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    Lassie, Go Home
    Lassie, Go Home
    Lassie, Go Home
    Ebook107 pages1 hour

    Lassie, Go Home

    By Connie Brockway

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    About this ebook

    A Contemporary romance novella about a lass, her dog...and her Highlander...
    The Highlander and the American...

    Toni Olson has traveled to Scotland to bring back the perfect Border Collie, not the perfect man. But the moment she lays eyes on Devlin Montgomery at a Highland Fair, it’s as if the strapping young laird with his lilting accent, dark auburn curls, and cleft chin has come strolling straight from the pages of one of her favorite novels.

    The last thing Devlin needs in his life is a blond, leggy American tourist obsessed with the romance of the Scottish Highlands. But he still can’t resist playing the hero to her damsel in distress. Too late, he realizes the sassy beauty is in danger of claiming not only his favorite dog but his heart...

    “Connie Brockway’s work brims with warmth, wit, sensuality and intelligence.”—Amanda Quick, New York Times bestselling author

    “Romance with strength, wit, and intelligence. Connie Brockway delivers!” — Tami Hoag, New York Times bestselling author

    “If it’s smart, sexy, and impossible to put down, it’s a book by Connie Brockway — Christina Dodd, New York Times bestselling author

    “If you’re looking for passion, tenderness, wit, and warmth, you need look no further. Connie Brockway is simply the best.” — Teresa Medeiros, New York Times bestselling author

    “Brockway’s lush, lyrical writing style is a perfect match for her vivid characters, beautiful atmospheric setting, and sensuous love scenes.” — Library Journal

    “Connie Brockway’s work belongs on every reader’s shelf!”—Romantic Times

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTeresa Medeiros
    Release dateMay 6, 2019
    ISBN9781943505531
    Lassie, Go Home
    Author

    Connie Brockway

    A New York Times bestselling author of twenty-two novels for Avon Books, Julia Quinn is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest. New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James is a professor of English literature who lives with her family in New York but can sometimes be found in Italy. Connie Brockway, the New York Times bestselling author of twenty-two books, is an eight-time finalist and two-time winner of the RITA® Award. She lives in Minnesota with her husband and two spoiled mutts.

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      Book preview

      Lassie, Go Home - Connie Brockway

      Chapter 1

      "Y o, Jamie Fraser! Whoop! Whoo—"

      Devlin Montgomery’s head popped through the neck of his cambric shirt just in time for him to glimpse a pair of long legs flailing above a hedge. Then he heard a thunk and a groan.

      Damn American tourist, he thought, striding over to make sure the Yank hadn’t killed herself. And yes, it had to be an American—such an enthusiastic holler could only come from an American. And Americans were the most likely to mistake him for Jamie Fraser, the fictional, but oh-so-braw, hero of Outlander. Thanks to Diana Gabaldon and the Starz network, Scotland had been besieged by dreamy-eyed American women traipsing over the hills and through the glens searching for the perfect Highlander.

      It wasn’t human kindness alone that hastened his steps. Lawsuits and Americans went hand in hand, and the Strathcuddy Faire, a new entrant in the lucrative business of annual Highland games fairs, couldn’t afford any litigious actions. Besides being bad publicity, it would cut severely into the purses awarded to the winners of the various contests, and Devlin Montgomery, who had every intention of winning several of those purses, badly needed the cash.

      Dev looked over the top of the fence capping the yew hedge. A woman lay sprawled in the clover. Platinum blond hair tumbled about her shoulders, half covering her face. She was twisted at the waist, her long jeans-clad legs bent to one side and her arms thrown wide. The position drew attention to her bosom.

      Dev sucked in a low whistle. It was a bosom well worth drawing attention to, and right now it was stretching the printing on a snug fitting, and garishly plaid, T-shirt that read Sassy Lassie.

      He suppressed a groan. God deliver him from tourists.

      As he watched she spat a hank of silvery hair out of her mouth. He vaulted lightly over the rail, landing beside her.

      Are you all right? he asked.

      A pair of eyes flashed and disappeared behind the curtain of hair. She moaned but made no attempt to straighten herself. His concern redoubled. Miss?

      Perfec-lee fine, she slurred out.

      Oh, yeah. Definitely American. Not an East Coast or southern native, though. California blonde?

      Dev knelt beside her, carefully brushing some of the hair from her face. What he uncovered would have made a Viking papa proud. Wide cheekbones flared above a firm, clean jawline. Her nose was short, her lips full and plush. True, the brows and lashes were darker than that which usually went with such a blond mane, but then there was no saying she was a real blonde. Especially that shade of blonde. She still would have made a Viking papa proud. Especially if the length of those legs translated into the height he suspected she owned.

      Can you move anything? he asked.

      Courth…course I can, silly. I can move everything, she said, eyes still shut.

      It didn’t sound as if she were in pain, but maybe she just couldn’t feel any pain. Maybe she’d broken her back.

      How do you know? he asked, his concern deepening. Do you think you’re moving things? Because if you do, you’re wrong. Nothing’s moving.

      I’m not that tanked, she said with a touch of asperity. Abruptly one hand rose and the fingers wiggled. There, she said. See?

      One eye opened a slit, and she peered up at him. Blue eyes. A blue-eyed maybe blonde. His breath hitched. Okay. So he’d once been a touch susceptible to that particular combination. He was older now, not so easy to impress. Ha.

      Braveheart! You’re still here, she said in the happy tones of the pleasantly sotted. Apparently, any Scottish icon would do for this particular American.

      Yeah, he said. She’d dimpled as she said it, and he caught back a low whistle. She was as cute as a newborn giraffe. Ah, can I do anything for you, miss?

      Oh, yeah, she breathed, still gazing raptly up at him. Speak Sean Connery for me.

      Huh?

      Ya know—‘Ye seem to hae fallen on yer nut, haven’t ye, ye great heeland coo?’

      Caught off guard by the atrocious and disarmingly canny impersonation, Dev broke into laughter. She couldn’t be too badly hurt.

      There’s a sport. She grinned foolishly, her eyes unfocused and sappy with expectation.

      Sorry. I don’t do Sean Connery.

      "Wish I could," she mumbled morosely, rolling her head to the side. Abruptly her dazed gaze sharpened. She darted a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, squirmed a little closer to his knee, and…

      His eyes narrowed. Are you trying to look up my kilt?

      Her head snapped back to its original position. Her blue eyes went round as she donned an abrupt and completely unconvincingly innocent expression.

      Well? he prodded sternly.

      Maybe, she allowed and sniffed. What’s the big deal, anyway?

      Americans and their kilt fetishes. He brought his face closer to hers. If you found out the Secret of the Kilt, he whispered dramatically, you could never leave the country.

      She snorted, but he noted a wave of color had unrolled up her throat. He rose to his feet and held out his hand. Here. Let me help you up. Jamie Fraser would never leave a damsel in distress. She hesitated, so he added, Especially an American damsel. They sue if you don’t meet their expectations.

      Hey. Scots aren’t supposed to be sarcastic. She didn’t move, just lay there on her back.

      I’m half French, he explained pleasantly.

      You don’t look French, she said suspiciously.

      I know. I look like Jamie Fraser. And Braveheart. Of course, there is a slight matter of my having eight inches on Mr. Gibson.

      Oh? Where? As soon as the words were out she clamped a hand over her mouth. Her fair skin flooded with an intense blood-orange color.

      Five, she mumbled into her palm.

      What? Dev asked, confounded and bemused; the color of her eyes was exactly the color of the pansies growing untended beside his back door, and just as velvety—

      I had five Scotches at the Scottish tasting booth. Her gaze looked abashed above the gag of her hand. I mean Scotch tasting booth! She started giggling.

      Five? Good Lord. No wonder the girl couldn’t get up. Or even sit up, for that matter. He moved around to her head and squatted down, wrapping his arms under her arms and lifting. She hung like a sack of wet wool.

      Why did you have so many? he grunted, heaving her to her feet.

      Toni Olson squinted thoughtfully up at the blue, cloud-clotted sky, vaguely aware that the gorgeous Scot she’d spied earlier that day hurling a telephone pole around was propping her up. Why had she tasted so many whiskies? Because they were there, that was why. There and cheap, and she was on the last few days of a dream vacation-cum-business trip before returning to Minnesota.

      She couldn’t ever remember feeling so…so free. And delighted. It must be the clean air sweeping in off the sea, or being up in a real, live Scottish valley, or seeing her first guy in a kilt who wasn’t either eighty years old or blowing into a bagpipe or both.

      But when she’d seen this man, who was the culmination of every one of her lustful, Outlander-induced fantasies, stride around the corner of the tent in nothing but a kilt, she’d reacted the same way her niece did every time Karl-Anthony Towns walked on the court for the Timberwolves. She’d whooped. For the

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