Free The Laird and I: A Kilts and Quilts of Whussendale novella by Patience Griffin

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    “Sophie?”
    “Yes?”
    “Good luck!” With his eyes dancing, he toasted her with his travel mug.
    Sophie ran inside and met Willoughby at the door. Sure enough, he had the key in his hand, ready to lock her out.
    “Ye’re late,” the old man said.
    “No. I’m right on time.”
    “Well, I didn’t think ye’d make it.” He sounded disappointed. “I’ve a lot of work to do. Don’t have time for the likes of ye.”
    Why hadn’t she brought an extra scone—some little thing with which to butter up the old man?
    “Well, I’m here,” she said cheerily. “Ready to make my first kilt.”
    “Not so fast,” Willoughby said. “I’ll have to see some of your handiwork first before I’ll let ye be touching the tartans with the scissors.” With a gnarled hand, he pocketed the key in his old tweed jacket. From inside the coat, he withdrew a thick piece of wool tartan and a needle. He thrust them at her. “Make three evenly spaced pleats.”
    Sophie claimed a small table and plain ladder-back chair for herself. Willoughby shuffled over to a narrow table that had to be fifteen to twenty feet long. A large bolt of a dark green tartan with a muted aqua and royal blue stripes sat at one end.
    “Stop staring at me and get busy,” he grumbled.
    “Aye.” What a cheery instructor.
    Sophie laid out her length of fabric on the table and grabbed the pins off the windowsill. She went to work, marking evenly spaced pleats and sewing them into place. She should’ve asked Hugh this morning if he’d strip out of his kilt so she could check to see how the stitching was done.
    She smiled at the image and let her mind wander. How nice it’d been sleeping with Hugh last night. And before that, his nakedness in the reflection of his picture window had been pretty wonderful, too. What an education she’d been getting at Kilheath Castle.
    Willoughby coughed. “Are ye done yet? We don’t have all day.”
    Sophie walked her pleats over to him. He scowled at her as he snatched the fabric away, but his expression changed to confusion as he examined the woollen.
    “That don’t mean a thing,” he muttered to himself, shoving the pleated piece back in his inside pocket. “Get up here and start rolling out the tartan. The Laird needs a new kilt. And ye’re going to make it.” He said it like that would show the new master for off-loading her onto him.
    No! She wanted to protest. She didn’t trust that her first kilt would be good enough for Hugh. What if she screwed it up?
    But if she backed down from this order, Willoughby would throw her out of his workshop for good.
    “Fine.” She stepped up to the counter. “Eight yards, right?” She began spreading out the wool, wondering if Willoughby was impressed that she knew how much fabric was in a kilt. “I assume this is the McGillivray Hunting tartan.”
    “Aye.” He pointed to a corner where bolts had been stacked. “The modern McGillivray Hunting tartan,” Willoughby corrected. “Magnus, me brother, finished weaving it yesterday.”
    She ran her hand over the quality wool. “It’s beautiful.”
    “I’m glad ye can appreciate fine craftsmanship. My brother may be an arse, but he does weave the best tartan in all of Scotland.”
    His voice held pride, and as he instructed her on how to measure and mark the pleats, his voice became less rough, and she heard the passion for his craft in his words.
    At noon, Hugh knocked on the jamb, making Sophie and Willoughby look up from their work.
    “Lunch,” he said. “Willoughby, do ye want to join us?”
    “Nay. I have to complete all the things yere lass kept me from this morning.”
    Sophie ignored that the old man had lumped her and Hugh together with his yere lass .
    “I’ll be back soon,” she said.
    “Don’t hurry,” Willoughby answered gruffly. He didn’t really look angry with her, now that she was getting to know him.
    Hugh grabbed her coat and helped her into it. Sophie savored his closeness,