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

allowing a second to breathe him in. She could pretend for this moment that she was his lass, couldn’t she?
    He walked her out, and as they made their way through the compound, he pointed out the various buildings of the wool operation, starting with the exhibition hall.
    “We’re a sheep-to-shawl operation,” he said proudly. “We do sheep-shearing demonstrations here, but mostly the shearing is done at my cousin Ewan’s sheep farm down the way.”
    “Nepotism?” she kidded.
    “Aye, I’m happy to say. Most of our families have been here in the village of Whussendale and have been working at McGillivray’s House of Woollens from the beginning. And will continue to be here for generations to come, if I have any say about it.”
    “What about outsiders? Do ye welcome them?” Sophie’s village of Gandiegow could be pretty closed-minded when it came to outsiders moving in.
    “Absolutely. We’re expanding things here. I have visions of Whussendale becoming an artisan community. I’ve been working to bring in a potter to set up shop here.” He pointed to a funny little green building among the stone cottages. “After that, I’d like to see about getting a basket-maker and an artist here as well.”
    They passed the building with the waterwheel, and he explained how it provided only a fraction of the energy needed. “We rely mostly on conventional electricity. Though, I strive to keep the old ways alive as much as possible. My father and mother worked hard to preserve the Victorian-era wool mill operation, maintain its authenticity. I’m trying to carry on the tradition. That doesn’t mean that some modernization hasn’t had to take place. We still have to compete to sell our woollens.”
    They toured several buildings, and Sophie couldn’t help but revel when he’d lay his hand at the small of her back and guided her along. Everyplace they went, the Laird gave her a thorough explanation of each process. He was passionate about what he did, and she couldn’t imagine that he’d spent so many years away—or that now that he was home that he would ever leave this place again.
    They finally made it to his office in the middle of the complex. Once inside, Hugh settled them at a small conference table in the corner, pulling up two chairs. Sophie retrieved warm meat pies and tea from a picnic basket.
    “Compliments of Mrs. McNabb,” he said.
    Would he bring up last night now? She opened her mouth to ask about the sleeping arrangements—if the other bedrooms were being outfitted as they ate—but he jumped in first.
    “How are ye getting along with Willoughby?” Hugh asked. “I think he’s taken quite a shine to you.”
    She gave him a half frown. “That’s a shine ?”
    “Aye. He actually let ye stay in his workshop, for one thing. It took Mrs. Bates two years to pass his pleat test before he’d let her sew the buckles on his completed kilts. His damned pleat test is the reason I haven’t been able to hire someone to take over…someday.”
    Sophie was getting a clue as to why Willoughby would be reticent to have her or anyone else there. He saw her as a threat. She’d have to assure him that she had no intention of taking his place. She was going home soon.
    One week. It just didn’t feel like it was long enough.
    Hugh’s office made an interesting comment on the man who occupied it. Five bolts of various tartans were propped in the corner—from muted hunting plaids to the Royal Stewart tartan. A mound of folders and paperwork sat on his desk. And the man across from her was staring back at her.
    “What?” Sophie asked. “Do I have meat pie on my chin?”
    “Aye.” He reached over and wiped away a bit of gravy from the corner of her mouth. The gesture was very intimate, but not as intimate as what he did next. He stared into her eyes for a long moment.
    He broke the spell, looking away. “I have to get back to work. Can ye make it to the workshop on yere