The Laird and I: A Kilts and Quilts of Whussendale novella by Patience Griffin

Author:Patience Griffin [Griffin, Patience]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: contemporary romance
Publisher: Patience Griffin
Published: 2016-01-31T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Five

Hugh changed in the loo down the hall and went back to Chrissa’s room. He stood in the doorway for a long moment. He didn’t know what had possessed him to give up his own bed and say he would sleep in here. Like a warrior going to battle, he heaved himself over the threshold, shut himself in, and went to Chrissa’s closet. He pulled down the stack of quilts that he’d slept on as a grieving lad and made himself a pallet. He didn’t want to stop to examine his feelings. He was a grown man now, and he could do this. He shut out the light and lay on the floor next to his dead sister’s bed.

He stretched out, looking up at the dark ceiling for a long time, pretty sure that falling asleep would be a futile exercise. He should go downstairs and have a whisky. He could sleep on the damned loveseat like Sophie had done last night. He rolled onto his side.

As if he’d conjured Sophie up, the bedroom door opened and then quietly shut. She tiptoed toward him and softly felt the outline of his back. He didn’t speak, anticipating what she would do next, but he got it wrong. She lay down behind him, wrapped one arm around his middle, and curled into his back.

The spoon.

Hugh let out the breath he’d been holding. The spoon grabbed the top quilt and hogged the blankets. He laid his hand over hers, squeezed it, and fell fast asleep in her comforting embrace.

***

Sophie woke in the morning, sandwiched between two warm bodies—neither of the bodies were Hugh. His dogs were cuddling her. They must’ve grabbed their chance when Hugh had gotten up. She couldn’t blame the hounds. She’d been pretty brazen herself, having the audacity last night to snuggle up to the Laird.

She wasn’t sure he even knew she’d been there. He’d never said a word, but had held her in his sleep while she held him. Even though she’d slept on the floor, she felt rested this morning, thoroughly snuggled, like a well-loved quilt. She stretched, rolled over, and threw her arm over—she had to glance up to see—the Wallace. Neither dog budged. A pair of black hiking boots appeared in her lazy-morning line of sight.

The boots’ owner cleared his throat.

She glanced up and saw a kilt—rust-colored with green and blue lines. If the Wallace weren’t dead to the world, she’d be able to scoot closer to peer underneath. It would serve the Laird right. He’d tried to cop a feel under her sweater last night. Not that she was complaining or anything.

“Are ye going to lie in all day or are ye going to hurry off to the wool mill before Willoughby locks ye out of his workroom?”

“He wouldn’t dare,” she said. “I have connections. I know the Laird.” She cranked her head a little more to the side, but still couldn’t be sure what—if anything—he had on under his kilt.

“Well, lass, now that’s where ye’re wrong.

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