Match Made in Plaid

By Ursula Whistler

A chance encounter with a roguish, kilt-wearing lord at a historical Highland reenactment has Tara Holder dreaming of a better life. When she discovers her summer job involves working with the sexy Scot who literally swept her off her feet, she's torn between wanting to remain professional or to shag him for all he's worth.

Andy Campbell has big plans for the family castle, ones that will once and for all prove he's worthy of being in charge. He doesn't need interference from the new castle manger his mother hired. When he realizes the manager is none other than the lovely wisp of a woman he "married" and kissed at the fair, he's suspicious of his matchmaking mother's attempt to find him a real bride. He's determined to keep his distance despite being plagued with dreams of the alluring lass wearing his plaid...and nothing else.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Mar 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781509229772

Ursula Whistler

A few years ago, Ursula Whistler got annoyed at a misunderstanding that happened with a group blog. That anger spurred her to write an erotic romance, that after many rounds of editing, became Party Favors. Through some more writing and plenty of support from her colleagues in the Southern Louisiana Romance Writers group, she kept writing contemporary erotic romances mostly set in New Orleans. Now that she’s moved to Florida, she’s writing and publishing with The Wild Rose Press as she adjusts to beach life and caring for her ailing mother. You won’t hear much about her mother unless you follow her on Facebook or Twitter, but at her website, she writes the stories behind the stories and other snapshots of her life. While pregnant with the second of her three children, she had a recurring dream that she dutifully wrote. We all know how dreams go, thin plot and lots of DEUS EX MACHINA. She learned to not show that manuscript to anyone even after she edited it. She continued to write paying closer attention to plot, and she joined RWA and the SOUTHERN LOUISIANA ROMANCE WRITERS. That has made all the difference. You can interact with her on the web at UrsulaWhistler.com, where she blogs about writing, inspiration for writing, and her oversized Bichon Frise. Ursula will always say that she isn't bad, she just writes that way.

Book preview

You

Match Made in Plaid

by

Ursula Whistler

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Match Made in Plaid

COPYRIGHT © 2020 by Ursula Whistler

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Diana Carlile

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2020

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2976-5

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2977-2

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my spouse, who took me to Scotland and led me on an adventure through castles and hills.

PRAISE FOR AUTHOR

Ursula Whistler

AND HER BOOKS

JE T’AIME

The sex was both steamy and sweet. I found the lack of verbal communication helped keep a sort of elemental understanding between Etienne and Genevieve. They had to show through actions, kisses, touches and simple words what they wanted and where their emotions and desires were at. Cutting out so much of the verbal sparring and posturing that happens so regularly really kept this story clean and simple. And I found I really thoroughly enjoyed it.

~Long And Short Reviews

~*~

BIG BAD EASY

"Big Bad Easy is a strong, romantic mystery with just the right touches of romance and sexual innuendo made real. I enjoyed the fast pace of this book, the characters were quickly but efficiently introduced and the reader is rapidly sucked into the action."

~Annetta Sweetko, Fresh Fiction

Chapter One

That won’t do. You’ll have to take it off. A tall ginger-haired man, with a slight scruff of a beard framing a grin, winked at Tara Holder.

Tara checked behind her to see if there could be anyone else he was directing his comments toward. No one stood behind her, though there were plenty of people scattered over the green, rolling hills beneath a rare Scottish sun.

Using her most polite voice, she responded, Pardon, sir. This will do just fine. It’s entirely suitable. She’d only come to this re-enactment as a favor for a friend, and she’d dressed as any woman would in Scotland for an historical event—in a kilted, long skirt with a sash over one shoulder and gathered at the waist. The crisp, white shirt underneath itched her neck due to the starch in the collar. A comfy T-shirt would feel better but would truly clash with the authenticity of the outfit. She’d been told to be as authentic as possible.

The man, dressed in a lively green-and-blue kilt shot through with a sunny yellow weave, shook his head as he took a step toward her. Nay, lass.

She rolled her eyes at his words, though she admired his ability to keep in character even when the re-enactment had yet to happen. He clearly took his job seriously. The other men dressed for the battle scene stood in groups around the grass covered hill chatting casually. Why this man singled her out amazed her. Look, I’m only on my way to a booth, covering for a friend. I’ve no reason to start play-acting. Attractive or not, she had to go. He surely was attractive with his bright blue eyes, and ruddy, freckled skin peeking out from the loose neck of the woven shirt her wore. This is a fine kilt.

He closed the distance between them and grabbed a bit of the long kilted skirt she wore. It’s not right, milady. The colors are off.

Finally, something we agree upon. When she had gone shopping for a tartan to have made into the very outfit she wore, she was disappointed in the colors of the Fife District tartan. The black and grey with a red stripe struck a somber tone against some of the merrier colors. Comparing it to the richness of other tartans brought a frown to her face. Yet she had no claim to any other tartan, which meant the county plaid for her. I’m not of a clan, though, so no fancy plaids for me.

She gave a nod, hoping she’d said enough to appease the man still looking at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. She had to get to the booth on time. She wasn’t getting paid, but she never liked to be late even if asked at the last minute to fill in.

A large group of men, all dressed in kilts of various colors and tall leather boots like the ginger-haired man before her, shuffled off to where flags flew on long, tall wooden poles.

She nodded toward the group. Look, it seems it’s about to begin. Must be off. With a quick wave, she climbed to the top of the hill. A tug at her arm stopped her.

No clan, you say. Well, we can fix that. The ginger-haired man had a tight grip on her, not threatening, just slightly thrilling in his possessiveness. There were far too many people around for him to mean her harm, so she laughed it off. After all, who wouldn’t be thrilled at this man’s attention? The sparkle in his blue eyes was meant for making women get in a tizzy, and she would be no exception if she weren’t in a hurry.

We don’t need to do a thing about it. Thank you, sir. Kindness would go much further than quickly breaking his hold on her, which was what her heart was telling her to do with its rapid beating, or maybe it was signaling something else. Her legs filled with blood, and she wished she weren’t wearing a long skirt. Running would be much easier without all the fabric in the way.

Instead, she backed away slowly while smiling and bringing him along with her as he’d not seen fit to let her loose. Though, if she were honest with herself, where his hand held her lower arm glowed with warmth and an odd sense of comfort of being claimed. What a man to claim her, too. The part of her not worried about being late decided that this could be a grand lark to go wherever this man would go.

He called out, Gerard, that mum of mine is always telling me I should get a wife. I think I’ve found one. Good bones, no clan, needs protection. Pretty hair, though she needs some fattening. What do you say, my man?

He needs to say nothing. I’m perfectly fine the way I am. Tara twisted from his grasp, which he easily loosened. Relief spread through her. He was play-acting, having fun, and she could get to the booth on time.

His friend laughed. My lady has beseeched you to find a woman, Sir Andrew. Yet—

Ah, good enough, Gerard. I choose this one.

Before she could take one more step away, Sir Andrew lifted her onto his shoulder and set off at a jog along the path away from the crowd.

He laughed as he called out, Perhaps if I’m lucky enough, we can find a priest before this battle, and if I die, I shall have someone to mourn me.

Put me down, she seethed as she bounced along with him. Her hands beat on his back, but when she tried to kick, he held her legs tight against him. Be serious. This isn’t the 1300s. You can’t do this. Except he could, and the pressure of his arm around her legs sent an electric thrill up her spine.

What sorcery do you speak of? Today will be a glorious battle, and we will defeat the English king’s army. He gave her a smack on her ass. I shouldn’t die without a woman by my side.

This isn’t funny. Even as she said it, festival goers pointed at her with smiles on their faces. She waved and let the excitement of being chosen by a handsome man have its moment. He did have strong arms, holding her tightly, and a muscular back at her disposal.

There’s a priest. We shall be married upon this day. A glorious day.

Given any other situation, she would have adored his voice, rich, deep, and meant for the role of a leading man, but being carried ass forward over his shoulder as a joke made her not appreciate much about Andrew at all. Andrew—if that’s your name—stop.

Of course. He set her on her feet, grabbed her face in his hands, and placed a kiss upon her lips. A light one, but one full of promises for deeper, exploratory kisses. Whatever you desire, my soon-to-be beloved.

Dear heavens, his lips were soft and dreamy and possibly the best ones she’d ever had kiss her. She hadn’t expected that. This Andrew was crazy, but he kissed well. Would you just—

Get us married? His eyes widened. Yes. Father MacArthur, we’re short on time, so let’s make this quick. Andrew grabbed her hand and twirled her around to face a brown-robed man with raised eyebrows and widened eyes.

She turned to Andrew. Is he really a priest?

I am, milady. I suppose, my laird, I know a shortened version of the ceremony. The priest clapped his hands together in prayer.

No time for that, Father. I’ve a battle waiting for me. I do.

Father MacArthur smiled as he asked, Did he bring you here for marrying?

In shock, Tara could think of nothing to say. She nodded, because he’d picked her up saying he was marrying her to give her a clan. None of this was what she expected. She’d only agreed to help a sick friend who didn’t feel up to standing all day telling visitors how to stay in the historic properties offered by the real estate firm.

She nodded. That will suffice. Thank you, Father. Andrew squeezed her hand, and she stared at him, unsure of what other crazy thing he’d planned.

Laird Andrew, we must be off. The battle begins, Gerard called from yards away where more men had gathered with wooden swords and shields.

Ah, milady, if we’d time, I’d give you my colors. Find my body on the battlefield if I don’t come home to you tonight. He put a hand on the back of her head and pulled her into a kiss.

Unlike the first, gentle kiss, his lips pressed against hers hard. The intensity of his hands on her head and on her lower back ignited a flame of passion inside her. Her hands itched to touch him, and she spread her fingers across his shoulders, pulling him closer. She sunk her tongue into his mouth. Sparks of delight spread from her lips, down her spine, and pooled in her core. He tasted of mint and smelled of rich, musky soap. A part of her melted as he continued the kiss. The cords of his shoulder muscles tensed under her fingers as he pulled her closer still. His chest pressed against hers, and she began to curse the clothes they both wore.

Laird Andrew! We must away!

He broke the kiss. My deepest apologies, wife. I’m off to slaughter the English.

Wide-eyed and wondering just how she got herself into that embrace, she watched him run toward the battle re-enactment. With a quick twist, she turned to the priest behind her. Are you truly a priest, or do you just pretend to be one on days like this? She swept her arm across the scene of tourists and locals sitting in risers along the sides of the battleground and colorful booths with flags flying behind them.

I am a man of the cloth.

Her eyes widened as her heart leapt into her throat. She cleared it to speak. But that wasn’t real. You can’t marry us like that. None of it was real.

On the contrary, my dear, that was a very real kiss. Sir Andrew doesn’t sprinkle those around so easily. Good day. He nodded at her before sauntering toward the battle. I shall play my part in blessing the dead.

She sputtered, unable to form words. Instead of trying to make sense of it all, she headed to the booth to take over for her friend. A good day of work would clear her head, and it truly needed clearing after that kiss. She’d be thinking of it for weeks.

****

"What the hell