Best Laid Plaids (Kilty Pleasures) Page 4

  Mama continued to pester. “See, my dearest boy? He’s just right—”

  “Stop or I shall banish you for good, Mama. I mean it.” It came out rather loud and since he’d taken down the top of the automobile, the other driver heard. Her eyes widened and she squealed her tires to get away.

  But blessedly, Mama disappeared, as well. She enjoyed her visits with Ainsley. She’d be sad to lose them.

  Who could he fuck to get rid of this horrible clenching feeling in his chest? Was it a heart attack? He ran a hand down his rib cage, though he had no idea what he was looking for besides a thump.

  Hugh.

  Ainsley grinned as he made a right-hand turn. Hugh. That was the name of the man Barley was after. How could he have thought it was Joachim?

  Not that he would be after Hugh—Barley might not forgive that. Because Ainsley had done that once, back when he was in university. Not that he knew for certain the man was the same Barley set his cap on. Eddie Mercer, he thought the name was, not Eddie Merson, whom Barley’d been sighing over for months.

  He shuddered.

  That had been a very nearly tragic mistake and it wasn’t even as though Mercer or Merson—because which was he? No clue. But he’d used his teeth, for God’s sake. Teeth.

  And not in a good way. He enjoyed teeth used in a good way.

  Was that a raindrop? Ainsley looked at the sky, but as it was dark, it would be hard to tell, wouldn’t it? And then another drop. With no shoulder on the road to pull over, for fuck’s sake. He twisted down a village road with hardly room for a pony cart and scowled as the rain splashed harder. If it ruined his seats he’d...what? Kick Mother Nature in the shins?

  He pulled into someone’s front garden and wound the top up, glancing at the house in hopes they wouldn’t come out and scream. He wasn’t in the mood to be screamed at, but those creamy leather seats...well, they would be destroyed in the rain.

  Not a very practical purchase, but when was he ever?

  He glanced at the speed again—dear, nearly thirty miles per hour. He must slow down. Because he really didn’t wish to die.

  Or kill someone—that would be the absolute worst.

  He shuddered again, thinking of his brother Charlie that last time they were all together. Charlie had worn his uniform looking for all the world like Ainsley’s twin. I refused to say good-bye. Because he knew it really was. And by some dumb twist of fate, Ainsley had orchestrated it. He’d never forgive himself.

  Dammit.

  Not tonight.

  Cockburn almost had him convinced that he was receptive to believing in ghosts. All that about being open to conversion. Well, they’d have to see about that. And he knew exactly where to take the damned Englishman to see if he was going to pretend to see spirits.

  Fucking Cockburn. This was all his fault. They could be doing any number of things naked right about now. Was his chest hairy like that beard? That beard. It wasn’t even fashionable at the moment, but it suited him. Unlike damned Ross Campbell, whose failed attempt at growing a beard looked like he had mange. Not that Ainsley would give that bastard a second of his thoughts after his traitorous mistreatment. Thank God he hadn’t truly believed the two of them had had an understanding.

  Ainsley glanced up at the castle on the hill looming over all of them. A dark gray presence that always made him feel a bit lonesome, right in the pit of his stomach.

  He pulled the car against the curb and locked it for the evening. He planned on finally having that drink, and that meant sleeping on Barley’s sofa.

  Unless Barley was taking home Merson. Or Mercer. No—Hugh. That was the barrister. Merson was the teeth. God almighty, Barley’d been furious. The only time Ainsley had ever seen that happen.

  The wooden door to Tuskers was propped open because until a half hour before, it had been a very nice day for April. He poised on the stoop, glancing around for his mates. And someone to fuck, because that was the real reason he was here. Though he’d not say that to Barley.

  But he could always proposition Hugh, if he was here, since he wouldn’t be home tomorrow night to do it there. But what if Hugh said yes and then Barley had his heart broken? What a muddle it all was. Hugh might turn him down, too.

  Apparently it was possible to turn down a romp with Ainsley Graham.

  Tuskers had been recently whitewashed, and the smell competed with stale smoke and soured beer. It was a restoring sort of scent for all that. This was where Ainsley met with his friends for the past five years and he appreciated how many warm looks were tossed his way.

  Men who wouldn’t say he wasn’t their type.

  There wasn’t much of a crowd, but a group of men sang in the corner. Lovely. He liked when people sang. It helped soothe his mind.

  Barley waved him over, but he stepped to the bar first to grab both an ale and a dram.

  “Älskling, how delightful to see you.” Helle the bartender flipped his shoulder-length ash blond hair back like a damned starlet and reached up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on Ainsley. The little Swede still reached only to Ainsley’s shoulder.

  “Here’s your drink, stilig. Anything else I can do for you, ask me.” Helle batted eyes the color of damp hyacinths.

  Hmm. There was a thought. But no. As attractive as he was, Helle was too...pretty. Ainsley preferred big men who looked like they played rugby.

  Ainsley ordered another drink for Barley. Because certainly he’d spend the night with his friend, who appeared to be drinking alone.

  “What on earth, Ainsley? Didn’t expect to see your face tonight.” Barley shook his hand in the way he did, with his other arm gripping up toward Ainsley’s elbow. It was almost like a hug, and tonight, Ainsley appreciated that touch of humanity.

  He’d been rejected. By a frumpy man in tweed. Perhaps only his clothes were frumpy. Could men be frumpy, or was that reserved for maiden aunts?

  “Ainsley?” Barley snapped.

  “Sorry I—” But he stopped. Barley knew. They’d been friends for years.

  Barley wore a suit in navy that made his eyes very blue. His black hair was slicked down more smoothly than usual. Barley tapped his fingers on the table, and Ainsley was able to focus long enough to tell his tale of woe. Even the bit about not being the bugger’s type, because if he could confess that to anyone, it’d be Barley.

  “I only wanted to get off, it’s not like I was proposing.” He sounded a bit childish, whingeing away like this. He was glad Cockburn wasn’t there after all.

  “Did you? That dratted Campbell was the last fellow you even took home, Ainsley. And this man tempted you enough? Hmm.” Barley side-eyed him in a way that ought to have made sense but didn’t. “And you’re determined to go through with this plan to cart this Cockburn around for an entire week, aye?” What did that twinkle in Barley’s pupil signify?

  “He was already at my home. And I gave my word, didn’t I? What sort of cad would I be if I allowed this wretched man to come all the way up from—” Where was he from? Somewhere in the north of England from the accent, but had he even said? Right. Durham, where Stuart taught. “—wherever in the bloody southern hinterlands he came up from and let him travel around on a bus?”

  Ainsley sipped his beer and handed Barley the keys. His friend continued to tap his fingers against the polished wood of the table. “Ah. As I was saying, he was sent by my brother, you know, and what if he told tales about me to him? That wouldn’t do at all.”

  Stuart didn’t control Ainsley’s bank account, but it would make holidays awkward.

  “I had seen you going on a trip, so I reckon this is it.” Barley’d learned to read tarot cards at his gran’s knee. Ainsley was a non-believer in divination until Barley had proved his skill over and over.

  “I’d hoped for something more exotic than tooling around the Lowlands with a sod like Cockburn, but catch-as-catch-can, I suppos
e.” Ainsley drew hearts in the condensation rings left behind from his glass.

  Barley clambered to his feet, mouth agape. “Good heavens, do you remember the rest of that reading I did for you last month?”

  Ainsley chewed his thumbnail. “Vaguely. I’m not supposed to die, am I?”

  “Not hardly.” His friend narrowed his eyes, swooping over Ainsley with a wistful, dreamy expression. “You had the ace of cups and the four of wands too, hadn’t you?”

  If he’d said three black sheep and a duck it would have made no more sense, and Barley was under the impression that Ainsley paid attention, which was utter foolishness. But he hated to ruin his friend’s kind opinion and raised his eyebrows, nodding like a sage. “I did, didn’t I?”

  “And you ken what that means.” Barley sighed with a grin and wiggled in his chair. “Oh! And the lovers. How did I forget all that?”

  Ainsley was fuddled. “Those are all good things, yes?”

  “Och, aye. They’re lovely.” Barley took a long drink and then lit a cigarette. He crossed his ankle at the knee, his pant leg hitching up and showing an extraordinarily hairy leg.

  He liked hair. Even on faces, it turned out. At least on Cockburn’s face. “The lovers? Please tell me that means I’m going to fuck that blasted man?”

  Barley gave him another sideways glance. “Or fall in love with him.”

  Ainsley snorted loudly enough that people turned in their direction. “I’d sooner fall in love with Helle.”

  His friend flashed a thoughtful gaze at the barkeep and then shook his head. “’T’would never work between you two. Always arguing over who was bonnier.”

  He probably had a point. “What about Hugh?”

  Barley poked out his bottom lip and twiddled his thumbs. “No hide nor hair of him for over a week. He must have figured out what this place is for and opted not to come back.”

  The unfairness of it burned in Ainsley’s belly, and he rose to get them another drink. Helle had them waiting and blew him a kiss. No. He and Helle would never be more than friends. Not even for a quarter of an hour.

  He raised the glasses above the crowd, a river of ale sloshing over the brim and down his wrist so it tickled. “You do think that there will be some sort of fucking on this trip? Even though Cockburn made it clear I wasn’t his type?”

  His best friend rolled his eyes. “You’re a madman, that’s why. He must have some sense. But aye—you’ll figure something out. You always do.” Barley’s mouth formed an O and he tugged Ainsley’s sleeve. “If he writes up his paper and confirms there are ghosts, wouldn’t that give you some credibility to get back your old position at the university?”

  Hmm. What were the chances that Campbell and the rest of his former colleagues would read a dissertation written by an English psychology candidate? Slim. Unless somehow Ainsley made sure that they did. He could wave it under their sneery noses and demand his old job back.

  Or perhaps, something a wee bit more humble. Because, if he was honest, he missed his career with an ever-present ache. And he’d heard a rumor that Campbell had gone to lecture on the Continent somewhere, so there was no danger of seeing his mocking face again.

  In any case, it would be nice to confirm that he wasn’t mad.

  It would at least give him the courage to write a new book. He was desperate to lose himself in research again. But he’d never survive another public lashing like over the ghosts.

  “—and you make sure to take Cockburn to see spirits that even skeptics can see, aye? He’ll be sure to change his tune.” Barley grinned over his glass.

  It could work. If Mr. Joachim Cockburn wanted to use Ainsley, then it was hardly unfair to use him back.

  “My good fellow, you’re an utter genius. He’ll have to admit that I’m not mad. Dull people like him never can lie well, after all.”

  Barley’s face dropped. “Och, but what about his reputation, then?”

  Ainsley waved away his friend’s concern. “Pish-posh. Whose side are you on?”

  A familiar tune struck up from the lads in the corner and commandeered his attention. Let’s Misbehave. He really enjoyed that one. Ainsley stood to sing along, ego assuaged for now.

  Because the cards promised that he’d fuck that man, didn’t they? Barley said there was another option, but it had disappeared from his mind. He hated to ask and prove he hadn’t paid that much attention.

  No matter, he’d remember sooner or later.

  He always did.

  Chapter Five

  Joachim

  A snorting, humid press against Joachim’s prick had him open a bleary eye. A tearing noise that screeched through his consciousness was coupled with unbearable brightness. Draperies? He struggled to sit up on the slippery sofa and rubbed the heels of his hands into his temples.

  He squinted against the intrusive light and needed something to scrub the wooly jumpers from his teeth sooner than later. But coffee. A bucket of coffee before anything else.

  Ooof.

  Joachim’s head flew back, nearly snapping his neck and adding to the agony of his aching body. Flailing his arms, he was unable to fight off the unpleasant breath pumped into his nose like bellows from Hell. Violet.

  A lick across his lips was the last thing he felt before forcing his eyes wide. “Get off me.”

  “You snore. Like a locomotive. I can’t imagine anyone comes back to your bed a second time.” Sharp, rude. Accusatory.

  Ainsley was back.

  Pushing the setter’s hairy chest—much too close for comfort—Joachim struggled to his feet. “Get off.” He was louder that time. Much more authoritative.

  “Violet dear, heel. It seems you aren’t his type, either.” Ainsley’s voice was as dry and haughty as it had been the night before when he’d left. The dog retreated and her toenails clicked across the bits of hardwood not covered by scatter rugs.

  Gracious, was it already morning? Joachim scanned for a clock and found one on the mantel. Quarter past eight. And he’d slept in his shoes. He’d had the wherewithal to remove his tie and jacket and...good Lord; his shirt even. But not the bloody shoes. Damned whiskey.

  He looked behind him and scowled. Backlit, he was unable to make out anything but the form of Graham...not wearing very much clothing? He held his breath for a few heartbeats.

  Thank God the man wasn’t completely naked. He still wore his kilt, though the sporran was missing, along with the shoes and socks and everything above the waist. He stalked toward the hallway, slim, but each of the muscles in his back was defined. Well defined.

  “I hope you’re not a prude, Cockburn?” Ainsley smirked, fingers on the buckle of his kilt.

  Joachim did his best to swallow and failed. “A...a prude? Er...no. I’ve not been called—” But his voice stopped working as Ainsley stepped over the kilt now puddled on the floor.

  It seemed Graham was a traditionalist when choosing whether or not to wear flannels underneath his native dress.

  “Do you drink coffee? You look as though you need some.” Ainsley crossed his arms over his chest and shifted to his back leg, which was turned at a forty-five degree angle from the other with at least a half a foot in between. Making an absolute display of himself.

  With well-deserved confidence, to be honest.

  Clearing his throat, Joachim said, “Coffee? I’d love some, thanks.”

  Ainsley’s eyes were doing some traveling south on their own and Joachim’s face heated.

  “Like your beard.” Ainsley rubbed his biceps slowly, two fingers on each hand.

  Joachim tilted his head to the side, entranced by the sight. “Pardon?”

  “Your chest.” Ainsley’s hand went to his own chin, scratchy with golden-red stubble, and then skimmed lower until it ran across one of his nipples. It puckered under his touch.

  Fucking hell. Joach
im sat before the tenting in his trousers was obvious.

  Ainsley’s eyes crinkled up. But instead of his usual mocking, he turned—exhibiting what was probably the most perfect round arse in Scotland—and strolled down the hall, out of sight. “Aren’t you coming? I’m not planning on serving you, am I?”

  Rubbing the crick out of the back of his neck, Joachim stayed put. Repeated the Lord’s Prayer thrice through before he was comfortable enough to follow, and leaned on his walking stick heavier than usual. He’d simply keep his eyes at shoulder level or above and nothing to worry about.

  Ainsley, however, still struggled to light the stove five minutes after he’d disappeared to make coffee. He mumbled under his breath about someone named Hugh.

  Hugh.

  Looked like Ainsley had gotten his wish. Good God, why did that sting so much? Joachim sighed as he took the box of matches and had the gas lit in a moment.

  His host shrugged. “Honestly, I’m unsure how coffee gets into the pot, but perhaps you have an idea?”

  Helpless.

  And naked.

  And still orchestrating everything to his whim, the bastard. The dog nosed Joachim’s crotch again. Why did dogs do that?

  Ainsley sighed with excessive melodrama. “That’s not for the likes of us, Violet, girl; we’re not his type. Heel.”

  Joachim ignored him, and ran his hand across the silky head of the dog. He found the coffee and the press and measured it out with a spoon. The kettle boiled and he had eggs frying and toast warming while Ainsley stayed somewhere out of his vision. Thank Christ.

  Ten minutes later, they had breakfast on plates and the steam from the coffee swirled up his nose.

  “I was foolish to have sent the staff out until eleven,” was the thanks he received.

  “Speaking of the lack of staff, should I make a plate for your father’s breakfast?” The old man hadn’t reemerged from the back room all evening.

  “My father?” Ainsley’s face went all rumpled and bewildered. And then he laughed. “You do know how to ruin a mood, don’t you, Cockburn? He’s been dead for years.”