Any Scot of Mine (The MacLarens of Balmorie, 4) Read online

  "No, Liam." But he was already pulling her into the fray, linking arms and following a large circle of couples as they skipped in a circle, then stopped and do-si-doed. "I don't know how—"

  He unlocked elbows with her and she spun around, linking elbows with Hamish next. "No matter, lass. Tis simple." Again she was passed to the next partner and then her elbow linked with Ross. They both stiffened, and he looked about as happy as she felt.

  The dance shifted so that partners stayed together and went around in a circle. Ross' hand slid around her back—a move all the men did as they guided their partners around. "Fair warning," Harper said, smiling straight ahead as they went around. "I'm not giving up."

  The circle stopped, they faced each other, linked elbows and spun. "Funny, I don't remember you being this annoying."

  They separated and Harper went through three more gentlemen before returning to Ross. Her blood was pumping and she couldn't wait to get back to him to say, "And I don't remember you being such a monumental ass." She smiled sweetly and continued past him to Liam.

  As she swept around with Liam, she brushed against Ross' shoulder. He gave her a look that promised retribution. Three more men around, and throughout she and Ross shot fire every time their gazes met. By the time they linked up again, Harper found she was enjoying herself, enjoying the anger, and the verbal punches. As he slid his arm through hers, she had every confidence she'd get the best of him. "The quicker you cooperate. The quicker I leave."

  He snorted, slid his hand behind her back and guided her around once more. "You leaving is the best thing I've heard since you got here."

  "Good. Then we have an understanding."

  "Never said that."

  His hand through her shirt was warm and big. If she could have, she'd move faster just to get away from it. His body made her feel swamped, overwhelmed. She couldn't stand him being this close, or him touching her, or the fact that she could smell his aftershave.

  They turned to each other at the end of the line, both breathing heavier, both unable to look away.

  God, he got under her skin.

  Before she knew it, she was in Liam's grip again, going through the paces and partners again, intent on getting back to Ross. He seemed just as intent.

  When they met up again, his closeness and his touch . . . dear Lord. She was not getting turned on. Not by him. A soft curse breezed from her mouth and she forgot the excellent insult she'd been about to deliver. Her heart pounded. Every nerve in her body was alive and keenly aware of him next to her. His heat, his scent, his breathing, the way his hip felt against hers as they went around, the way his big hand settled firmly on the small of her back.

  When they broke apart again and faced each other, she knew her face was flushed and her eyes must be betraying her. His were sharp and bright, a slight frown pulling his eyebrows together, the intent focus making her feel pinned to the spot.

  The music stopped. Harper clapped automatically. Everything outside of her and Ross seemed far in the background. The music changed again, this time a slow, soulful Scottish melody. Her body wanted to step closer, to flatten itself against him, wrap her arms around his shoulders and move with him. Hip to hip. Chest to chest. But her mind held her still. He hadn't moved, hadn't walked away, but neither had he moved forward. He seemed to be stuck in the same trance she was.

  Then someone bumped her.

  She blinked, and her will slammed shut any and all interest that was brewing in her.

  "Go home, Harper."

  "I'll go home when you go to hell."

  "Too late for that," he scoffed in a wry tone and moved past her. "Been there for twelve years."

  Harper stood there for a moment, struck by his words. What the heck was that supposed to mean? She was bumped again, before realizing she stood on the dance floor with no partner. Quickly, she made her way through the dancers and out onto the patio, drawing in large draughts of the fresh, cool air.

  She'd told herself numerous times this would be easy. What a joke. Deep down, somehow, she'd known it'd be anything but. And yet here she was, making a fool of herself.

  Did she really need the recipe? Yes. Yes, she did because she had no idea how to make booze. How many times had her father asked her to learn? Dozens. And yet she always found an excuse. Had she learned more about that part of the family business she might not need the recipe at all; she could experiment and formulate things on her own.

  Her uncle, Trace, knew. But ever since her father died, he'd been pushing her to sell Dean's to the massive corporation that had eaten up most of the Independent bourbon makers in the area. Dean's was one of the last hold outs. Sales were slipping. They hadn't made a new version of Dean's in years. Consumers needed something new, something amazing...

  Sighing, she pushed away from the wall and headed across the lawn toward the loch. At the shoreline, she toed off her sandals, smoothed her skirt under her rear, and sat on the grass, sticking her bare legs straight out and wiggling her toes. Her insides hurt, stress and failure burning her chest. She was the chief financial officer for Deans, not a bourbon maker. She didn't want to sell, but she, above anyone else, knew it made the best financial sense.

  Her family, they'd accused her of holding them back. They wanted out, her uncle, her cousins, the Deans who held a percentage in the company. If they all ganged up on her and sold their percentages to one company—most likely the one after Dean's—she'd be screwed anyway. Seemed every way she looked at it, she was doomed.

  Even if Ross did give her the recipe. By the time she got it, by the time the whisky was made, aged, and ready for the market....

  Harper focused on the water, trying to breathe through the disappointment and the reality of failure. She wiped at the corners of her eyes. Her father had known it too. But he'd made her promise anyway. He'd clung to the last bit of hope. Even to the very end. Even if it was irrational.

  Harper lived on facts and figures. She wasn't a dreamer like her father.

  No, just a failure.

  She'd booked the suite in Balmorie Castle for a week, unsure of how long it'd take to locate Ross and convince him to let her see the notebook. She had six more days. Six more days to what? Wallow? Ponder her failures in the family business and with Ross?

  Not likely.

  No, she was done here. She wouldn't beg. Wouldn't sink so low before a man who had used her and left her. She wanted him to give her the notebook because it was the right thing to do, not because he felt pity for her circumstances.

  Conflict raged in her. Stay or go? In the end, she was a Dean, and Deans were known for sucking it up and doing whatever it took. And despite her circumstance, and the fact that getting the recipe wouldn't save the family business, she'd do it for her father. Because he'd begged her to. Because she said she would. And goddamn it, Ross MacLaren needed to be the one who caved. Not her.

  If worse came to worse, she could always just steal it.

  Harper laughed softly. Yeah. Crazy. But, damn, the thought of sticking it to Ross, to getting what she wanted without his infuriating help, was appealing in so many ways. In fact, it wasn't really stealing. Just copying. All she had to do was find the notebook, copy the pages, and leave.

  Generations of moonshiners and lawbreakers were in Harper's blood. The idea of winning in the end, of attaining her goal, made all kinds of excitement course through her veins.

  Getting to her feet, she picked up her sandals and walked back to the castle. She hadn't committed to a crime just yet, but it was starting to look real good. In fact, there was nothing wrong with scoping out Ross' house and seeing just how easy it'd be. Besides, Liam already said if they found it, she could copy whatever she needed.

  It was like she already had permission.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ross stood at the bottom of the second story staircase and stared up at the attic door. He hadn't been in the attic since his mother passed away. Boxes he and Liam had stacked were still there, still in the same place,
still unopened since their packing. Just the thought of those familiar things and the memories they'd surely bring made a tight sensation spread across his chest and put pressure on his heart and lungs. He pushed away from the steps. He wasn't ready. And no one, especially Harper Dean, was going to make him ready.

  Downstairs, he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and then headed for his office at the front of the house. As he took a long, cold drink a shadow passed by the front window. Ross set the bottle on the floor by the wall and approached the window. As he glanced out, a shape hurried around the side of his house.

  He blinked, stunned for several seconds at the sheer gall of Harper Dean.

  Did she truly think she could sneak around his property and find the bloody notebook herself?

  As he backtracked and headed down the hallway to the back door, he was amazed at her utter disregard for the law and her unwavering stubbornness. She had spirit, he'd give her that. Harper always had a wild streak, fire always lurking behind those golden eyes of hers, but this time she was about to get burned. And Ross felt an immense sense of satisfaction to be the one to strike the match and light her up.

  It was more than she deserved.

  He eased up to the back door and listened. He heard a soft bang and a muffled curse. He grabbed the unlocked knob and held it still. As he expected, it started to turn. He held it fast, however.

  Aye. She'd regret ever messing with him.

  He gripped the knob harder, frowning—the lass was stronger than he thought—and contemplated his next move. He wanted to make her miserable, and the fact that she had put herself in a situation that allowed him to do just that . . . Well, it was a gift from above, the way he saw it. Just desserts.

  In a flash, Ross released pressure on the knob.

  The door burst open to Harper's strangled cry of surprise. She stumbled forward. He grabbed her arm, spinning her over the threshold and then pushing her flat against the wall by the door. He used his body to hold her there. Her breath was ragged and loud. His heart pounded with a rush of anticipation. Oh, he was going to torment the hell out of her, make her wish she'd never set foot on that airplane. Or Scotland. Or his doorstep.

  "Did ye truly think—"

  Pain shot through his groin.

  Bloody hell.

  His vision blurred. He stumbled back, shocked she had the nerve to knee him in the balls. He bent slightly at the waist, one hand on his knee as he struggled to regain his breath and cope with the pain. Harper's footsteps thundered down the hall toward the front door. Gritting his teeth, he charged after her, more determined than ever to exact revenge.

  Ross reached her just as she opened the front door. From behind, he reached over her and slapped it shut. She froze, her front pressed against the door. He froze, too, trying to regain control and think clearly. Her bum was snug against his front, against his aching, bruised balls. He could smell her shampoo. He leaned closer, his mouth just brushing the curve of her ear. "Cheap shot, lass."

  "Well, what did you expect?" she ground out. "Man yanks a woman into his house... I was only defending myself."

  "You seem to forget the fact you were breaking into my house, Harper."

  She shrugged and said pertly, "Details."

  Harper seemed perfectly content to stay squished up against his front door, obviously not wanting to face him. He grabbed her arms and turned her around. She was stiff and resistant, lifting her chin and glaring at him with that fire he'd been thinking about moments earlier.

  "I hadn't broken in yet, so you kind of shot yourself in the foot. You should have just waited. Then you'd have grounds to charge me."

  "Have you lost your mind?"

  Her eyes went narrow and her spine straightened. "Have you lost your integrity, your honor? Oh, wait, you lost those a long time ago. You withholding my father's work," she stepped forward and poked him in the chest, "is spiteful, rude, petty, unkind, rude—"

  "You said that one already," he said blandly.

  She gave him a hateful smile. "Okay. Jerk. How's that?"

  Something shifted inside Ross, and it felt a little like regret.

  Not liking the sensation and damned if she'd make him feel guilty, he grabbed her wrist, pulled her down the hall, ignoring her protests and attempts to free herself, opened the coat closet and shoved her inside, locking the door.

  Immediately she banged on it. "Ross! What the hell are you doing? Let me out of this closet right now!" The door rattled so hard, the hinges shook. "Ugh! This is kidnapping you know!"

  "Aye. Takes a criminal to know one, doesn't it?"

  She let out a frustrated groan and hit the door again. "You'd better hope I never get out of here, Ross MacLaren," she warned as he crossed the hallway, grabbed his beer and sat down, resting his back against the wall.

  Harper muttered randomly. Cured and made threats—incredibly vivid imagination she had.

  Sometime during her tirade, the fire died in her voice and he barely heard her calling herself an idiot. Much like he felt, to be honest. Letting her in his home had been a bad idea. Very bad. Now what the hell was he going to do with her?

  Movement and a thud told him she had sat down against the door. Another quick couple of thuds suggested she banged her head on the door a few times. She let out a heavy breath. "Forget it," she said, her tone defeated. "Wouldn't you do whatever it took? If you'd made the same promise to your mother? If you gave your word?" She paused, her voice sinking into quiet disappointment. "Never mind."

  Ross sat there, one arm hanging over his bent knee. Christ. He didn't want to feel anything. Much less understanding. Definitely not guilt. He took a long gulp of his beer, then set it down again, wiping his mouth. Maybe he was being a jerk. Petty. Rude. Spiteful, for sure. But what'd she expect? Him to smile and greet her with open arms?

  Still, her words wrapped around his resolve and squeezed until he had to admit that she was right. Had the tables been reversed and he'd had to make a similar promise to his mother, Ross would have tried everything to make her last request a reality.

  Harper adored her father. She'd once confided in Ross how her mother had walked out on Whit and Harper when Harper was just a toddler. Whitney Dean had been Harper's greatest champion, her protector, her council, and the one man who she'd counted on. And now he was gone, leaving Harper with the task of saving the family business if she could.

  Dean's had been everything to Whit. Ross knew how devastated his own mother had been when Balmorie Distillery closed its doors. Had he been at an age when he could have saved it, he would have tried anything.

  You still could.

  He rubbed a hand down his face, annoyed his mind would even go there. Annoyed that the dream still lingered. But it was just that. A dream.

  He took his time finishing the beer, then got up and stepped to the closet door. A sudden moment of nerves set in. He wasn't sure how her release would go and what he'd be met with once he opened the door.

  He knocked gently. "Harper."

  Something hit the back wall as she scrambled to her feet. A few hangars fell and it sounded like she wrestled with the broom. Brilliant.

  "I'm going to let you out."

  "Your funeral," she muttered.

  Ross turned the lock. The door flew open and slammed into his head. Pain radiated through his forehead. "God damn it, Harper!" His back hit the opposite wall.

  He pressed the already forming knot on his skin and checked his fingers for blood.

  She hadn't moved from the closet. Just stood there, her hair messed up, black smudges around her eyes from crying. Ross straightened, his heart dropping and his pain forgotten. All the guilt he'd been trying to avoid swamped him in one blinding moment.

  Fucking perfect. He shook his head and regarded her for a long moment. "I'm sorry."

  That seemed to make matters worse. A sob burst from her mouth, her head bowed, and her shoulders started to shake.

  "Harper." He started forward as she looked up, her eyes round and
stricken with grief. And then she launched herself in his opening arms.

  It had been twelve years since he'd held Harper Dean. And she still . . .fit.

  He breathed in the familiar scent of her, his hand smoothing her hair, rubbing her back as she sobbed into his shirt, wetting the fabric and his skin beneath. Whatever their conflict, it could wait. He wasn't a monster. He kissed the top of her head, telling her it was going to be okay. He kissed her forehead. Then, she lifted her head and gazed up at him and he kissed her wet mouth.

  He just did it. He wasn't thinking.

  His hands came up and cupped the sides of her face. He brushed her tears away with his thumbs. He told her he was sorry again and kissed her soft mouth once more.

  His heart hammered.

  Emotions swirled inside of him like an angry wind. The logical part of him was furious he'd put himself in this position. The physical part was breathing heavy and had fucking butterflies jumping around in his gut.

  What was he doing?

  No.

  Aye.

  Shaken, he released her and stepped back.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Harper followed Ross into the kitchen, feeling wooden and shell shocked. Some sort of truce had happened between them. Unspoken, but it was there all the same. And thank God because she wasn't sure she could handle any more emotional chaos.

  Her lips still tingled from his kisses, sweet kisses packed with so much punch—history, desire, regret...

  Best not to think about it. He'd done it out of guilt anyway.

  Ross retrieved a couple beers from the refrigerator, handed her one, and then took a seat across from her. For a moment they sat there in silence. His shoulders were tense. He scrubbed a hand down his jaw and let out a heavy breath. Yeah, she knew those feelings well. Maybe he wasn't as immune as she'd led herself to believe.

  After taking a drink, she fiddled with the label on the bottle. "Sorry about my attempted break in," she said with a sigh.

  He stared at her for a long moment from beneath those thick black lashes, and she wanted to slide out of her chair and hide under the table. Why did he have to look so freaking hot all the time? Couldn't twelve years at least have given him a pot belly or a wart on the nose or something?