Her Highland Boss: The Earl's Convenient Wife / In the Boss's Castle / Her Hot Highland Doc

‘Jeanie, you know how much I love you, but your man’s roaring in the street and he’s woken the bairns. Either you face him or I will, and if it’s me, it won’t be pretty.’

Alasdair wasn’t roaring in the street, Jeanie thought helplessly, but everyone else was. Everyone in Duncairn would know that the Earl of Duncairn was under Maggie’s window—wanting his wife.

Everyone knew everything on this island, she thought bitterly as she hauled on jeans and a sweatshirt and headed downstairs. Why broadcast more? As if the whole mess wasn’t bad enough... She didn’t want to meet him. She did not. She’d had enough of the McBrides to last her a lifetime.

Dougal was still in the doorway, holding the dog back. He’d stopped shouting, but as she appeared he looked at her in concern. ‘You sure you want to go out there, lass?’

She glowered. ‘Maggie says I have to.’

There was a moment’s pause while they both thought about it. ‘Then better to do what Maggie says,’ he said at last. Dougal was a man of few words and he’d used most of them on Alasdair. ‘Tell him to quiet the dogs. I’ll be here waiting. Any funny business and I’m a call away. And don’t be going out there in bare feet.’

Her shoes were in the attic, two flights of stairs away. At home...at the castle...she always left a pair of wellies at the back door, but here it hadn’t been worth her unpacking.

The only Wellingtons on the doorstep were Dougal’s fishing boots.

But a girl had to do what a girl had to do. She shoved her feet into Dougal’s vast fishing wellies and went to meet her...her husband.

* * *

He’d found out where Maggie lived. That had been easy—the island boasted one slim phone book with addresses included. He hadn’t meant or wanted to wake the house but she’d told him she’d be sleeping in the attic. All he’d wanted was for her to put her head out to investigate the shower of stones, he’d signal her down and they could talk.

The plan hadn’t quite worked. Now the whole village was waiting for them to talk, and the village wasn’t happy. But as a collective, the village was interested.

‘Have you run away already, love?’ The old lady living over the road from Maggie’s was hanging out of the window with avid interest. ‘Well, it’s what we all expected. Don’t you go letting him sweet-talk you back to his castle. Just because he’s the laird... There’s generations of lairds had their way with the likes of us. Don’t you be trusting him one inch.’

She might not be trusting him, he thought, but at least she was walking towards him. She was wearing jeans, an oversize windcheater and huge fishermen’s boots. Her curls were tumbled around her face. By the light of the street lamp she looked young, vulnerable...and scared.

Heck, he wasn’t an ogre. He wasn’t even really a laird. ‘Jeanie...’

‘You’d better hush the dogs,’ she told him. ‘Why on earth did you bring them?’

‘Because when I tried to leave they started barking exactly as they’re barking now.’ He needed to be calm, but he couldn’t help the note of exasperation creeping in. ‘And your guests have already had to make do with half a shelf of whisky instead of a full one, and bought biscuits instead of home-made. What did you do with the shortbread? If the dogs keep barking, we’ll have the castle empty by morning.’

‘Does that matter?’ But she walked across to the SUV and yanked open the door. ‘Shush,’ she said. They shushed.

It was no wonder they shushed. Her tone said don’t mess with me and the dogs didn’t. She was small and cute and fierce—and the gaze she turned on him was lethal.

She glowered and then hesitated, glancing up at the lit window over the road. ‘It’s all right, Mrs McConachie, I have him... I have things under control. Sorry for the disturbance, people. You can all go back to bed now. Close your windows, nothing to see.’

‘You tell him, Jeanie,’ someone shouted, and there was general laughter and the sound of assorted dogs faded to silence again.

But she was still glowering. She was looking at him as if he were five-day-old fish that had dared infiltrate the immaculate castle refrigerators.

Speaking of food... Why not start off on neutral territory?

‘I don’t know how to make black pudding,’ he told her and her face stilled. The glare muted a little, as if something else was struggling to take its place. Okay. Keep it practical, he told himself, and he soldiered on. ‘Two of your guests, Mr and Mrs Elliot from Battersea, insist they want black pudding for their breakfast. And Ethel and Hazel want porridge.’

‘Hector and Margaret adore their black pudding,’ she said neutrally, and he thought, Excellent, this was obviously the way to lead into the conversation they had to have.

‘So how do you make it?’

‘I don’t. Mrs Stacy on the north of the island makes them for me and she gets her blood from the island butcher. I have puddings hanging in the back larder. You slice and fry at need. The shortbread’s on top of the dresser—I put it where I can’t reach it without the step stool because otherwise I’ll be the size of a house. The porridge is more complicated—you need to be careful not to make it lumpy but there are directions on the Internet. I’m sure you can manage.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Well, then...’ She stood back, hands on her hips, looking as if he was a waste of space for admitting he couldn’t make porridge. ‘That’s sad, but the guests need to find somewhere else as a base to do their hill climbing. They might as well get disgusted about their lack of black pudding and porridge tomorrow, and start looking elsewhere immediately.’

Uh-oh. This wasn’t going the way he’d planned. She looked as if she was about to turn on her heels and retreat. ‘Jeanie, there was a reason you agreed to marry me.’ He needed to get things back on a sensible course now. ‘Believe it or not, it’s still the right thing to do. It was a good decision. You can’t walk away.’

‘The decision to marry? The right thing?’

‘I believe it still is, even though...even though your reasons weren’t what I thought they were. But long-term, it still seems sensible.’

‘It did seem sensible.’ She still sounded cordial, he thought, which had to be a good sign, or at least she still seemed neutral. But then she continued: ‘But that was before I realised you think I’m a gold-digging harpy who’s spent the last three years sucking up to Eileen so I can inherit the castle. Or maybe I did know that, but it got worse. It was before you inferred I’d married twice for money, three times if you count marrying you. You thought I was a tart the first time you saw me and—’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Come off it. When Alan introduced us you looked like you’d seen lesser things crawl out of cheese. I concede the way I was dressed might have swayed you a little—’

‘A little!’ He still remembered how he’d felt as Alan had ushered her into his office. Appalled didn’t begin to cut it.

‘Alan said it was a joke,’ she told him, a hint of defensiveness suddenly behind her anger. ‘He said you were a judgemental prude, let’s give you a heart attack. He said you were expecting him to marry a tart so let’s show him one. I was embarrassed to death but Alan wanted to do it and I was naïve and I thought I was in love and I went along with it. It even seemed...funny. It wasn’t funny, I admit. It was tacky. But Alan was right. You were judgemental. You still are. Eileen kept telling me you were nice underneath but then she loved Alan, too. So now I’ve been talked into doing something against my better judgement—again. It has to stop and it’s stopping now. I’ll get the marriage annulled. That’s it. If you don’t mind, my bed’s waiting and you have oats to soak. Or not. Lumpy porridge or none at all, it’s up to you. I don’t care.’

And she turned and walked away.

Or she would have walked away if she hadn’t been wearing men’s size-thirteen Wellington boots. There was a rut in the pavement, her floppy toe caught and she lurched. She flailed wildly, fighting for balance, but she was heading for asphalt.

He caught her before she hit the ground. His arms went round her; he swung her high into his arms and steadied. For one moment he held her—he just held.

She gasped and wriggled. He set her on her feet again but for that moment...for that one long moment there’d been an almost irresistible urge to keep right on holding.

In the olden days a man could choose a mate according to his status in the tribe, he thought wryly. He could exert a bit of testosterone, show a little muscle and carry his woman back to his cave. Every single thing about that concept was wrong, but for that fleeting moment, as he held her, as he felt how warm, how slight, how yielding her body was, the urge was there, as old as time itself.

And as dumb.

But she’d felt it, too—that sudden jolt of primeval need. She steadied and backed, her hands held up as if to ward him off.

Behind them the door swung open. Dougal was obviously still watching through the window and he’d seen everything. ‘You want me to come out, love?’

‘It’s okay, Dougal.’ She sounded as if she was struggling for composure and that made two of them. ‘I...just tripped in your stupid wellies.’

‘They’re great wellies.’ That was Maggie, calling over Dougal’s shoulder. ‘They’re special ones I bought for his birthday. They cost a fortune.’

‘I think they’re nice, too,’ Alasdair added helpfully and she couldn’t help but grin. She fought to turn it back into a glower.

‘Don’t you dare make me laugh.’

‘I couldn’t.’