Scotlander, page 10
The bell sounded again.
Too groggy to think clearly, she tugged on a fitted, scoop-neck T-shirt over some yoga leggings, jammed her feet into her rattiest but most comfortable pair of Uggs, then put the bodice on over her T-shirt and climbed into her petticoats and overskirt, which she’d left in an ungainly pile on the floor last night. It wasn’t a very comely olde worlde aesthetic, but it was warm and would have to do. There was no mirror to check herself in and, to be honest, she didn’t want one. Her dress was wrinkled and her Princess Leia whorls had undone themselves. The best she could do was pray no one had brought a travel iron and whip her hair into a big, long plait with straw accents. And then her boobs began to escape the confines of her bodice.
As she tried to stuff them into some sort of submission, her hand grazed against her nipples, reminding her of the stubbly cheek shifting across them in her dream before a tongue swirled round each one, lazily bringing them to taut peaks. It had been such a heated sensation she’d grabbed whoever’s head it had been and begged for more. Definitely not a move in her real-life repertoire. She was more of the completely-grateful-for-what-she-got-so-long-as-it-wasn’t-painful camp versus the bring-it-here-big-boy school of sexy nights in.
A knock sounded on her door. ‘Hola, bendita. It’s your Jamie here!’ Gabe pronounced Jamie the Spanish way, giving it an extra sexy twist.
Willa flushed hard and stuffed her phone in the front of her bodice.
Did Gabe know she’d been having pornographic dreams about—
She stopped and thought a moment. Had it been him? She tried to remember the colour of the thick, wavy hair she’d grabbed.
He knocked again before she could nail anything down.
‘Coming!’ She pulled open the door and there he was, looking all sexy gorgeous in his kilt. His head was no longer wrapped in bandages, but still sported a solitary plaster over his cut. He had a big, warm smile on his lips and a huge swathe of beautiful fabric over one of his arms.
‘I didn’t kill you!’ She flung her arms around him.
He gave her back a pat that felt a bit more like being burped rather than hugged, but, hey, it was friendly. She’d take it.
‘I’m guessing this is for you?’ He held up the swathes of fabric which turned out to be a gorgeous dress in a fawn-coloured plaid with burgundy stripes. ‘Ready to get your Jacobite on?’ he asked, handing it over.
‘Am I ever!’ She sagged under the weight of the dress, then high-fived him, not really having a clue what getting her Jacobite on would entail, but the first rule of taking risks was to say yes to the unknown, right? She was pretty sure Gwyneth had said that at some point. Gabe said he’d wait while she’d changed but another round of bell clanging suggested waiting until later to put the dress on was probably wise.
‘Good morning, everyone. Time for your morning porridge!’ Orla was at the firepit doling out huge dollops of oatmeal to the rest of the guests, all excitedly chatting away about what was yet to come. When Willa and Gabe approached, Orla gave them both a warm smile and, after a quick glance up to Gabe’s head, asked, ‘And are your accommodations to your liking?’
This would be interesting. There was absolutely no mistaking Balcraigie’s stables for the ‘rural chic’ retreats she was pretty sure Gabe would be used to with his membership to Soho House.
‘They’re perfect.’ He gave Orla’s arm a squeeze and dropped one of his (trademark?) winks. ‘It’s exceeded my expectations.’
Charmer.
And also . . . what had he been expecting? A bit of bracken and a blanket under the stars? She’d been expecting ridiculous thread counts and butlers.
‘And you, Willa?’ Orla was asking, as she gave the huge pot of porridge a stir. ‘How’d you fare?’
Memories of her triple-X dream sent a rush of red to her cheeks. ‘Oh, fine. All good. Without incident.’
Orla looked up from the porridge pot. ‘That’s just grand. Oh! Are you not wearing your new frock?’
Willa looked down at her hastily tugged-on outfit. Compared to the other guests who were wearing more elaborate frocks than they’d worn yesterday, she was definitely looking like something that the cat dragged in.
‘Messy eater,’ she said, pointing at the bowl Orla was filling with a huge dollop of oatmeal. ‘I wanted to make sure I didn’t spill anything on it. It’s so beautiful,’ she added, meaning it. Dress-up or no, it was the prettiest dress she’d ever seen.
‘Well, you’ll have to hustle a wee bit after your breakfast, so here’s your porridge. There are a few berries and things over on the tea table to pop on top if you like. We’ve a busy day ahead, so make sure you get enough to eat.’
Willa and Gabe headed over to the little table underneath the covered walkway where the rest of the group were loading their bowls of steaming porridge with dollops of homemade jam, fresh strawberries or raspberries and, in Jeff’s case, whopping great spoonfuls of set honey.
‘It’s heather honey,’ he said when he caught her looking. ‘It’s got a different taste from the stuff we get in the squeezy bear at home. It’s more’ – he rubbed his fingers together as if trying to divine just the right word – ‘genuine.’
Willa dug her spoon into the honey pot (an actual honey pot!) and watched as the thick, crystallised dollop melted into a golden puddle atop her porridge. The heat released a sweet, herby scent that instantly transported her back to the first moment she’d leant in and smelt—
‘Good morning, all.’ A lilting baritone came from behind her. ‘Did everyone sleep well?’
She whipped round, heart in her throat as her eyes connected with Finn’s blue-grey ones. Here he was. The star of her sex dream.
Mortified, she turned away. She’d never had a good poker face and if a frozen smile could betray the fact that she’d pictured herself buck naked riding Finn like the winning horse at the Kentucky Derby, she was sure her face was doing it right now. She fastidiously focused on shovelling porridge into her mouth while everyone else told him how delighted they were with their rooms, the antler clothes hangers, the jam jars filled with colourful wildflower posies and all the other little touches Willa had somehow managed to miss because she’d been too busy alternating between worrying she’d killed Gabe and having pornographic dreams about a man who very clearly disliked her.
It was actually shocking that she hadn’t put two and two together straight away. The rough straw-coloured stubble that, when it caught the sun, looked red gold. The large, capable, callused hands. The alpha-male strength combined with an unusually insightful level of tenderness. Here it all was, standing right beside her in living, breathing colour. A ripple of goose pimples ran the length of her spine then turned to lightning as they arrowed between her legs.
She made a silent note to herself to never, ever get horny over a catalogue model again. When dreams came true, it was far too easy for them to turn into nightmares.
‘This is, hands down, the best oatmeal I have ever had,’ Rosa gushed. ‘Do you have this every morning?’
All eyes turned to Finn.
The corners of his mouth tipped down and, once again, Willa saw a micro-moment of absence shift through him. As if, for the blink of an eye, he literally disappeared somewhere far, far away. Where had he gone? And more to the point, why was a question about steel cut oats making him sad?
After a moment, he said, ‘Oh, aye. It’s famous round these parts. Orla’s porridge.’
‘What makes it so creamy?’
Finn’s soft smile returned. ‘Cream.’
Everyone swallowed and licked their lips.
Oh, this was too much. Turning a solitary, monosyllabic word into a delectable poem?
She shifted her stance. Just because he could roll his Rs and visit her nocturnally did not mean her lady garden should be at his mercy. And yet, here she was, wishing she could strip off the layers of petticoats hothousing a bajingo puddling like a pat of butter on a summer’s day.
‘She puts loads in.’ Finlay made an mmm sound, then pointedly looked at Willa before adding, ‘Delectable.’
Oh my god. He wasn’t a murderer. He was a porn pimp! Had to be. There were probably hidden microphones or cameras or . . . oh, she got it now . . . there were subversive messages being fed in through the hay bales FORCING her to have filthy, wanton sex dreams. There was no other explanation for her having the only room with electricity. Pictures of her moaning and groaning as fantasy Finn went down on her had probably gone viral in some niche world of erotica. A get-yer-rocks-off-in-the-hayloft kind of thing.
Jules asked whether the cows were raised organically or biodynamically. A discussion on the merits of rewilding ensued while Willa remained caught in the questioning storm blue light of Finlay’s eyes.
Why was she here they asked.
She thought of the letter burning a hole in her luggage (double Ziplocked to prevent damage). She could practically hear it calling out to her to please, please, tear it open and read it, but . . . something more powerful overrode it, insisting it wasn’t time yet. She made a quick mental note to ask Gabe if he’d opened his yet.
‘Butter!’ Orla called out, joining the group. ‘The salted kind. That and cream make porridge better than the usual claggy gloop that puts people off. Also I use a spurtle.’
‘A what?’ Jeff asked.
Orla sucked in a horrified breath. ‘Have you not heard of the golden spurtle?’
‘I’m not being funny,’ Jules said, ‘but it sounds like something you really hope a guy doesn’t get on you when he . . . you know . . .’
Fenella made gagging sounds while Jennifer hiss-whispered that a bit of decorum might not go amiss.
Completely unflustered, Orla produced a small wooden paddle. ‘This is a spurtle. Just a wooden rod used since the 1500s for the express purpose of porridge making.’
‘Oh, gosh.’ Rosa leant in to take a look. ‘Is it that old?’
Orla’s expression briefly shadowed and then she said, ‘This one dates back all the way to 1987.’ She let the laughter die down then said, ‘It’s also very important to—’
‘I know!’ Rosa raised her hand with pick-me enthusiasm. ‘Stir the porridge clockwise with your right hand, otherwise the devil will come for the person doing the stirring!’
‘That’s right.’ Orla grinned. ‘You’re also meant to eat it standing up with each spoonful dipped in a bowl of cream shared by the whole family, but as we’ve got so many of you today, I took the liberty of pouring the cream right in. I’m happy to hand out my “secret” recipe if you’re interested.’ Amidst a chorus of yes, please’s she gave her hands a clap and then rubbed them together as if she were holding great surprises in store. ‘Alright, you lot. You’ve got ten more minutes before we ask you to bring your mobiles and other devices that connect you to the outside world down. We’ll be collecting those when we gather here in the courtyard for the handfasting ceremony.’
Now, Willa was all for a bit of a social media detox, but hand over her phone? Not this week and also, as a general note, not a snowman’s chance in—
‘Here you go.’ Gabe dug into the pocket of his evergreen-coloured wax jacket and handed over two mobiles and a mini iPad without so much as the bat of an inky eyelash.
Orla smiled her thanks, put the items into a wicker arm basket, then walked around the group collecting more. ‘You’ll be getting them back each evening, unless you’d prefer not to. We’ll be keeping them in the gun safe in the house, so don’t worry. We won’t be hacking into anything or posting photos on your Instagram.’
Willa shot a glance at Finn, but he was scooping a bit of porridge into a bowl.
Fenella held her phone above the basket then retracted it. ‘Don’t you want us to be posting photos of our experience? For future guests?’
‘Ah!’ Orla’s eyes darted towards Finn then back to the group. ‘No, no. That would detract from the truly immersive feel, don’t you think? This is your unique experience. Never to be repeated.’
Willa was no sleuth, but something about the way Orla’s eyes shot back to Finn made her think that last line had been for his benefit.
A chorus of agreement was followed by a quick flurry of digging into sporrans and wicker baskets that produced another six. Orla turned to Willa. ‘Is yours in your room, darlin’?’
It was not. It was in her bosom. And, as if to show everyone just how dedicated to communication with the outside world she was, it began to buzz.
‘I’ll just get changed, shall I?’ she said, then turned and ran up to her room without looking back.
Ten minutes later, she’d answered three INCREDIBLY URGENT texts from Bryony about whether or not she could charge her lunchtime juice bar purchases to TiTs, hammered out a few emails to publicists about interviews Bryony should have chased up but hadn’t and then one to her boss reminding her that the interview questions for Britney were saved on her desktop.
When she scurried back downstairs, phone tucked in to her bodice, she gave everyone an apology smile, realising she alone was holding up the mysterious hand-fastening ceremony. Nice one, Outlander, she reprimanded herself as she found her place in line next to Gabe. Then, stupidly pleased that she’d made an Outlander reference without even trying, she grinned up at him. He grinned back with a what did I do to earn that lovely smile? and for a very peaceful moment, they just stood there smiling at one another.
‘Right, then, laddies and laddettes.’ Orla cupped her hands and made a trumpet sound as if heralding some great news. ‘It’s time for you to meet your Jamies and Claires.’
Willa and Gabe’s foreheads furrowed in tandem.
If LARPing was on the agenda, surely they’d be one another’s Jamie and Claire? Right?
Holding up a beautiful purple and sage knotted rope concoction, Orla called out, ‘Behold! The handfasting cord.’
As Willa processed that it was a handfasting cord and not a hand-fastening one, the rest of the group unleashed excited ooos and ahhs as Jennifer announced, ‘I’ve been so excited for this part I haven’t been able to sleep for days!’
‘Oh my days. Mum!’ Jules heaved a melodramatic sigh. ‘I’ve been telling her over and over that it’s cosplay! She doesn’t get to bring him home.’ She slipped her arm round her mum’s waist and squeezed. ‘But you get to keep me!’
‘That’s right, love, I do. But don’t rain on my parade with all of your Zoomer pragmatism.’ Jennifer’s expression turned dreamy. ‘Two entire weeks of a man enjoying my company and listening to me when I speak . . . Best bit of escapism I will have ever paid for.’
‘We do a handfasting every year!’ Rosa beamed up at Jeff, then wrapped her arms around him as he pulled her feet right off the ground so that they could share a kiss. When he put her down again, her cheeks were flushed and she shot them all a happy smile. ‘So lovely to have other people tie the knot with us. Even if it is pretend.’
Willa’s stomach twisted with something new. Envy maybe? The energy zapping between Rosa and Jeff was . . . well . . . it was beautiful. It looked exactly like the kind of true love everyone wanted in real life. The kind Valentina and Diego had. The kind her own parents shared.
‘We have worked hard to find the best Jamie . . . or Claire . . .’ Orla said with a special look at Jules and a nervous one at Gabe, ‘. . . as per the instructions on your booking sheet.’
Again, Willa and Gabe exchanged a look. Booking sheets?
There definitely hadn’t been anything like a booking sheet in their scant paperwork.
They’d had flight details, sealed letters from Val and the brochure featuring Finn, but that had been it.
‘Rosa and Jeff,’ Orla was saying, ‘you two are, of course, being paired together as requested. Instead, you will have a “son” to help you out. Everyone else? Get ready. You’re about to meet your shiny new Scottish spouse.’
Still staring at one another, Willa and Gabe’s eyes widened as they began to understand. Not only were they not sharing a bedroom, but they were also going to be split up.
‘Valentina?’ Willa asked.
Gabe nodded. ‘Valentina.’
There was no other explanation for it. This was Valentina rubbing her hands together with a gleeful mwah ha ha up in heaven. She loved playing Cupid and had clearly kept them in the dark on purpose.
But . . . hadn’t she already played Cupid by putting Gabe and Willa together for the trip?
Okay, sure, it wasn’t exactly as if they’d spent the entire flight under one of those first-class duvets making out or anything, but . . .
If Val hadn’t yanked Willa away from TiTs during Sweeps Week to fall in love with her sexy estranged brother so that she could spend the rest of her life having him run his perfectly manicured nails through her hair as they watched boxsets and solved celebrity crises before making sweet, sensual, lit-by-moonlight love at night . . . why was she here?
Gabe’s perplexed expression turned completely neutral. Precisely the way it had been when they were at the will reading. Not exactly icy, but it sure wasn’t warm and cuddly.
Willa turned away, unable to hold his steady, unreadable gaze.
‘You will be spending the next two weeks,’ Orla continued, ‘side by side with your Highland husband or wife as you immerse yourself in the eighteenth century.’ She went on to talk about health and safety and how each of the ‘specially chosen spouses’ were all trained in first aid, crofting crafts (whatever those were) and making cups of oolong tea for when the weather turned inhospitable. ‘And believe me, that could be on the hour, every hour, so I hope you all have strong bladders or a penchant for an outdoor wee!’
For some reason, having all of this new information announced in a no nonsense, but enchanting Scottish accent made being married off to someone she’d never met before, only to be put straight to work, seem perfectly reasonable. The same way a French person could make goat intestines stewed with wild garlic and a dollop of mustard sound like an aphrodisiac.
