Love Came Just In Time Part 13

Ambrose leaned back in his chair and sighed. Now that he finally had peace for thinking, he turned over in his mind the events of the past pair of months, gingerly avoiding the memories of his trip to the Colonies. Perhaps he shouldn't have meddled, but how could he have helped himself? Young Megan was his granddaughter-never mind how many generations separated them. Despite the personal indignities he'd suffered already in this venture, how could he not feel a certain responsibility to her and her happiness? And he had to admit Fulbert's lad was a good one, despite his preoccupation with modern inventions.

Aye, he would simply do all he could for them, then pray they had the good sense to finish falling in love by themselves.

Though, considering the pair due to arrive on the morrow, the only good sense to be found in the inn would be his own.

Chapter One.

Megan MacLeod McKinnon stood on the side of the dirt road, stared at her surroundings, and wondered why in the world she'd ever agreed to any of this. She'd known the British Isles could be damp, but she'd never suspected they would be this damp. And what happened to that dry rain that supposedly fell strictly for atmosphere? Maybe she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, like at Kennedy.

She should have boarded that plane bound for Italy. How rainy could it be in Italy this time of year?

Of course, if things had gone according to plan, she would have been ensconced in a cozy inn, reading d.i.c.kens and sipping tea while toasting her toes against a cheery fire.

Instead she found herself trudging up a muddy road on the Scottish border in the middle of what had to be the worst storm in two hundred years. In December, no less. With only the clothes on her back.

This was not exactly a Currier and Ives kind of Christmas vacation.

She turned her face into the wind, picked her way around a puddle and kept walking. She wouldn't go home until she'd done what she came to do. She'd bungled every other job she'd ever had, but she wouldn't bungle this one. No matter how awful things got.

Rain began to leak past her collar. As her back grew increasingly damp, her thoughts turned to her brother. This was, of course, entirely his fault. If he hadn't been bitten by that search-for-your-ancestors bug, he never would have bought a castle and all that went with it, and he never would have sent her to look it over. Surely he should have known what would befall her on this ill-fated trip.

Hadn't he had an inkling that her row-mate on the flight over might be a screaming two-year-old? Shouldn't he have warned her that her luggage might vanish as she stood innocently in line to buy a train ticket north? Should there not have been some doubt in his overused brain that the weather in December might be a tad bit on the wet side? Hadn't he felt the slightest desire to rethink his plans for her as he booked her a room in a no-stoplight town at an inn that would subsequently lose her reservation?

Megan hopped over another pothole and gave her missing reservation more thought. Had it been merely missing or deliberately mislaid? Had the desk clerk taken one look at her bedraggled, luggageless self and come to a hasty decision about her desirability as a guest?

After making certain she understood there was no room for her at his inn, he had offered to make her a reservation at the only other hotel within miles. A quiet place, just a wee bit up the road- conveniently near the castle, he'd said. Megan had been overjoyed that there was actually another bed waiting for her within walking distance, especially since she hadn't seen anything resembling a taxi since the train had paused long enough for her to jump down onto the platform. Maybe Thorpewold didn't see all that many visitors.

She lurched to a stop, braced herself against the wind and peered into the mist. She frowned. Had she taken a wrong turn somewhere? Just how far was "wee" anyway?

Then she froze. Either the wind was revving up for a new round of buffeting, or that was a car approaching. She listened carefully. Yes, that was a car, and it sounded like it was heading her way. Megan stood up straighter and dragged a hand through her hair. No sense in not looking her best for a potential ride. The car came closer. She put on her best smile and started to wave. It was the Cinderella parade wave she'd perfected but never had the chance to use.

Even the headlights were now visible. Good. At least she wouldn't get run over before she could beg a ride.

"Hey," she shouted as the car materialized from the mist, "can I have She barely had time to close her mouth before the tidal wave struck. The car whizzed by, drenching her from head to toe. Megan looked down at her mud-splattered self, then blinked and looked up. The taillights faded into the drizzle.

She hadn't been seen. That was it. No one was in such a hurry that they would drive past a dripping maiden in distress and not offer so much as a "keep a stiff upper lip" in pa.s.sing. Well, at least the car seemed to be going somewhere. That was rea.s.suring. Megan wiped her face and continued on her way.

Fortunately it took her only minutes to reach civilization. The mist lifted far enough for her to see a st.u.r.dy, comfortable-looking inn. The lights were on and smoke was pouring from the chimneys; these were very good signs. Maybe she would actually be able to hold on to her reservation this time.

Her eyes narrowed at the sight of her errant would-be rescuer's car parked so tidily next to the inn. A tall figure headed toward the door and a horrible thought occurred to her. What if her room was the last one and this person sweet-talked his way into it?

She bolted for the steps. The man entered before her, but Megan didn't let that deter her. She grabbed the door behind him, then elbowed her way past him and sprinted to the little desk in the alcove under the stairs. She plopped her shoulder bag onto the counter then smiled triumphantly at the woman behind the desk. In fact, the thrill of victory was making her light-headed. She clutched the edge of the desk as she felt herself begin to sway.

And then, quite suddenly, her feet were no longer under her. She squeaked as she felt herself being lifted up by what seemed to be remarkably strong arms. She threw her arms around very broad shoulders-just in case her rescuer decided she was damp enough to warrant dropping. She let go with one hand to push her soggy hair back out of her eyes. She opened her mouth to tell him his actions would have been more timely had they occurred fifteen minutes earlier, then completely lost track of what she'd intended to say.

Maybe all that water had seeped into her brain. Or maybe she'd just never seen anyone quite this handsome before. This was the kind of man she wouldn't mind finding under the Christmas tree with a bow on his head.

His face was ruggedly chiseled, with only the fullness in his mouth to soften his features. His dark blond hair was, irritatingly enough, perfectly dry and casually styled, as if he'd just shaken it out that morning and it had behaved simply because he'd wanted it to. Megan stared into his bluish-green eyes and found that she was fanning herself. There was something so blatantly, ruthlessly handsome about the man that she felt a bit weak in the knees. All right, so his driving habits left a lot to be desired. The man had saved her from a possible faint and, considering how he looked up close, she thought she might be able to forgive him.

"Thanks," she managed, surrept.i.tiously wiping a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth.

He only frowned back at her.

Even his frown was beautiful. Megan smiled her best smile. "Thanks," she repeated, wondering if it would sink in this time, "but I wasn't going to faint."

He pursed his lips and set her down well away from where she'd been standing.

"You were dripping on my laptop," he said, reaching down to give his computer bag a quick swipe. He looked back at her. "And you're also dripping on the carpet," he noted.

Megan blinked. That certainly didn't sound like an undying declaration of love, nor an offer to stuff himself in her stocking. Perhaps her current state of drowned-ratdom was getting in the way of his falling at her feet and pledging eternal devotion. She flipped her wet hair to the other side of her face, hoping to achieve a more windblown, ruffled look.

The man looked down at the new drops of water on his computer bag, then scowled at her.

"How did you manage to get so wet?" he demanded.

Megan frowned. Maybe hers wasn't the only brain that had taken on too much water. "You would know," she said.

He blinked. "I would?"

"You splashed me," she reminded him.

"I did?"

"With your car!"

"Hmmm," he said, then glanced down at his computer. Something must have caught his attention because he knelt down and started unzipping the bag. Megan watched as he pulled out a cell phone and fired it up.

Megan gritted her teeth. Somehow his manly good looks had distracted her, but she was feeling much better now. This was not the kind of man for her, no sir. No matter how finely made he was, if he couldn't remember his moments of unchivalry and apologize properly for them, she wanted nothing further to do with him.

She turned her back on him and his bad manners and planted herself resolutely in front of the little desk that seemed to serve as the check-in point. When he could tear himself away from work long enough to apologize, then she would think about forgiving him. Until then, he could suffer. She would ignore him until he begged her to stop.

That resolved neatly, she gave her attention to the matter at hand: throwing herself upon the mercy of the innkeeper. She took in the sight of the sad attempts at making the reception area seem dressed for the holidays, hoping to find something there she could gush over. A little b.u.t.tering up of the proprietress couldn't go wrong. The desk was decorated with a few sprigs of holly and a ribbon or two. Megan looked up. Garlic hung in great bunches above the desk area, draped liberally on the overhang made by the stairs.

"Expecting vampires any time soon?" she asked the woman behind the counter.

The white-haired woman leaped to her feet as if she'd been catapulted out of her chair.

"Ye've no idea," she whispered frantically. Her eyes darted from side to side and she kept looking over her shoulder as if she expected to be attacked from behind at any moment.

Megan opened her mouth to suggest that perhaps the garlic might do the woman more good if she wore it around her neck, then thought better of it. The innkeeper looked as if one good push would topple her right over the edge as it was. "Yer name, la.s.s?" the woman asked, leaning forward as if to keep the walls from overhearing. "Megan," Megan began slowly. "Megan McKinnon." The woman's hand flew to her throat and she gasped. "A McKinnon in the house! The saints preserve us all!"

"This isn't good," Megan said, biting her lip. This was all she needed, to be kicked out on account of her ancestry. "My mother was a MacLeod," she offered. "Even worse!" the woman exclaimed. "I'm from America," Megan said quickly. "Does that help? No, wait, don't say anything else. I don't want to know. Let's just get down to business and forget all the rest. Ye Olde Tudor Inn called over and made a reservation for me. You did get the call, didn't you, Mrs... ?" "Pruitt," the woman moaned. "And, aye, I've got yer roo-" her voice cracked, then she cleared her throat. "Room," she managed. "If ye're sure ye want it."

"Oh, I want it," Megan a.s.sured her. "Ye've a private bath, too," Mrs. Pruitt added. "Up the stairs, down the hallway on yer left. If ye're certain here is where ye truly want to stay-" A pen suddenly slapped itself down next to Megan's hand. Mrs. Pruitt screeched and leaped back, making Megan jump. Megan took a deep breath to calm her suddenly racing heart. Then she remembered the splas.h.i.+ng one who'd been kneeling beside her, dusting off his precious computer. He'd obviously decided to interrupt Mrs. Pruitt's tirade by throwing his pen at her. Maybe he was antsy to get checked in. Megan turned toward him, ready to give him a lecture on not frightening potential hostesses. Only he wasn't standing next to her anymore. He was talking on his cell phone, looking for a plug for the laptop he'd already unearthed from its case. Odd. Megan looked back at Mrs. Pruitt. Maybe this quaking creature had produced the pen with a clever sleight of hand trick. But if she'd been the one to do it, why had she screeched like a banshee? Megan decided it was best not to give that any more thought. Mrs. Pruitt owned a hotel possessing a room with a private bath. At this point, that was all that mattered. She signed her name and held out the pen. Mrs. Pruitt looked at it in horror. "Okay," Megan said, setting the pen down carefully. "You don't seem to want this. I'm not sure why, but I'm certain I don't want to know. What I do want to know is if I can get dinner here." "In an hour," Mrs. Pruitt blurted out. "In the dining room. The saints preserve us through it!" "Okay," Megan agreed. "I'm sure it will be just lovely. Now, where do I go-" "Up the stairs. Last door on the left." The woman practically flung the key at her.

Megan caught it neatly and gathered up her shoulder bag.

"Do ye need yer other bags carried up?" Mrs. Pruitt asked.

Megan paused. Her lack of luggage certainly hadn't aided her cause previously, but at least this time she had the key already in hand.

"My luggage was stolen," Megan admitted.

"Oh merciful saints above!" the woman exclaimed. "What'll happen next to ye?"

"It wasn't all that bad-"

"Ach, but ye've no idea," the woman interrupted, her eyes practically rolling back in her head. "No idea-"

"By the saints, Mrs. Pruitt, quit yer babbling. And you, Megan, go up to yer b.l.o.o.d.y bedchamber!"

Mrs. Pruitt gave vent to another screech and ducked down behind the desk. Megan whirled around with a gasp, incensed that a perfect stranger should speak to her so rudely.

"What did you say?" she demanded of the delectable hunk of manliness with no manners.

He didn't look up.

"Hey," she said, coming to stand next to him, "I asked you a question." She dripped on him for good measure.

He looked up and blinked at her. "Yes?" he asked, tipping his phone away from his mouth.

Megan looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Who said you could order us around like that?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Hey," Megan said, wagging her finger at him, "don't give me that changing your voice routine either.

Where'd that obnoxious accent go?"

There was a groan and a thump. Megan looked over to find that Mrs. Pruitt had fallen to the floor in a dead faint.

"I haven't the foggiest notion of what you're going on about," the man said, looking very perplexed. Then he turned back to his computer and said no more.

Megan looked from him to their fallen proprietress and then back to him. He was already entrenched in his business again. Obviously good looks and good manners did not necessarily come in the same package. She sighed. So much for a handsome stocking stuffer this year.

She turned and walked back across the foyer. It took only a touch on the arm to have Mrs. Pruitt roused from her swoon and screeching again.

"It's just me," Megan said, flinching. "I think you fainted."

"I'm f-fine," Mrs. Pruitt said, her teeth chattering like castanets. She accepted Megan's help in getting back to her feet. "Just go up to yer room, miss, quick as may be."

"But I think you might need help. Is there somewhere you could lie down? I'll fix you a cup of-"

"Oh, by all the b.l.o.o.d.y saints..."

Megan froze. She met Mrs. Pruitt's terrified eyes and swallowed, hard. Then she looked over her shoulder. The Corporate One was still gabbing into his cell phone, completely ignoring them. Megan turned back to Mrs. Pruitt.

"The wind?" she offered.

Mrs. Pruitt turned her around and pointed her toward the stairs. "I'll bring ye some dry clothes as quick as may be," she said, pus.h.i.+ng Megan across the entryway. "Just go on up, la.s.s. Please."

Megan hesitated at the bottom of the staircase. What sort of loony bin had she signed herself into? Men doing business in entry halls, innkeepers begging their guests to move along, voices coming from nowhere?

"I'm beginning to wonder if I should even stay," Megan said slowly.

The front door flew open and slammed back against the wall. The next gust of wind blew Megan up half a dozen stairs. Mrs. Pruitt fled around the desk and hid behind it. Megan saw the rude one rise, shut the door and then return to his hunched down position near the wall.

She shook her head, then turned and climbed slowly up the remaining steps. It was either stay here or head back out into the storm, and the latter was a very unappealing alternative. So what if everyone else in the house was bonkers? With any luck, her room would have a heavy-duty lock on it and she could bolt herself inside except for meals.

The front door must not have closed very well because the wind seemed to howl in spite of it. Megan s.h.i.+vered. Mrs. Pruitt's jumpiness was starting to rub off on her.

She let herself into her room and closed the door behind her. A hot bath awaited. She smiled for the first time in hours. Yes, indeedy, things were certainly looking up.

Maybe the trip would be worth it after all.

Ambrose MacLeod sighed as he stepped into the fray and forcibly removed Hugh's fingers from about Fulbert's throat.

"Dinnae order me gel about!" Hugh thundered.

"She wasn't moving b.l.o.o.d.y fast enough to suit me," Fulbert threw back, rubbing his offended neck. "And she called me accent obnoxious!"

"Which it is, especially since we agreed not to converse with them unless absolutely necessary!" Ambrose exclaimed, glaring at Fulbert. "And you needn't have spoken to the child in such a coa.r.s.e manner."

Fulbert scowled. "She should have gone straight up to her chamber instead of chattering on with that

blasted Mrs. Pruitt. Besides, she kept adrippin' all over his confounded... ah... confounded scribbling machine," he finished, looking less than sure of his terminology.

"That's computer, dolt," Hugh snarled. "Any fool knows that-argghh!"

Ambrose applied himself this time to removing Fulbert's beefy fingers from about Hugh's throat.

"By the saints, cease!" Ambrose put one hand on Fulbert's shoulder and the other on Hugh's and held

them apart. "How are we to do any proper matchmaking when all you two can do is go at each other?

I'm of a mind to banish you both outside until the deed's done."