Bearing It All Read online

  She rolled and, before he knew what she was about, wrapped her thighs around his legs, slipped her arms under his armpits and flipped him over her head. He landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him, and his Scottish temper rose like the mist over the bogs.

  Oh yeah, I like her. Shift, so I can play tumble, too.

  “Ye are a fool if ye think ye’re playing tumble with her.”

  The woman slowly stood and weaved for a bit. “What in the hell are you talking about? I wasn’t playing tumble. I was getting your grubby hands off me.” She pressed two fingertips to the part of her forehead exposed by the helmet. “Why do I feel as if I’m having a three-way conversation?”

  “I wasna making improper advances. I know how nasty that blasted boulder is. I was merely searching fer any injuries ye may have suffered.” Ronan backflipped into a stand. “Ye look exhausted, even though ye still have enough vinegar in yer system to knock me on me arse. I apologize for me boorish actions earlier. Of course ye’re welcome to spend the night in me warm cabin, fed and undisturbed.”

  “After all I’ve been through this past week, I don’t trust you any more than a rabid dog or a raging bear.” She planted her hands on her rounded hips. “Frankly, your change in attitude is too quick to be believed. Even so, my French politeness demands I apologize.” She glanced away fer a beat as if the apology was going to cost her a fine fortune.

  Then her gaze connected with his and part of him, his soul, his heart—he had nay clue—did a strange, slow roll, taking his breath with it. “Sir, you are much too kind. As dirty as I am, I’d only mess up your house. I’ll just keep moving on.” She bent to retrieve her flashlight. “Thank you. I’m sorry for my attitude. I know I was being bitchy.” She gave an audible sigh and shook her head a time or two. “That remark about your skirt was also uncalled for. I hope you’ll forgive me for my thoughtlessness.”

  Her heartfelt request fer forgiveness softened his mood. “Outsiders dinna understand the strong pride we have fer our plaid, our kilts, our traditions. Come inside. I’ll heat ye some soup.”

  “Thanks, but no. An intelligent woman would not go into a strange man’s cabin alone.” She made two steps and he picked her up by the waist and tossed her over his shoulder. She wrapped one arm around his neck, inhaled his woodsy scent as she clasped that wrist with her other one, shifted over a tad, and kneed him in the balls.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he breathed as he dropped to his knees, released his grasp on her, and rolled onto his side, holding his privates. “Bloody fokin’ hell. What did I do to deserve that?”

  Anisa leaned over him. “Feeling a little sick to your stomach, are you?”

  “Ye are a demon. A ball-crushing demon.” He held his crotch, his knees bent and his kilt showing he wore nothing beneath it.

  She shuffled from one foot to the other as she stared at his Scottish bagpipe. Bet he could hit a lot of high notes with that thing. “You…you startled me when you grabbed me like that.”

  “Well, ye needna be afraid now. I couldna molest ya, even if I wanted to, which I dinna. I’m betting foreplay with ye would be like grabbing hold of an electrical wire while sitting in a tub of water.” He groaned and cussed some more. “Hell, I bet yer vagina is lined with shark’s teeth.” His continued gasping still indicated he was fighting for enough breath to talk.

  She leaned over and shook a finger at him. “Just keep that image in your mind, buster, and we’ll get along fine.”

  “Can I ask ye about yer odd-looking airplane?”

  “Do you always talk so much with your balls shoved up to your navel?”

  “ ’Tis either that or cry like a bairn. Did ye crash the plane on purpose? The engine didna sound like ’twas having trouble.”

  “The solar-powered battery packet was almost out of power. There isn’t enough sunlight up here to keep it charged. I had to bail out.”

  “What did ye bloody well expect in the Highlands in winter?”

  “Some sunshine. A little, at least. I was heading in a direction I hoped would be the last place my trackers would look. I’ve gone against everything I believe in, which is why I’m in such a nasty mood.”

  “Could ye step back about five or six paces? I’d like to stand and I want to be sure yer feet and fists are far enough away that I’ll survive.”

  She did as he asked, almost hating for the kilt to fall back into place to cover all his manly bits. If one could call them bits. She stepped toward him. “Do you need any help?”

  “From ye? Hell, no!” He partially stood, bent at the waist, and scowled at her some more before he slowly straightened to a full standing position. Probably because he still couldn’t walk, he studied the sky. “Look.” He pointed. “Storm clouds are rolling in. Ye can barely see the stars. Soon, the full moon will be covered.”

  She gazed up in wonderment. “Are the stars merely pinholes in the blanket of night?”

  He’d heard that question before. Where? Suddenly something about her seemed familiar, but what? “ ’Twill be a dreich nicht fer sure. Let’s go inside, where ’tis warmer. Ye have me promise. I willna touch ye.”

  “I’m not overly familiar with the Scottish dialect. What is a dreich nicht?”

  He motioned toward the porch that ran across the front of the cabin. “Have a seat until we get those muddy boots off. A dreich nicht means a cold and blustery night. Why dinna ye also remove yer flight suit, providing ye’ve got clothes on underneath. I’ll see to their care while ye shower. Maybe by then, I’ll stop bloody hurting from yer malicious male assault. I’m wondering what kind of woman kens to fight like that?”

  She plodded toward the steps, eager to get the heavy boots off. “I’m a graduate of the officer cadet school. Hours of classes in hand-to-hand combat.”

  “Aye. French cadet school. I picked up on yer accent. That explains yer fighting skills. Somehow, we got off on the wrong foot. Ye knocked at me door fer help and I was nasty as a swarm of bees. Me mum would nay appreciate me earlier rudeness. Of that, ye can be sure. Me name is Ronan. Ronan Matheson. Me family runs the Matheson Lodge on Mathe Bay about two hours southeast of here. And what would yer name be?”

  She supposed if they had to put up with each other’s unwanted presence, they might as well make it as pleasant as possible. No need to act rude and combative. By tomorrow she’d have an escape plan in place and he would have his beloved privacy back.

  “My name is Anisa Brosseau.”

  “Och, ’tis a pretty name ye have. I met a gorgeous young lady in Paris years ago with the same first name. She captured me heart, so she did, but I dinna think I had that effect on her. We were friends, nothing more, but I yearned for that friendship and her blue eyes long after I returned home. A young man, especially if he’s kind of shy, always remembers his first crush.”

  She untied and tugged off her wet, slimy boot. “When were you in Paris?”

  “Och, how long ago was it?” He tilted his head to the side. “Five years, I’m thinking. Nay, six. ’Twas six years because Colleen wasna born yet.”

  “Is Colleen your daughter?” She handed him her other boot.

  “Nay, me niece. Me youngest brother’s daughter. She’s a special child, that one. Me two brothers, their wives and children all live at the lodge with our mum, which is why I sometimes feel the need fer solitude up here.”

  “And I ruined it by showing up. No wonder you were so grumpy when a stranger came knocking at your door. I’m curious. What were you doing in Paris? That’s where I grew up.” She stood and unzipped her blue suit.

  “I apprenticed under a master carpenter there fer a year, mostly on the Left Bank, learning how to restore buildings to their historic state. I helped him on two large projects. One on rue Claude Bernard and the other on rue de l’Odéon, across the street from Sylvia Beach’s original Shakespeare and Company Book Store.”

  Anisa smiled, a pang of homesickness already torpedoing straight through her heart. “Yes, I know of both of t
hose rues, or streets. What made you decide to study under a French expert? Did you say Ronan was your name?” She struggled out of her suit and handed it to him.

  He nodded. “Aye. Ronan. Ye see, historical restoration ’twas what me family wanted to do to most of the lodge, our clan’s original castle, before we drew up plans fer new rooms. Me brothers and I wanted a continuity of design, yet to have our own space away from the guests’. All our ideas worked out well because Colleen, our wee sweet bairn, suffered from colic fer the first four years of her life. She was born premature, ye see. We all took turns walking the floor with her. Not one guest ever complained of the noise.

  “I remember where I met Anisa. ’Twas a pretty young lass, who often came into a café near where I rented a room. Her nose was always in a book or she was sketching designs of buildings and such. I couldna get her to pay me much attention—a smile, a polite greeting. Finally, I talked her into walking with me to a small park across the Seine from the Notre Dame Cathedral one Sunday afternoon. She asked a lot of questions about the Highlands as if she had a longing to visit. We went out a few more times, then suddenly, she moved on. Who kens? Maybe to Scotland.”

  She placed her thumb against his square chin and tucked a couple of fingers under his chin. He jerked, but she held firm, turning his face from side to side. “Ronan, who loved our underground jazz clubs.” She laughed. “It is me—Anisa! I can’t believe we’ve met again.”

  “It canna be! Ye had long wavy hair down to yer waist. And ye kept yer knees off me balls.” They both laughed at his sense of humor. He snatched her boots from the porch and opened the door. “I’ll scrub these and set them near the hearth. A good dose of protective polish and they’ll be good as new. Once ye step inside, let me have yer stockings. I’ll soak them all night. Bog mud can be hell to get out. I hope ye brought a change of clothes in yer backpack fer after yer shower.”

  “Oui, I did. I’m sorry I left Paris without saying farewell. The army gave me orders with barely enough time to pack. There were so many friends and distant family I missed saying au revoir to.”

  “Dinna concern yerself, lass. Although yer showing up here is beyond odd. ’Tis good ye have clean clothes. Step over to the fire. Let’s get ye warmed up, then.”

  With one arm, she clasped her backpack to her as if it were her lifeline as she plopped on the floor and removed her wet stockings with her other hand. Her feet were red and wrinkled. As she stood, her gaze took in the small space, and she padded toward the fireplace to rub her hands over the fire. “After all these years, whose door do I end up knocking at? Ronan Matheson’s.” She shook her head and looked over her shoulder at him. She tucked her backpack between her knees, removed her helmet, and looked for somewhere to put it.

  Ronan extended his hand and hung it on one of the coat pegs inside the door.

  “What happened to the dog?”

  “What dog?” He reached over his head to remove a large tub hanging from one of the wooden beams running across the ceiling in the kitchen area. Other pots, pans, and a couple baskets hung from the beam as well.

  “The one that left claw marks on your wooden floor. He must have been a big dog.”

  Ronan’s scrutiny swept across the floorboards. “The animal comes by every so often.” He filled the large pan with water and carried it to the stone hearth at the edge of the fire. “I’ll scrub yer things here.” He jerked his thumb toward a door off the kitchen area. “The bathroom is in there. Help yerself to whatever ye need. Put yer clothes in the washer and start it. The detergent’s in the small linen closet.”

  “Is…is there a lock on the door?” She glanced over her shoulder toward the bathroom, and then back at him. “The last thing I want is a pair of eyes watching me shower and dress.”

  He stood, heading toward his bedroom and stopped. “Yes, there is. But bloody hell, me balls and stomach still burn like the underside of Hades. What could I possibly do to ye? Nay doubt, ye’d just beat the piss out of me before I managed to get a decent touch.”

  “Good. Then I won’t have to shower with my gun.” She batted her eyes, hugged her backpack, and strode toward the bath.

  Chapter 3

  Ronan gaped at her as she closed the bathroom door. Me God, she was a cautious somebody. He hadna given her any reason to fear him. What had her in a major self-protection mode? Just what the bloody hell was going on in her life? What the feckin’ hell had happened to her that had her mistrusting everyone and anything? She hadna been like that when they knew each other in Paris.

  She’s ours. We’ll protect her.

  Ronan opened the cabinet in his room where he kept his shoe care kit. “She is not ours and it is not our bloody job to protect her. I’ll give her a meal and a warm place to sleep tonight.”

  With us. She is too ours!

  God, Ronan could almost hear his bear stomp his furry foot.

  Ronan’s eldest brother’s bear was a little on the timid side at times. His youngest brother’s was bossy as hell. But Ronan’s bear could go from playful to stubborn in a heartbeat. “Dinna get in one of yer snits. I’m not looking fer a woman. Ye ken that.”

  Ronan slid the stool to his big chair over in front of the hearth and sat. He quickly dipped her boots in the water then began brushing away the muck and mud. Using his shoe brush, he cleaned her boots as best he could. All the while, he wondered how she, of all people, ended up here, of all places? Effie. The witch had to have had a gnarled, pink-polished fingernail in this weird situation. He nodded as he set the cleaned boots on the other side of the burning fire. Coincidences like this didna just happen. They were arranged. And Effie was the Queen Witch at arranging things. He did a quick rinse of her socks and flight suit, removing her badge before he shoved the outfit into the dirty water.

  She hadna lied about her being in the military, but she had failed to mention she was Major Anisa Brosseau of the French DPSD, whatever the hell that was. The card held no reference of the CIA, so why had she even mentioned it after she fell on his bear? He glanced at the bathroom door—the shower running behind it—and scowled. Just what kind of business were she and the French government up to here in an isolated part of the Scottish Highlands? And what did she mean when she mentioned going against everything she believed in?

  Canna ye see? She’s scared outta her wits. She’s running from someone or something. And so are ye. Ye’re running from yer secret desire fer yer own family. We need to take care of her. She dropped from the sky just fer us. She’s our mate, ye obstinate human. Ours!

  Living with this bear since he’d begun shifting when he was ten, Ronan kent there was no use arguing when it got into a challenging mood like this. How could Ronan have an attraction to a woman he hadna seen in years and wasna so sure he trusted? That was more Creighton’s style. Hadna his eldest brother fallen for the American animal communicator as soon as she arrived at the lodge?

  Ronan emptied the pan outside, off the end of the porch, and rung out the flight suit and socks. He studied the clouds again, hanging heavy with snow. Back inside he refilled the pot with water and soap to soak the clothes overnight. To drown out the sound and his sensual visual of her taking a shower, he turned on the battery-operated radio and spun the dial to the channel normally heavy with news and weather. Just how much snow were they expecting?

  Meanwhile, he’d heat some of the cock-a-leekie soup Cook Edweena sent along in her boxes of provisions. She always went into a cooking and baking frenzy when he said he was coming up here fer a few days.

  Ronan looked at the small amount in the pot and added more fer himself. He and his surprise guest might as well eat together, strike up a conversation. Not knowing how long ago she’d eaten, he made Anisa a sandwich from the cold ham and cheese, slicing one of the long homemade rolls of wheat bread Cook also sent along.

  The bathroom door opened and he looked over his shoulder. Bloody hell, he nearly dropped to his knees. If her pebbled nipples and the gentle sway of her large breasts were any in
dication when she walked, she wore no bra under her gray, long-sleeved Lycra top. Her tight pants were black Lycra and everything about her was firm, toned, and a feckin’ hellacious turn-on. He’d always been attracted to the fuller figure. She kept fiddling with her short dark curls; “scrunching” his sister-in-law Kenzie called it.

  Anisa sat on one of the two barstools. “Please tell me whatever it is you’re heating is for me.”

  He set the sandwich in front of her, which she almost snatched from his hands and all but inhaled.

  “Coffee?”

  She nodded, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s.

  “Black?”

  She took another bite and nodded again.

  He smiled and poured her a cup, sliding it across the counter with his finger lest she chew on his hand, too. After reaching fer two bowls from the shelves over the counter between the sink and the stove, he poured the soup, giving her the larger portion. “When was the last time ye ate?”

  “Déjeuner hier…er…lunch yesterday. Sorry.” She gulped her coffee. “When I’m very tired, I often revert to my mother tongue.” She leaned over the soup and inhaled. “Smells divine. What is it?”

  “Cock-a-leekie soup.” Ronan sat beside her on the other stool. Christ, she did smell like strawberries.

  Her dark eyebrows wrinkled as she spooned up items in the thick broth. “Looks like chicken, leeks, and…and prunes?”

  “Aye. Bloody good.” He dug in. “Cook Edweena at the lodge is an expert at making it.”

  She took a tentative spoonful and moaned. “Oh, c’est bon.”

  The music on the radio stopped. “The weather fer our part of the Highlands is cold, wind, and snow up to a giant’s arse.” The announcer snickered at his own joke. “Temperatures will drop tonight. Bring yer firewood inside and make sure ye go easy on those generators so ye dinna run out of petrol. Here’s a strange bit o’ world news fer ya. Seems a Major Anisa Brosseau of the French DPSD, one of the intelligence agencies reporting directly to the Minister of Defense, has defected. The French, always one to favor alphabet soup,” the announcer all but sneered, “claims the DPSD handles counterintelligence, counterterrorism, and counter-subversion concerning national defense. Major Brosseau was part of the international coalition against terrorism, or ICAT.” The announcer chuffed a laugh. “Looks like this is one cat that got away. The CIA has labeled her a terrorist, armed and dangerous. Tracking gear in her stolen airplane shows she’s flown into Scotland’s airspace. Be on the lookout, folks. This sounds like someone we all need to arm ourselves against.” Ronan snapped off the radio and glared at her.