Dancing the Reel

By Priscilla Brown

On a working holiday in Britain, Australian journalist Jasmine takes one last assignment before returning home. Stuck on a tiny wild Scottish island, where the only inhabitants are a brusque ex-politician, her dour housekeeper and a hundred sheep, Jazz struggles to render the woman’s scathing memoirs publishable.

Her lifeline, literally when he rescues her during treacherous weather, is the pirate-lookalike ferry deckhand, Angus, who may be more than he seems. He takes her to his “lair” on a nearby island for an exhilarating evening of Scottish dancing, where undercurrents of desire surge between them.

When her father has a serious accident, she rushes to Australia earlier than planned, leaving unresolved the flaring relationship between her and Angus. His circumstances mean he must live on the island. Are a few nights of glorious passion and a shared fondness for fruit and nut chocolate enough to entice her back?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Feb 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9780228612674

Priscilla Brown

Based in regional New South Wales, Australia, Priscilla has a varied career history, with seven different jobs to date. Some have been worked concurrently, while writing is always a part of her life. These, along with her love of travel in Australia and overseas, and a passion for craft galleries and people watching in cafés, inspire ideas, characters and settings for her contemporary romantic fiction.For more information about Priscilla's books including blurbs, reviews and purchase links, please visit her website: http://priscillabrownauthor.com

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Dancing the Reel

Priscilla Brown

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-0-2286-1267-4

Kindle 978-0-2286-1268-1

Web 978-0-2286-1269-8

Print ISBNs

LSI Print 978-0-2286-1271-1

B&N Print 978-0-2286-1272-8

Amazon Print 978-0-2286-1270-4

Copyright 2020 by Priscilla Brown

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

The characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Chapter One

If pirates roamed the twenty-first-century Scottish coast, he would be their king.

A sudden wind gust rocked Jazz’s baby car and rain hammered on its roof while she waited to drive onto this floating tea tray, euphemistically described in the timetable as a car ferry. The pirate guy, presumably the deckhand, his height and build imposing in head-to-foot yellow oilskins, spoke to the SUV parked next to her, whose reverse on surely took up more than his fair share of deck. Reversing? Help! A plumber’s minivan with a pipe protruding lethally far from its roof reversed smartly, cramming itself beside the SUV. These vehicles took up the whole deck width, leaving barely enough space in front of them for the remaining two. The deckhand appeared to share a joke with the driver of a rusty pickup truck, who backed on next and stopped a hair space in front of the SUV.

Jazz moistened her dry lips and swiped her clammy hands on her jeans. Her turn.

As he approached her, a blast of wind blew his oilskin hood from his head. He tugged it back, but not before she noticed his shoulder-length black ponytail and one gold-hooped earring. Broad fingers rapped on the rain-lashed car window while a wicked mouth with two rows of even white teeth offered a flirty smile. She lowered the window, letting in a hiss of wind and a million raindrops, and handed him her ticket.

His face, a young pirate face, vigorous black eyebrows, midnight eyes, several days’ rather sinister dark stubble on a cliff-face jaw, angled close to hers. She shivered, a quarter from the cold and three quarters from the proximity of such a lust-worthy creature.

Oh boy. She wouldn’t mind being this pirate’s captive. Taken to his hideout on a remote island…seduced…whoa there. She was headed for an island, although one perhaps not particularly remote, in the Scottish Inner Hebrides. As for seduction—fat chance.

You okay with reversing on? His Scottish-accented deep voice stirred her pulse.

Masking her reaction to him, as well as her apprehension about boarding, Jazz nodded. She, who rather than reverse park would drive three times around the block looking for a straight-in spot, was far from okay. She wouldn’t let him see it. A girl had her pride.

He pushed the nearside wing mirror in. You’ll fit under the plumber’s pipe. Watch me in your other wing mirror, and I’ll guide you when to stop. His cheeky face split into a wide grin. Promise. I’ve never let anyone hit anything yet. Reverse now.

Never? Doubtless his first day on the job.

She turned her car, and inched backwards, gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled fingers. Lining up with the ferry’s side, she sensed the car go up the ramp onto the deck. As she edged farther, she watched him while trying to keep an eye on the truck next to her. A large black and white dog on the passenger seat put its tongue out at her. Impulsively, suiting her mood, she poked her tongue out in return, glimpsing a grin on the face of the elderly driver. She couldn’t see the plumber’s pipe, and half expected a crunch as her roof scraped it. But—ouch! She heard the grate of metal on metal when the passenger door slid along the deck rail. The deckhand raised a hand for her to stop.

Taking a deep breath, she swore. Still, a bit more damage to the car wouldn’t matter; it needed to last only a few more weeks anyway. He squeezed between the vehicles to her side.

She lowered the window. A first for you, a vehicle hitting something.

To his credit, he appeared suitably contrite, as if he’d schooled his face into lines of commiseration. We were both aware of Hamish’s truck.

What about my car?

I’ll get it fixed for you.

Well, thanks. On the island?

Uh huh. You’ll be first off. Park and wait for me.

Is everyone going to Wee Gilmachor?

Only you.

But—

With one hand, warm, smooth, and rain-damp, he closed her mouth. With the other, he took a chocolate bar, somewhat squashed, from his pocket, and tucked it into the neck of her sweater. The ferry hooted.

Time to cast off.

With her fingertips, Jazz rubbed her mouth, wondering why she didn’t feel that kind of touch from a stranger to be presumptuous. But pirates were known to be bold… She watched him raise the ramp, secure the barrier gates, and deal with the ropes. Even in clumsy wet-weather gear, he moved with a kind of animal grace. Learned, no doubt, from keeping upright while fighting with cutlasses on marauding galleons.

She hadn’t expected the ferry to be this small. People had to stay in their vehicles since there was no room to open a door. In her ignorance, she’d thought she could get coffee and something to eat aboard, and now, three hours since breakfast in Glasgow, her stomach tingled with hunger. Still, lack of food may be as well, considering the potential here for seasickness. She nibbled on the chocolate—doubly welcome since it was her favourite fruit and nut.

The boat churned and lurched its way through waves thumping against the hull. Several times the sea washed over the railing, while blustery rain rode on the wind. She could add rust to her car’s list of problems. Surely, sometime in her three weeks here the weather must improve. If the area was this cold and wet in a July summer, whatever would it be like in winter? Happily, by then, she’d be far, far away.

Thirty minutes later the ferry entered a small U-shaped harbour. Although the sea calmed down here, fishing boats, dinghies, and large smart yachts still bounced and swung at their moorings. The ferry slowed and reversed for the vehicles to drive onto land. WELCOME TO GRAND GILMACHOR, a notice board announced. Grand? She was supposed to be going to Wee. The deckhand fixed the ropes, lowered the ramp, and opened the gates. He reached across to reposition her wing mirror and gave her a thumbs up.

The best thing about disembarking was driving forwards, though the whole arrangement seemed a tad iffy. Water, depth unknown, slapped between the end of the boat’s ramp and dry—relatively dry—land. She suspected she’d stall the engine and/or drive into the sea and drown. Amazingly, her car splashed off the ramp still functioning. Manoeuvring up the steepish concrete slipway—slip being the operative word—was tricky, and her car needed new tyres. These three weeks had better be worth it. Avoiding puddles, she parked and waited for him to tell her why she’d ended up here and not on Wee Gilmachor.

* * *

Watching the rest of the vehicles disembark, Angus thought about the woman in the beat-up car. He’d get her damage patched up, though the bodywork carried so many dents and scratches one more would be hardly noticeable. Obviously she didn’t understand about the crossing to Wee Gil. He’d have to enlighten her, and she probably wouldn’t be pleased. He wondered if she’d last the three weeks Boots had booked her for. From his point of view, he certainly wanted her to, since a decorative female newcomer might add a welcome pizzazz to his social life.

I’ll be right back, he shouted to Skipper, as he headed for her car.

She lowered the window. Chocolate was nice, thanks. How am I going to get to the other island?

He recognised her accent, though one seldom heard here. He’d discuss it later, confident there’d be a later. They should have told you. The ferry between Grand Gil and the mainland operates to a schedule. From here to Wee Gil it’s on demand. But—

I booked. I demanded! She tossed her head, sending her gold-tipped brown curls dancing.

I know. To Wee Gil, we take this ferry or sometimes an outboard dinghy if they’re day visitors, depending on the number.

And if they have a car.

No cars. Wee Gil is hills and cliffs, no roads.

She smacked a fist on the steering wheel. Nobody told me. What am I supposed to do with my car?

Her eyes narrowed accusingly at him, as if he’d personally changed the local topography. Brown eyes lit with gold, like her hair. Unusual eyes he might like to appreciate under different circumstances.

Leave it on this island. You get around Wee Gil on a quad bike. How would she go with this? She didn’t appear fragile—determined cheekbones, a firm, enticingly curved mouth… Down boy, let’s not think about her mouth right now. Will you be okay with that?

No problem. We use them on my parents’ farm. When am I going to get to the damn place?

Not today. You’re lucky you’re this far. We’re cancelling the rest of today’s trips due to worsening weather.

I’m stuck here?

Afraid you are. With his thumb, he indicated across the road. You’ll be able to book into the inn. They’re used to stranded passengers. Someone will tell you when you can cross to Wee Gil.

But I’m expected today. I’m going to Ms McWellie and I must tell her. She turned to an assortment of bags stacked on the passenger seat. I’ll email. My laptop’s right here, and I’ve been communicating with her that way.

Don’t worry. I’ll radio her for you.

You will? Okay, thanks. This is rather out of the blue… She grinned, a sudden sassy smile. …or rather, out of this black sky. Don’t break your promise!

Touché. What’s your name?

Jazz. Er, Jasmine. Yours?

Angus. Good luck, Jazz.

As he headed back to the ferry to finish his work, he feared she might need all the luck she could muster.

* * *

At six-thirty that evening, Jazz sat at one of the inn’s restaurant window tables. Rain sluiced down the glass. Beyond the pond-size puddles on the road, the ferry bumped against the huge tyres attached to several concrete posts to which the boat was tied. For sure, the inn knew how to look after marooned visitors; her fish pie smelled and tasted like heaven, while the white wine agreeably massaged her throat. Her attic room was warm and comfortable, with a sea view east towards the mainland that in better weather conditions would be magnificent.

Sensing glances directed at her, she checked the bar along the back wall of the room. The two men there, the barman and a kilted guy, suddenly found great interest in a bottle of something brown. She strained her ears to listen to their voices but made out no English word. Were they speaking Gaelic? With another quick look from the barman, she guessed they were talking about her. When she’d entered the room, other customers were already seated at tables, and no one was at the bar. Kilt hadn’t entered through the front door, so he must be staying and come down the stairs.

Wait! Didn’t that cheeky deckhand sport a short ponytail like Kilt? Finishing her meal, she had room left for a slice of the delicious banoffee pie she’d enjoyed on arrival, and coffee. She stood up to go and order from the bar—and almost stumbled. The dark gaze of the piratical deckhand arrowed straight at her. He raised a glass towards her and said something to the barman. Bravely ignoring the sudden catch in her chest, she dropped back onto her seat and crossed her arms. How easy to flirt with this nicely put together specimen of manhood, but she’d see if he made the first move. She fixed her eyes on the dismal scene outside.

Jazz.

Hmm, move made. He stood by her table, a glass of amber stuff in each hand. Placing them down carefully, he sat opposite her.

You do drink whisky?

This was more a statement than a question. He regarded her with magnetic almost black eyes fringed by thick, curling lashes. Eyes impossible to ignore. She curled her fingers inside her fists to resist the temptation to skim them along his closely trimmed beard. Licking her lips, she found her voice. Looks like I do. She didn’t, being more of a white wine or vodka girl, but wouldn’t admit this to a native of whisky’s home country.

Good. This is our best single malt, distilled on another Hebridean island. He touched his glass to hers. Welcome to Grand Gilmachor. We meet again under improved circumstances.

Yes. Um, you do look somewhat different.

Indeed he did. In oilskins, he’d appeared bulky, but now she saw he was in fact perfectly constructed for his height, six one or two. He wore a silky black polo neck sweater under a tweed jacket, the forest-green tone of which predominated in his kilt. She caught the light, fresh scent of his cologne, and wished she’d bothered with a mist of fragrance. As he turned his chair sideways to the table, she glimpsed a pair of beautiful knees, not knobbly, slightly rounded, and, a surprise in this climate, a light tan that contrasted somehow sexily with his long black socks. His fancy shoes with their laces tied up his legs fascinated her. She shifted her gaze to his hands. Not pale, unlike the hands of almost everyone she’d met since leaving home; rather, they told of a man who spent time outdoors.

She sipped her whisky, managing not to gag on the fiery taste. This is a charming inn. Are you staying here too?

No, I live on this island.

I thought you must run the ferry with your… She allowed her glance to range over him. Your best clothes in a backpack in case you couldn’t get home.

He chuckled. We do carry spare kit, but the ferry workers on this route live here and if we have to cancel trips, we try to make it home first. I came into the bar the back way, via the car park. I wanted to check your damage.

Well, thanks, but it doesn’t matter. As long as the thing keeps going for another few weeks, I can’t worry over the odd scrape. I bought it cheap because of its dings. You can relax—I won’t sue the ferry company.

Promise? Amusement sparkled in his eyes.

Promise. What’s the chance of getting to the other island tomorrow?

Fifty-fifty. The weather changes quickly here. I checked the forecast—the wind should drop overnight and the rain turn to showers. I let Ms McWellie know. Er, I don’t always break my promises.

He flicked her a killer of a smile. The kind of smile that scrambled her pulse, zipped heat up and down her spine. A long draught of iced water would be the best idea, but she took too much whisky and hiccupped.

Sorry. Thanks. I guess she understands about the weather.

Of course. She’s spent enough time here. He raised his black brows at her. If you’ve done your research, you’ll know that.

I have done some research on Ms McWellie, though not enough on the area. I was in a great rush to leave London, and I gave the Gilmachor website only a hasty glance, enough to find out where the islands are. I didn’t check anything except the home page. I assume from that remark you know why I’m going there.

He nodded. To ghostwrite her memoirs, aka Dishing the Dirt.

Dirt? Excuse me, what are you talking about?

Your research must have turned up a few sods of muck.

She pushed her glass away. I don’t think I should be having this conversation. While I understand these are small islands and probably everyone knows everyone else’s business, in a job like this what I do is confidential.

He moved her glass closer to her hand. Okay, Ms Prissy. Tell me about yourself. What is an Australian doing a long way from home?

How do you know I’m Australian?

Your accent. I spent a year on a West Australian sheep farm.

She blinked in surprise. Oh? Can I ask why?

I’m a farmer.

Not deckhand?

My day job. I did work experience in New Zealand and Australia. I have a hundred sheep on Wee Gil and a hundred here. A handful compared with the numbers on your farms.

She nodded. My parents graze merinos in Victoria’s Western District, last estimate four thousand. I understand the economics of sheep farming, and I’d guess here it doesn’t keep you.

It doesn’t. I’m working on it. He finished his drink. We were talking about you. How come it’s you working for Boots?

Boots? I came across the nickname in some of the Internet material concerning her. Is Boots used here? I gathered it’s not only from McWellie, but because of her tendency to walk all over people. She clapped a hand over her mouth. I shouldn’t have said that.

It’s common knowledge. She was a Member of Parliament for twenty years.

Yes, until she lost her seat in the recent general election. Hence the memoir. I was out of work except for a cleaner’s job when I saw her advertisement in a newspaper. I prefer a visit to Scotland with three weeks free board and lodging plus cash to mopping floors, and the start date was almost immediate.

You’re a writer?

A journalist. I was. Probably now unemployable as such.

How come? What have you done? Libelled someone? Plagiarised?

After university, I worked on a magazine based in Melbourne. I was lucky enough to be promoted a few times, until I became features editor. Then the publication folded and I took off to try my luck in London..

He didn’t need to know lack of work was not the only reason. In hindsight, she’d like herself better if it were. If she hadn’t been such a fool… Still, she’d recovered from the humiliation of arriving without warning, with the intention of surprising the man she’d thought she loved, who’d left Melbourne for a prestigious London job and asked her to follow him. She’d found him in bed with some orange-haired floozy. While the experience had taught her not to give her heart easily, she’d maintained her flirting skills. Opposite her sat the best opportunity in months to give them a workout.

Go on, Angus prompted.

I had enormous luck to start with. Only three weeks after arriving, I landed a plum position on a women’s monthly. Deputy features editor, a great job. You may not be surprised to hear that magazine folded after a year too. Then an outdoor quarterly took me on. Working with them was fantastic, as we visited out-of-the-way places— She flicked him a smile. —but not Scotland in my time. We trialled excursions, equipment, courses, and reported on them. I learned a lot, but guess what, after I’d worked on two issues the economy hit, advertising revenue fell away, and last in was first out—me. I’m death to any publication. She picked up her glass, astonished to find it empty. She hadn’t been aware of drinking the whisky, so its taste couldn’t have been too awful. After my assignment here, I’m going home to find another career.

Sounds like a long run of bad luck. Another wee dram?

Dram?

He touched her glass. This.

Ah. No thanks. I was about to ask for a coffee when you arrived with a, um, a dram. I wondered if they had any banoffee pie left. Banana, toffee, and cream, I’m already addicted.

I’ll check. How do you like your coffee?

Black with separate cold milk. Ask them to put it on my room number.

As she watched him stride to the bar, kilt swinging around long, muscular legs, she reflected they weren’t truly flirting. Rather, they’d talked as if genuinely interested in each other’s lives. There was more about him she wanted to know. Much more, like how he managed both the sheep and the ferry, his time in Western Australia…and, too, she admitted to herself, what he did in any spare time he might have. Surely, she’d have a day off sometime.

Angus placed two coffees, milk, and one plate of pie on the table. In luck with the pie, this is the last slice.

Great, thank you. Have you had your dinner?

Before I left home. I don’t always come to the inn afterwards, but tonight… He sat down, inching his chair a fraction closer to hers. I thought you might be here. So he’d changed into what Jazz called his best clothes, ready for a spot of flirting. But instead, they seemed to be having a reasonable conversation.

Although, from the somewhat speculative look she gave him, he couldn’t be sure about the not flirting. She poured milk into her coffee and pointed at the two spoons.

You didn’t have dessert. Now you want to share mine.

Only one mouthful. You go first.

Gee, thanks. With one spoon, she divided the slice into one-third and two-thirds portions. Guess which is yours.

Since I’m a gentleman, I’ll take the smaller.

I’m partial to a man with manners.

She pushed the sleeves of her honey-coloured sweater to the elbows. Unlike the high neck of the sweater he’d tucked the chocolate into, this one’s low neck revealed smooth creamy skin and a slender gold chain. The sparkle in her gold-brown eyes told him she was definitely up for a flirt. His fingers itched with the desire to load his spoon and feed her, while some fragment of perception held him back. She was here for only three weeks; for both of them, work would take up much of the time. She’d be on Wee Gil without any independent means of crossing to Grand, and he hadn’t yet recovered the nerve to take a dinghy over.

Angus? Her voice, almost anxious, brought him back to the present. You look like you’re thinking worried thoughts.

Hesitating, he wondered what, if anything, to tell her. But she was a journalist. Last year’s uncomfortable experiences with intrusive journalists, plus the one who made up what she didn’t know, had taught him to be wary. He tossed back his short black coffee and decided flirting was the way to go. Uh huh. You on Wee. Me on Grand.

She smiled, a lively curving of her generous mouth. I could swim.

No! His desire to flirt evaporated in a nanosecond.

Only joking. It would be far too cold to swim here.

You’re not wrong, but you must never go near the water at the lighthouse end of Wee Gil. There’s a whirlpool.

She bit her bottom lip. Whirlpool? Lighthouse? I’m staying in the lighthouse.

I heard. He clenched a fist. All by yourself. Tough..

At first, Boots said I’d be in what she called The Big House. Then she told me a party of six birdwatchers was booked for some days during my time and there wouldn’t be room for me, what with them and the extra staff she needs. She toyed with the gold chain. So I should stay in the lighthouse for the whole period, and she’d make sure it was stocked with food. I’m not sure about living in a lighthouse, but I’d signed the contract before she told me and it seems I have no alternative. I guess I’ll survive.

Her wobbly smile clearly cost her effort. He wanted to cup her face in his hands and tell her everything would be fine. But that, he could never promise.

The lighthouse is decommissioned and recently set up for holiday lets. I haven’t been inside, but I understand the two lower floors have a kitchen, living area, bathroom, and bedroom. Should be quite comfortable.

He watched her carefully, trying to judge how seriously spooked she was. She’d wrapped her hands around her coffee cup so tightly he worried for the safety of the china. Her forehead creased in a frown. He finished his pie and coffee while he waited for her to speak.

Why do I have to go over there anyway? Letting her cup go, she licked the last mouthful of pie from her spoon. It occurred to me we could meet in London if she still had a house or apartment there. Though a trip to Scotland did appeal.

It’s the general impression she wanted out of London fast after the election.

I understand that, but why not come to this island? Surely there’s somewhere for us to stay and work. This afternoon I went for a walk. Quite a long way and I got soaked. I found the shop cum post office, a health clinic, an enormous community hall, a tiny school, and a nine-hole golf course. In good weather, the coastline would be lovely, a mixture of rocks and beaches. At the end of the island, I came across this huge house with an interesting garden.

Grand Gil’s Big House.

She nodded. I’m thinking maybe it takes guests. Of course, it could be full of birdwatchers or golfers or fishermen or people waiting forever for a ferry out, or it’s occupied by a grumpy old recluse, but if not, why couldn’t we stay there? She told me she’s received an advance for her book, so any expenses would be a tax deduction. Surely that’s more convenient.

Angus shook his head. The grumpy old recluse could never put up with the woman in his house. I doubt she’d even consider it. Since she lost her seat in Parliament, she’s used the Wee Gil house to lie low.

Is she angry, humiliated? Is this what you meant about dishing the dirt?

You will find out.

Now it’s you saying we shouldn’t be discussing her. One more question. What’s this about a whirlpool?

It’s below the lighthouse. A strong tide runs between these two islands, and under certain conditions the sea hits an underwater rock pinnacle, creating huge swirling waves. He needed to be sure she understood the dangers and gripped her hands. "The whirlpool’s unpredictable and treacherous. Promise me you won’t walk