Her Highland Boss. Jessica Gilmore

pie as well,’ he told her. ‘And maybe I need that first.’

       CHAPTER FIVE

      MIDNIGHT. THE WITCHING HOUR. Normally Jeanie was so tired that the witches could do what they liked; she couldn’t give a toss. Tonight the witches were all in her head, and they were giving her the hardest time of her life.

      ‘You idiot. You king-size madwoman. To walk back into the McBride realm...’

      Shut up, she told her witches, but they were ranting and she lay in the narrow cot in Maggie’s tiny attic and held her hands to her ears and thought she was going mad.

      Something hit the window.

      That’ll be more witches trying to get in, she told herself and buried her head under the pillow.

      Something else hit the window. It sounded like a shower of gravel.

      Rory used to do this, so many years ago, when he wanted to talk to her and her father was being...her father.

      The ghost of Rory? That’s all I need, she thought, but then another shower hit the window and downstairs Maggie’s Labrador hit the front door and started barking, a bark that said terrorists and stun grenades were about to launch through the windows and a dog had to do its duty. Wake up and fight, the dog was saying to everyone in the house. No, make that everyone in the village.

      There was an oath from Maggie’s husband in the room under Jeanie’s, and, from the kids’ room, a child began to cry.

      And she thought...

      No, she didn’t want to think. This was nothing to do with her. She lay with her blanket pulled up to her nose as she heard Maggie’s husband clump down the stairs and haul the door open.

      ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Dougal’s shout was as loud as his dog’s bark. ‘McBride... It’s McBride, isn’t it? What the hell...? You might be laird of this island, but if you think you can skulk round our property... You’ve woken the bairns. Shut up!’ The last words were a roar, directed at the dog, but it didn’t work the way Dougal intended. From under her window came a chorus of frenzied barks in response.

      Uh-oh. Jeanie knew those barks. Abbot and Costello! Alasdair was here and he’d brought Eileen’s dogs for the ride.

      And then it wasn’t just Maggie’s dog and Eileen’s dogs. The neighbours’ dog started up in response, and then the dogs from the next house along, and then the whole village was erupting in a mass of communal barking.

      Lights were going on. Maggie’s two kids were screaming. She could hear a child start up in the house next door.

      Should I stay under the pillows? Jeanie thought. It had to be the wisest course.

      ‘I need to speak to my wife.’ It was Alasdair, struggling to make himself heard above the din.

      His wife. She needed more pillows—the pillows she had didn’t seem to be effective.

      ‘Jeanie?’ That was Maggie, roaring up the stairs. ‘Jeanie!’

      ‘I’m asleep!’

      ‘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.’