Read Online His Emergency Fiancée by Kate Hardy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kate Hardy
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CHAPTER FIVE
B EN in a kilt.
Kirsty hadn’t been prepared for this. Not on the drive home, not when Morag had lent her a pair of dancing shoes and reassured her it didn’t matter that Kirsty wasn’t wearing a long skirt and a plaid fastened with a clan pin, not when she went to shower and change. She hadn’t even realised Ben owned a kilt. He’d never worn one at a university or hospital do, to her knowledge.
And she certainly hadn’t expected him to look so incredibly sexy in the kilt and plain white shirt. Sure, she and all her female friends had lusted after Mel Gibson in Braveheart , and, sure, she’d seen Ben wandering round their garden in a pair of cut-off denim shorts and nothing else on a really hot summer’s day—but she’d had no idea just how gorgeous Ben would look in Scots national dress.
‘It’s the Robertson tartan,’ he explained. A red background with narrow black lines and a mirror-image pattern of wider blue and green lines, some full and some in diagonal stripes, made the tartan look almost chequered. The red was a perfect foil to his dark good looks and the blue emphasised the colour of his eyes.
‘I…um…It looks good.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I should have guessed you’d have a kilt.’
‘Only for formal stuff up here. Like I said, I haven’t worn one for years.’
She had a piercing vision of Ben in the slightly more formal version of the outfit—with the addition of the short black jacket known as a ‘Prince Charlie’ making his eyes seem even bluer—standing at the altar in a tiny Scots church, lit by candles, waiting for his bride to walk down the aisle towards him.
‘Are you OK?’ Ben asked.
Then she realised that she must have gasped at the stabbing pain she’d felt at the vision, knowing that the bride Ben was waiting for was someone else. Someone tall and slender with long legs, someone beautiful, a stunning vision in ivory silk and an antique veil. Not the woman who never wore skirts because they made her look even shorter and dumpier. ‘I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘Just a bit nervous.’
‘What about?’
‘You know I’ve got two left feet. Remember our graduation ball?’
‘I’ve still got the bruises,’ he teased.
‘That was just an ordinary dance—this sort of dancing involves the whole room! Ben, I’m going to embarrass you,’ she warned.
‘No, you’re not.’ He smiled at her. ‘And the dances don’t involve the whole room. Not all the time. Some of the dances are for couples—like the Gay Gordons—and some of them are for sets of couples, like Strip the Willow. And we won’t be dancing all the time, anyway. Someone’ll sing, someone’ll play music and there’ll probably be a round supper. Which usually means haggis, with a dram of whisky poured over the top.’
Haggis? Was this a wind-up—or was he really expecting her to eat sheep’s intestines? Not to mention the fact she didn’t drink spirits. ‘I can’t do it,’ she said, panicking even more.
‘Kirst, if you can perform open heart surgery, you can cope with a couple of dances at the village hall,’ he reassured her. ‘And I was joking about the haggis. There might be neeps and haggis there, but there’ll be sandwiches and biscuits, too. And stop worrying about the dancing. I’ll talk you through it if there isn’t a caller.’
‘Don’t ceilidhs always have callers?’ she asked, surprised. The weddings she’d been to had had a caller. Weddings Ben had been to as well, she remembered, though he hadn’t worn a kilt then.
‘Down south, maybe, not usually north of the border. You grow up learning the dances at your parents’ knees—grandparent’s, in my case—so there’s no need.’
‘But what if—?’
‘Someone else asks you to dance?’ he guessed. ‘That’s fine. Just give them your soppy brown-eyed puppy look.’
‘I do not have a soppy brown-eyed puppy look,’ she said fiercely.
He chuckled. ‘Yes, you do. You just don’t use it
CHAPTER FIVE
B EN in a kilt.
Kirsty hadn’t been prepared for this. Not on the drive home, not when Morag had lent her a pair of dancing shoes and reassured her it didn’t matter that Kirsty wasn’t wearing a long skirt and a plaid fastened with a clan pin, not when she went to shower and change. She hadn’t even realised Ben owned a kilt. He’d never worn one at a university or hospital do, to her knowledge.
And she certainly hadn’t expected him to look so incredibly sexy in the kilt and plain white shirt. Sure, she and all her female friends had lusted after Mel Gibson in Braveheart , and, sure, she’d seen Ben wandering round their garden in a pair of cut-off denim shorts and nothing else on a really hot summer’s day—but she’d had no idea just how gorgeous Ben would look in Scots national dress.
‘It’s the Robertson tartan,’ he explained. A red background with narrow black lines and a mirror-image pattern of wider blue and green lines, some full and some in diagonal stripes, made the tartan look almost chequered. The red was a perfect foil to his dark good looks and the blue emphasised the colour of his eyes.
‘I…um…It looks good.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I should have guessed you’d have a kilt.’
‘Only for formal stuff up here. Like I said, I haven’t worn one for years.’
She had a piercing vision of Ben in the slightly more formal version of the outfit—with the addition of the short black jacket known as a ‘Prince Charlie’ making his eyes seem even bluer—standing at the altar in a tiny Scots church, lit by candles, waiting for his bride to walk down the aisle towards him.
‘Are you OK?’ Ben asked.
Then she realised that she must have gasped at the stabbing pain she’d felt at the vision, knowing that the bride Ben was waiting for was someone else. Someone tall and slender with long legs, someone beautiful, a stunning vision in ivory silk and an antique veil. Not the woman who never wore skirts because they made her look even shorter and dumpier. ‘I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘Just a bit nervous.’
‘What about?’
‘You know I’ve got two left feet. Remember our graduation ball?’
‘I’ve still got the bruises,’ he teased.
‘That was just an ordinary dance—this sort of dancing involves the whole room! Ben, I’m going to embarrass you,’ she warned.
‘No, you’re not.’ He smiled at her. ‘And the dances don’t involve the whole room. Not all the time. Some of the dances are for couples—like the Gay Gordons—and some of them are for sets of couples, like Strip the Willow. And we won’t be dancing all the time, anyway. Someone’ll sing, someone’ll play music and there’ll probably be a round supper. Which usually means haggis, with a dram of whisky poured over the top.’
Haggis? Was this a wind-up—or was he really expecting her to eat sheep’s intestines? Not to mention the fact she didn’t drink spirits. ‘I can’t do it,’ she said, panicking even more.
‘Kirst, if you can perform open heart surgery, you can cope with a couple of dances at the village hall,’ he reassured her. ‘And I was joking about the haggis. There might be neeps and haggis there, but there’ll be sandwiches and biscuits, too. And stop worrying about the dancing. I’ll talk you through it if there isn’t a caller.’
‘Don’t ceilidhs always have callers?’ she asked, surprised. The weddings she’d been to had had a caller. Weddings Ben had been to as well, she remembered, though he hadn’t worn a kilt then.
‘Down south, maybe, not usually north of the border. You grow up learning the dances at your parents’ knees—grandparent’s, in my case—so there’s no need.’
‘But what if—?’
‘Someone else asks you to dance?’ he guessed. ‘That’s fine. Just give them your soppy brown-eyed puppy look.’
‘I do not have a soppy brown-eyed puppy look,’ she said fiercely.
He chuckled. ‘Yes, you do. You just don’t use it
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