The Great Scot. Donna Kauffman

need to add them to the list of available rooms, but I suppose if I were to change my mind, I’d start with the more readily available rooms there. The first floor in this wing has only one common hallway. The rooms below are considerably larger, meant for social gatherings, some in better shape than others. The plan is to open the main parlor, situated near the front of the wing, closest to the central part of the house. The kitchens are located in the central rear, so serving breakfast there makes the most sense.”

      “No dining room, then?”

      He paused, looked over his shoulder, but she was concentrating on the sill now. “We have several, the smallest of which seats a modest thirty—or would if there were furnishings in it. At present, it’s closed off. Sagging walls, sinking floors. A common problem with a lot of older structures and this one is no different. Anyway, I felt the parlor had a more intimate ambience, suitable to a bed and breakfast, with several small tables set up for a more private atmosphere. Guests can also take their morning meal on the side portico with a view of the mountain range.”

      “It all sounds lovely,” she said, sounding quite sincere and likely she was. Yet he easily imagined her mental calculator busily toting up numbers in her head.

      “Across from the parlor there is also a library, more of a study really, but on a rather larger scale comparatively speaking, that has been put to rights. It will be available during the day should anyone care to sit and read, play a hand of cards, or whatnot. But otherwise, the other rooms in the lower part of the north wing will remain off view. As will the entire south wing.”

      “That is the family wing, I take it?”

      “It’s where I reside, if that’s what you’re asking, aye. However, most of it has been likewise shut off. There is no way to tackle the entirety of Glenshire, so we preserve what we can, and seal off, at least temporarily, what we canno’. It’s the only way to keep her afloat.”

      “I know I said it before, but it’s such a huge undertaking for one person.” She let out a small laugh. “I guess that’s the understatement of the century.”

      His lips quirked, but he kept to his work. “Aye. Several of them, in fact.”

      They spent a few moments in companionable silence, and he was surprised at the urge he had to fill that silence with some questions of his own. He was equally surprised to discover that, inquisition notwithstanding, he was rather enjoying this particular disruption of his work day, much as he had his trip into town last night. It felt…good to have someone around. Someone who wasn’t Letty Dalrymple, anyway.

      “So, when you open your doors to guests, will you bring someone in to help with the cooking and room cleaning?”

      He turned. “Rather sexist, don’t you think?”

      Appearing honestly surprised, she stopped as well, and blew her hair off her forehead. One wispy lock had adhered itself to a spatter of paint and didn’t budge. She was going on about something to do with how she was a woman in a man’s field and the last person who’d ever pigeonhole anybody, but he wasn’t really listening. He found himself too distracted by the sudden urge to go over there and free those muck and mired strands.

      “My guests won’t go hungry,” he interjected finally, more to get himself back on track—again—than to shut her up. “And they’ll have fresh linens.”

      Erin broke off, smiled, then, without skipping a beat, said, “Hard to imagine a place this size ever being fully utilized just by family and staff.”

      She’d said it sounding more practical-minded than dreamy romantic. Made him wonder if there was a romantic heart beating beneath her all-business exterior. Given the brand of television show she was touting it seemed she should be a bit more of that happily-ever-after sort than she appeared to be. But what did he know?

      “The sheer history of it, the centuries it has endured, it really makes this place quite a draw. And then there’s that awe-inspiring view. I imagine you’ll have no problem filling those rooms.”

      Aye, a businesswoman, then, through and through. She was right about Glenshire’s rather gothic ambience being its main selling point. He’d always thought of the crumbling decay as being more eyesore than particularly romantic or attractive, but Reese’s fiancée, Daisy, had taken the same view as Erin. In fact, she’d made that the focal point of the website she’d created as an adjunct to the site she’d developed for the distillery. She’d packaged Glenbuie distillery tours, with village shop discounts and a stay in Glenshire’s bed and breakfast, and lo and behold, though it had taken some time to get the bookings started, over time it had worked. Maybe it was some kind of Yankee sensibility, though the two women couldn’t be more different.

      “You’re not too keen on the whole idea, though, I take it.”

      Dylan lifted his gaze to hers, realizing once again he’d trailed off into his own thoughts. He’d been out here on his own for so long now, he wasn’t used to being observed by anyone, much less having to concern himself with whether anyone could interpret his thoughts or expression. “I thought I made my stance on that clear yesterday.”

      “Though you’re reconsidering now,” she said, that impish light back in her eyes. She waggled her brush at him, splattering paint on the dropcloth. “But that’s not what I meant. I meant you’re not too keen on the whole bed and breakfast plan, either.”

      “What would make you say that?”

      Erin laughed. “Let’s just say you don’t exactly have the temperament of an innkeeper. You talk about Glenshire with a combination of pride and weary acceptance, but there is a guardedness to it, like a brother who can talk smack about his own siblings, but dare someone else do the same and they’ll get a fist in their face. You’re protective of her,” she said with a softer smile. “And maybe a bit resentful of her demands. But you don’t really want to share her with anyone, do you?”

      Dylan said nothing in response. He was a little disconcerted by her insight. Maybe more than a little. Because she was right. And he’d wondered more often than he cared to admit whether, despite his commitment to the joint decision made with his brothers to go ahead with the bed and breakfast scheme, if he’d be truly up to the actual task of running it when the time came. Putting the place to rights was one thing. Planning the room layout, the breakfast menus, the pricing structure, taking reservations, he’d done all of those things, the things an innkeeper would do. And yet, other than the occasional laborer or subcontractor, he hadn’t had to deal with actual people yet. Not a paying guest anyway. And he’d be lying if he said that that part of this whole deal didn’t have him a little nervous.

      Because, as she’d so rightly pointed out, he wasn’t exactly innkeeper material. And if she’d picked up on that inside of thirty minutes spent together…what chance did he have with the paying guests? He argued the point anyway, maybe more to convince himself than her. “I’ve devoted two years of my life readying this place for that exact eventuality, what makes you think I’m not wholly invested in the idea?”

      She lifted a shoulder and scrubbed the back of her hand across her nose, leaving more paint as she did so. “What did you do for a living when you lived in the city?”

      “What does that have to do with anything?” He had to curl his fingers inward against the renewed urge to cross the room and rub the paint off the tip of that pixie-like, upturned nose of hers. “And how did you know I lived in the city?”

      “Brodie mentioned it, or maybe it was Alastair.” She waved her brush. “It’s common knowledge. And I’m just curious. I’m trying to adjust my view of you.”

      Why it mattered what her view was, he had no idea. But he found himself answering anyway. “I traded stocks. Why do you look so surprised?”

      She lifted her shoulders again. “I have no idea, really. Actually, that occupation seems to suit you.”

      “You don’t even know me.”

      “You know what I mean, your general demeanor. You seem more suited to