Oddly though, the more Trevor listened and tuned in to Millie’s accent, the more he understood. She explained how the kilt typically fell to the centre of the knee, how the flat folds in the front were called aprons, while the sides and back were usually pleated. The one they’d found had belonged to Millie’s late brother, who had stood shorter than Trevor and had been broader around the waist, but using the kilt pin fastened to the front apron, the result looked—and felt—both stylish and comfortable. She explained how he would need Rudy’s thick belt to keep things in place, but both Millie and Rudy approved the result. When she inquired why he wasn’t planning on bringing a Sassenach girlfriend or boyfriend to the ball, Trevor decided to tell her about getting divorced and having suffered a prolonged dry spell, which he thought might finally be looking up. From the doorway, Rudy snorted but Trevor ignored him.
“Aye, well,” she said, unpinning the seam and taking the cloth over to the waiting ironing board, “it’s a lang road that’s no gote a’turnin.”
Rudy nodded and hummed his approval.
“Too true, Millie. Too true.”
When Millie left the kilt on the ironing board and disappeared into the utility room, Trevor turned to Rudy.
“Okay,” he said, looking helpless. “I’m not sure I understood a word of what she just said. What was that about no goat or turnip?”
Rudy chuckled in his usual good-natured way.
“She said it’s a long road that doesn’t have a turn somewhere down the line. It’s an old Scottish saying which means be patient even when things are going badly. Most roads have a turn in them eventually and things are bound to improve.”
“Do you believe that?” asked Trevor, after thinking for a while.
As Rudy studied him thoughtfully for a moment, a smile like the sunrise blossomed on his face.
“I do,” he said. “Aye, Trev, I think I do.”
* * * *
When Trevor stood and stared at himself in the long mirror in Rudy’s bedroom, he couldn’t help his excited smile. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined he’d be wearing a kilt. Well, maybe to a fancy dress party, but never formally. And the shade of blue—a dark cerulean—in the tartan of reds and blues matched the blue-grey of his eyes. Not only that, but his shock of unruly black hair complemented the white shirt, black waistcoat and matching jacket—all items borrowed from Rudy. Complete with silver buttons, the whole ensemble looked not only respectable but pretty darned sexy, even if the notion felt a little conceited. To complete the illusion, Rudy had helped him out with long black socks, garters, patent leather shoes and a sporran hanging over his family jewels. Yes, he rocked the part of the Scottish laird. Wait until Cheryl saw him.
“Look at you, Trev!” came Rudy’s voice from across the room.
Trevor twisted around and hiked in a breath. If Trevor had thought he looked hot in a kilt, Rudy owned the image. In patterned scarlet and moss green wool check, Rudy looked entirely at home, moving naturally across the carpet. Although the kilt covered his thick thighs, his sexy muscular knees peeked from beneath above knee-length socks of thick oatmeal wool. Trevor felt his mouth go dry.
“You surely wear the style well, Trev. Remember, when you put on a kilt, don’t be shy, wear the sett with pride. Own the outfit, and when people study you, they’ll see a warrior or a nobleman, not a man in a skirt.”
“Heavens, Rudy,” said Trevor as Rudy came to a stop in front of him. “Forget about me. Look at you. Just looking at you is giving me a hard-on.”
“Is it?” said Rudy, grinning. “Let me check.”
Before Trevor realised what was happening, Rudy had reached a hand beneath Trevor’s hem and was cradling his balls through his underwear. Trevor let out a soft yelp and grabbed Rudy’s arm while emitting a chuckle.
“Och, not fair, Trev,” said Rudy, smoothing a thumb over Trevor’s semi-erection. “We agreed to go commando.”
“In this draughty old place,” said Trevor, pulling Rudy’s hand away. “Not a chance in hell. Do you want me to catch pneumonia?”
“What was that about a commando?” came an unexpected voice from across the room. “You’re not thinking about joining the army now, wee brother?”
Trevor turned to see a taller carbon copy of Rudy, same college boy-style haircut, same handsome grin, maybe a little leaner than Rudy. Dressed in an evening suit with a cummerbund in family tartan, rather than Rudy’s traditional choice of a kilt, he would nevertheless turn heads.
“Ivan,” said Rudy, going over and hugging his brother. “This is my, uh, friend Trevor. I was just explaining what a proper Scotsman wears beneath his kilt. He and his friends are staying at the lodge for Christmas and New Year. Mother invited them to dinner tonight.”
“Did she now?” said Ivan, appearing genuinely surprised. “That’s a first. You must have done something to impress her if she invited you for dinner.”
Unlike Rudy, Ivan had no trace of an accent.
“Not sure about that,” said Trevor, going over and shaking Ivan’s hand. “I think maybe she took pity on us. Snowed in, and all that.”
Ivan and Rudy shared a quick look before turning back to Trevor and saying, in unison, “No.”
“Our mother doesn’t work that way,” said Ivan. “There’ll be an alternative motive. It’ll just have to remain a mystery until she lets on. Anyway, brother, I’ve been sent here to drag you down to face the masses. You know what Mother’s like about having the whole family together for the meet-and-greets.”
“Okay, I’ll be down in a minute,” said Rudy before placing an arm around Trevor’s shoulders. “Let me have moment with Trev first.”
