove slowly up the rutted lane, thankful there was not one sheep in sight, and automatically began making mental notes about what would have to be done to make the entrance accessible and camera-ready. She doubted the owner would mind the upgrade.



The narrow drive wound upward almost another full kilometer before finally topping out on another hairpin turn. All thoughts of pre-production prep work fled her mind completely as she let the car roll to a stop. That familiar, much-wanted rush of adrenaline punched into her system as she hungrily took in the vision before her.
Wow. And double wow.





So, Brodie hadn’t been kidding. In fact, he’d undersold the place. She sat at the entrance to a circular cobbled driveway. The centerpiece was a huge, beautifully sculpted fountain that had seen obvious repairs, but was all the more remarkable because of its age. Beyond the fountain rose Glenshire itself. Not a fairytale castle by any stretch, nothing so Disneyesque as that. No, this place had true character. It was a rather immense, battle worn pile of bricks, but with the ivy covering the walls and the crenellated trim that ran along the rooftop edge, it was impressive. She could only imagine the history those walls had endured.



The central section sported a huge double door entry with a massive iron and glass light fixture strung up on heavy chains above it, all of it appearing to have been there since the original mortar was mixed. It was imposing, and made the estate even more interesting and inviting. The double doors were framed by tall, narrow windows. The steeply peaked roof was inset with a pair of gabled windows, their glass panes gleaming brightly in the just setting sun.



Two-story wings jutted from either side of the three-story central section, the stone a slightly darker color brown, with the odd black brick here and there throughout. Each had a row of wide, double-casement windows along the bottom, and smaller inset windows along the top. Those had flower boxes beneath, each overflowing with a gorgeous array of pink and white blossoms that Erin, who had a black thumb and only had to think about planting something to kill it, couldn’t have named if her life depended on it, but was envious of their vitality nonetheless. The bright spot of color, along with the neatly trimmed box hedges that ran beneath the lower windows, and the topiary trees set on either side of the front door, all leant the place a rather magical glow.



She could easily picture a horse drawn carriage circling the cobbled driveway and made another mental note to tell the production staff to consider using one in the opening sequence. Maybe Greg could come prancing in on some fine stallion when he met the women for the first time. She sighed just a little, framing the shot in her mind.



There were no cars in the drive, so she pulled all the way around to the front of the house. Only then did she see the view from the house itself. She’d wound her way so far into the mountains she’d lost her bearings, but she’d assumed, this being the Chisholm clan stronghold, and perched on the peak as it was, that it would look out over the valley that ran between the village and the mountains, allowing the clan chief to look down over his domain. She’d expected to see Glenbuie and the distillery dotting the vista below.



The view was altogether different, however, but equally majestic and commanding. She climbed out of her rental car and turned, shading her face with her hand against the sun. Standing in front of the house looking out, her view was straight down the mountain range. An endless ripple of deep blue and green peaks, contrasted to the plum and rose hues of the early evening sky. The peak on which she stood was clearly the highest, providing her with an awe-inspiring outlook.



She walked over to the part of the circular driveway that edged along the steep drop off. It was railed off and quite safe, but the way it jutted outward, stepping to the railing felt like stepping off a cliff. Her heart caught in her chest as she looked down at the tops of trees that soared stories high. The dense stand of pines were so thick she couldn’t quite make out any of the winding mountain road below. She looked out across the narrow drop to the rise of the next mountain, then the peak beyond it, and on and on, as far as the eye could see. It was definitely a rush, like standing head and shoulders above the world. She could only imagine what it would be like to stand here during a wild storm, or when the mountains were cloaked with mist and fog.



The canals of Venice, the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa…each had been backdrops for previous seasons of the show. Glenshire was so completely different from anything they’d used before, far more remote, without a famous historical landmark as a marketing tie-in. But standing there with the warm, late afternoon breeze whipping at the tips of her hair, she couldn’t think of a more fitting setting for their next Prince Charming happily-ever-after story. Glenshire was earthy and bold, ancient and imperfect…and utterly romantic.



“The view is something, is it no’?”



Erin let out a little yelp. The unexpected voice had come from quite close behind her. A very deep, beautifully melodic, male voice. She made a grab at the railing when her feet slipped on the cobblestones as she whipped around to face him. She was rarely caught off guard, her internal radar having become highly developed by, oh, around age four. Being raised in a state home did that to a person. No one snuck up on her.



Disconcerted by so swiftly losing the upper hand, she plastered a self-deprecating grin on her face even before she found her balance. “So much for my grand entrance,” she quipped, even as he moved swiftly to take her arm and help her regain her footing.



“The stones get a bit slick when the evening mist comes in.”



The sun had just begun lowering in the sky and there wasn’t so much as a hint of mist in the air, but she welcomed the gentlemanly offer of an excuse. “Yes, thank you.” She slid her arm free from his unsettling touch and leaned back against the railing, gripping it with both hands, just as a precaution. Her knees had gone a bit wonky when she’d gotten her first full tilt look at him.





Earthy and bold, yet utterly romantic.





Her words to describe Glenshire could easily be used to describe its owner. Back in the village, they’d affectionately referred to him as The Great Scot. She’d never gotten around to asking why.



Now she didn’t have to.



He was tall, more than a head-and-a-half taller than her own five-foot-seven, forcing her to look up to see him properly. Way up. Like his younger brother, Brodie, Dylan Chisholm had a gorgeous mane of thick, dark hair, but the family resemblance ended there. His was straighter, and he wore it more on the long side. It fell across his forehead in a rakish sweep and brushed well below his collar in the back, which only added to the overall Heathcliffian effect. She doubted it had seen a brush in some time, but looked as if it had been repeatedly raked through by his own hand. Made a woman want to sink her fingers into it and tousle it a bit more. Her grip tightened on the railing as she realized she wanted to be that woman.



Her gaze lifted to his, and she noticed his eyes were a dark gray, fringed with dreamboat-thick lashes. All that lush beauty was offset by high, aristocratic cheek bones, a strong nose, and a hard jaw shadowed by a hint of a beard. It was an incongruous jumble of angles, not a classic profile by any stretch, and yet arresting for its imperfection. But it was his mouth that snagged the best of her attention.



His lips were firm, but slightly full, as if they’d been chiseled on an Italian Renaissance statue. Even more compelling were those deeply grooved lines on either side of his mouth that hinted at dimples, yet his expression was far too serious to truly believe him capable of it. And when you added his accent into the mix? Well, what warm-blooded female wouldn’t have gotten a bit wonky-kneed? If she had indeed seen any mist, she could be easily convinced it was just a cloud of pheromones wafting around him.



She belatedly realized she was standing there, all but ogling him. And he was letting her, with nary a flicker of amusement or consternation filtering into his steady expression. Although she couldn’t be too sure on that last part. He was rather hard to read. And it wasn’t like her to get so caught up in appearances. Far from it, in fact. Working in Hollywood had long since inured her to dreamboat good looks.



So why was it that this one made her want to fluff her hair and check her teeth for leftover bits of parsley? That was about as foreign a concept to Erin as wearing makeup or worrying about what outfit to wear. And yet, she had to resist the urge to run her tongue over her teeth and suck in her tummy a little.



She made herself release her death grip on the railing long enough to stab her hand toward him. “Dylan Chisholm, I presume? I’m Erin MacGregor. Your brother, Brodie, was supposed to call and tell you I was coming.” Which, from the totally blank look on his face, she could only assume hadn’t happened. Great. Strike two.



He took her hand, in a quick, business-like shake. His palms were wide, a bit work roughened, he had long fingers, warm skin and…and why in the hell was she noticing that? She jerked her attention back to his face, which didn’t help all that much. “I’m guessing you missed his call.”



“Apparently,” he said. “So…what exactly am I missing?”



Not the flirty question it could have been, despite the hint of amusement that had crept into his tone. In her experience, men who looked like Dylan generally didn’t make innuendo-laden, sexually suggestive small talk with women who looked like Erin. Which was to say average. Dead average.



And up until right that second, she’d been perfectly okay with dead average. Average was non-threatening and it enabled her to get what she wanted more often than not. As long as what she wanted was a production location and not…well, what she found herself suddenly wanting right at the moment.



“I’m interested in booking Glenshire. I understand you’ve turned part of it into a bed and breakfast.” She forced a steady, confident smile, when she, surprisingly, felt anything but.



“Ah, I see.” As understanding dawned in his eyes, he seemed to relax a bit. “I appreciate the interest. I’ll have to thank my brother for sending business my way, but I’m afraid we dinnae open for guests for another fortnight.”



“Oh, I know. That’s okay. Preferable really.”



He quirked one eyebrow and frowned a little, somehow managing to look even hotter doing so. “I’m afraid, as much as I’d like to accommodate you, I’m no’ ready for guests as yet.” There was the slightest twitch at the corners of his mouth, teasing at those intriguing creases, but the smile didn’t emerge. “Still more work to be done before we’re presentable.”



Erin grinned. “I don’t think you understand. I want to rent out your
entire
bed and breakfast. For the next two months.”







“I


beg your pardon?” Dylan couldn’t have heard the Yank properly. One of his brothers was having a go with him again, no doubt. “Did Brodie put you up to this? Because his humor can be found a bit wanting at times.”



“I’m perfectly serious.” The young woman stuck her hand inside her jacket pocket, fished around, came up empty, then patted down her other pockets, before smiling at him and pulling a card from the rear pocket of her jeans. “Sorry. I apparently handed out all my other ones in Glenbuie. I have more in the car.”



She’d handed out cards? He took the somewhat dog-eared business card and glanced down at it. “Erin MacGregor. Location Coordinator. Thomas Marchand Productions.” He looked back at her. “Wha’ exactly would ye be coordinating?”



“I’m scouting sites for one of America’s top-rated television shows. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?
Your Prince Charming.
We’re getting ready to film our eighth season.”





Your prince what?
“I don’t watch much of the telly, sorry.”



“We’re not syndicated over here,” she hurried on to say, “but we’re talked about in print and online all over the world. We’ve used locations in Italy and France, Brussels, Sweden. It’s a watercooler show.” When he frowned, she added, “You know, the show everyone talks about the morning after it airs? At work? We score very well with the broadest demographics. Advertisers love us.”



He handed the card back to her. “Well done, I’m sure. I’m sorry to say, however, that it won’t be possible to stage part of your show here. There is still work to be done and I’m booked up in less than a fortnight.”



Her smile didn’t falter. “Glenshire has been in your family for centuries, is that true?”



What was she on about now? “Aye, that it has.” Why was he still standing there, talking to her? There was more work to do than a battalion of laborers could tackle, and he was presently an army of one.



She stepped past him and walked a few paces toward the house, her stride confident, as if she was certain he’d follow. A determined sort, this Erin MacGregor.



She stopped next to the fountain, her gaze taking in the house in its entirety, her expression one of both awe and almost palpable excitement. “It’s amazing. I don’t know how you manage it.”



“Mostly I don’t.” He had no business standing about, having a chat, yet he made no move to dismiss her. Five minutes ago he’d been wrestling with a particularly stubborn spot of plumbing, before noting his visitor from the central window above. He still wasn’t entirely certain this wasn’t one of his brother’s practical jokes. Or worse, another matchmaking scheme. “Mostly it manages me.”



“I can well imagine. Quite the restoration project. Brodie told me,” she added by way of explanation. “Which, I understand, is partly why you’re opening the bed and breakfast.”



Dylan scowled. Didn’t his brother have anything better to do than flirt with Yankee lasses? The man was newly married, and shouldnae be consorting about. Of course Dylan knew full well that Brodie was naturally gregarious and equally affable with all who entered his pub, and totally besotted with his new wife. But that didn’t give the man license to spout on about personal family business with every straggler who wandered in the door, now did it?



She glanced over at him. “You’re the oldest, right? The clan chief?”



“Aye, that I am,” he answered absently, his thoughts momentarily diverted by the lecture he was plotting to deliver to all three of his younger brothers the first chance he got. It was one thing to nudge their lone, solitary sibling back into the land of the living, and, truly, he had arrived there some time ago now, but it was up to him when and if he chose to delve into a new relationship. They had no business tossing women in his path, no matter how well intended. Not that any lecture he delivered would likely stop them. Or any of the villagers for that matter.
Bloody hell.
He just wanted to be left alone to get the place into shape for his upcoming guests. Was that so much to ask? He looked at the smiling face of the woman before him. Apparently it was.



“I can’t imagine what it’s like,” she went on, “being responsible for maintaining the collective assets of your entire ancestry.”



“If ye only knew the half of it,” Dylan muttered. He stared at the crumbling heap, trying to see it as she must, and no doubt failing.



He’d grown up inside those moldering walls, feeling the pressure of all those eyes staring down at him from the endless rows of portraits hung in every available nook and cranny, knowing very early on that no matter what he did during his lifetime, the place would never be restored fully. Though his grandfather, Finny, had done his best to maintain a positive outlook, the burden would overwhelm even the most optimistic of souls. He’d tried to teach Dylan how he focused only on the most dire of Glenshire’s maintenance needs, and no’ the whole pile at once, or it would drive a man mad.



Unfortunately, Dylan had never been good at compartmentalizing. Perhaps he’d have been a better partner, a better husband, had that been the case. Perhaps he’d have better handled the sudden loss, too.



He swallowed a weary sigh, knowing it was indeed a talent he still sorely lacked. Exhausting as his birthright was, he’d long since come to the conclusion that maintaining the physical remnants of the Chisholm clan legacy was still a whole hell of a lot easier than overseeing the human element that came along with the title of clan chief. Which was more truthfully why he avoided the latter on most occasions.



“I know nothing about my ancestry,” she said, still taking the measure of the place.



Her easy confession startled him out of his ponderous musings. “Never traced your heritage?” As unimaginable as his burden was to her, likewise he couldn’t imagine that kind of absolute freedom.



“Nothing to trace,” she said with a shake of her head, causing her hair to dance a little in the early evening breeze.



He generally wasn’t a fan of short hair on women, nor did he care much for that messy just-out-of-bed-look. Sleek and elegant, with an eye toward sophistication, had always been what turned his head. Not that it mattered. If she really was who she said she was, she wasn’t here to turn his head. Which suited him just fine.



“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, more as a polite response, so he was surprised to discover he meant it. He might envy her freedom a wee bit, aye, but at the same time, he couldn’t quite imagine not knowing where he came from, who his people were.



She shrugged, smiled, her green eyes alight with a gleam that could only be described as impish. How was it he hadn’t noticed them earlier? They were quite striking, actually, enlivening her otherwise plain face.



“Don’t be,” she assured him. “I didn’t tell you that to play on your sympathy, I was just trying to convey how otherworldly this seems to me.”



He hadn’t forgotten she wanted something from him—his home, to be exact—so it would bode him well not to let her charm him in any way. He doubted that she’d forgotten for one second why she was here, and moreover, he was fairly certain despite her claim to the contrary, that this was all a rather calculated attempt to soften him up, or at least get him to let her linger long enough so she could make another sales pitch.



“When I was younger, I used to make up stories about my family,” she went on. “But even on a really good day, I could have never come up with something like this.” She turned back to the house, but not before he saw something that looked like yearning in her eyes. “Would it—?” She broke off, shook her head.



“What?” he asked, despite knowing he should end this now.



“I was going to ask if I could at least look inside.” She waved a hand, silencing whatever his response might have been. “But I should let you get back to…whatever it was you were doing. I would say I’m sorry I intruded.” She glanced up at the house one last time and a smile stole across her face that snagged his attention in a way a pleading speech never would have. “But I’m not.” She pressed the card back in his hand. “If you change your mind, I’m going to stay in town tonight. Please contact me.” The sharp gleam returned to her eyes. “The lease agreement we’d offer would top whatever your guests would be paying. And we’d happily absorb the cost of relocating those who aren’t willing to reschedule until after we’re done shooting. Of course, it goes without saying the free publicity will likely keep you booked up for some time to come after the show airs.”



He took the card without thinking. She was really something. And it hadn’t escaped him that she’d gotten her sales pitch in anyway.



“Thanks again,” she said, then turned and walked back to her car with a last glance at the house, but not at him. He watched her, his attention split between being somewhat dumbfounded by her moxie…and the way her rolling gait made her hips sway in a manner that wasn’t remotely enticing, especially in the baggy khakis she wore, but had his full attention, regardless. Forthright and determined, if not overtly feminine. So why he found himself wondering just what the curve of her bum looked like beneath those shapeless trousers, he had no earthly idea.



She paused just before rounding the front of her little car and looked back at him. “Oh, and thank you for the rescue earlier.”



He lifted a hand, gave her a nod…and wondered at exactly what moment he’d lost his mind. Because it took considerable control not to issue the invitation that was presently sitting on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath, waiting to see what she’d say next, until she waved and climbed in her car without another word. And, on a short sigh, he realized he was disappointed.



Maybe his brothers were right after all, he thought, watching her depart. Maybe it was time he got out, socialized a bit more. He’d been back almost two years now. But it wasn’t as if he wasn’t holed up out here, still wallowing in grief, much as they all suspected. There was simply too much work to be done to waste time frittering about in town. He’d get to that again. At some point. After the B & B was up and running most likely. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know how. He hadn’t always been Dylan Chisholm, grudging clan chief and widower. Back in Edinburgh, he’d been Dylan Chisholm, stock trader, society darling, husband. Aye, and in that order, unfortunately. Of course, Maribel’s priorities had been laid out much the same. But that was nobody’s business but theirs.



He was back now, that was all that mattered. And he took his role quite seriously. He hadn’t been in favor of throwing the doors of Glenshire open to paying guests, but he hadn’t had a better idea, either. So it had come down either giving it a go, or being the one to lose the family heritage after four centuries of steady ownership. So he was giving it a go.



Dylan watched as Erin’s taillights disappeared down the drive, then turned his back on her and her interesting, if completely insane proposition, and trudged back into the house.



Hours later he was still wedged under the sink, swearing quite creatively while trying to loosen an ancient, rusted-over pipe fitting, when the phone rang. He debated the relative merits of letting the machine pick up the call, but decided he could use the break. It was that or take the wrench to the entire project like a cricket bat.



He made it out onto the third floor landing where the phone table was positioned for use by the guests who’d be put in the upper floor dormer rooms, and snatched up the receiver on the fourth ring. “Hallo,” he barked, then immediately followed with a slightly less caustic, “Glenshire, may I help you?” They’d been taking bookings for the past several months and he still had a devil of a time answering his own damn phone like the receptionist in a bloody hotel.



“Ye can start by tellin’ me why you didnae at least give our lovely lass Erin here the chance to tell you how many bloomin’ zeroes were goin’ tae be on that check you so blithely turned down. Ye foofin’ arse.”





Oh, for Christ sake
. Getting chewed out by his brother was about the last thing he was in the mood for at the moment. “I’m doin’ the work of ten men here and have little time for your dramatics, Brodie. Tell Ms. MacGregor that if she’d like tae lease the place in the fall or winter when bookings are slim, we’d love to reconsider. Now, if we want our guests to be able to take a piss while they’re stayin’ here, I need to get back to replacing the pipes in the loo.”



“No need to get, well, pissy,” Brodie said, far more amused than abashed by his eldest brother’s outburst. Damn his perennial jovial heart to hell.



“Glad I can entertain. If ye’d really like tae help, get Marta to take over the bar and get your foofin’ arse out here. Preferably with a wrench in your hand.” He hung up the phone without waiting for a reply. It wasn’t entirely fair to jump Brodie like that, he and Reese had pitched in more than their share when they could get away from their own businesses, as had Tristan, when they could drag him in from the fields. But Dylan wasn’t much in the mood to be fair and impartial at the moment.



He stomped back into the WC, forcibly pushing aside any concern save the recalcitrant pipes he was trying to replace, and once again positioned himself beneath the sink. Only to find his thoughts wandering immediately to a pair of dancing green eyes and a lively, confident smile. Other. . .