Well, not the only problem. She shook her head at the notion. She could just envision the MacNeills having a fight with the ones she’d arranged the party for—again.

After taking a long, hot shower, she slipped into bed and tried to read a book on setting up parties on a budget. She stared at the pages, not reading or seeing anything, until she finally gave up, turned out the lamplight, and closed her eyes. Which conjured up images of Guthrie in his medieval shirt with his tartan sash crossing his muscled torso, his kilt blowing in the chilly breeze.

She’d admired his footwork in his brown leather boots as he had quickly outmaneuvered Ralph, and she’d watched the way the men’s swords clashed and how Guthrie had disarmed Ralph in a flash. Guthrie had looked so confident, warrior-like, and…hell, sexy that she wished he’d been battling with his kin in a friendly practice—not at the Rankin’s reunion—so she could have enjoyed it.

Even the women who had raced out to see him fight had been “oohing” and “ahhing” over his physique. Which had made Calla grind her teeth and fold her arms. Aye, she knew better than to actually attempt to stop a sword fight in the middle of it. But she hadn’t liked that the women—other than her—were just as fascinated with the Highland hunk.

When one of the women had asked if Guthrie was wearing anything under his kilt, obviously not interested if any of the other kilt-dressed men were, Calla had bit her tongue. She’d wanted to retort that he was wearing briefs—as if she knew—but she’d had her eyes glued to him every bit as much as the rest of the women had, trying to get a peek.

Opening her eyes, Calla gave up trying to sleep and got out of bed. Maybe a glass of milk would help her to quit thinking of what went on at the party.

She threw on a tank top and shorts, a pair of slippers, and a robe, and headed down the hallway to the stairs. Even in the darkened hallway, she could see with her wolf’s vision and used the stair railing as she hurried down the curved stone steps.

When she arrived in the kitchen, she found the light switch and flipped it on. The entire keep was quiet, the kitchen spotless. She reached into one of the three stainless-steel fridges and pulled out a carton of milk, then poured herself a glass. After putting the milk away, she took a deep breath and stared out at the frosty garden through the windows behind the kitchen table. Small brass lanterns illuminated the shrubs a short distance from the castle, but the rest of the gardens were dark.

She was about to take a sip of milk when a deep male voice said, “Couldn’t sleep?”

Calla squeaked and dropped the glass of milk on the slate floor, splattering milk everywhere. Used to slipping around her house in the middle of the night, she hadn’t been prepared for anyone’s sudden appearance here.

She wheeled around to see Guthrie grinning at her. “Sorry, lass,” he said, not sounding sorry at all but rather highly amused. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ll clean it up.”

She glanced at his body. He wore only a pair of black boxers—his bare chest and legs taking more of her attention than necessary. “You’re not wearing any shoes. I’ll get it.”

“It was my fault,” Guthrie said.

“I know. It was. But you can’t get any closer or you’ll cut your feet.” She sighed, grabbed some paper towels and wetted them, then began to clean up the mess—milk and milk-covered glass everywhere. Glass hitting a stone floor didn’t have a chance.

“You aren’t still angry about what happened at the manor house, are you?” Guthrie asked. Seizing some paper towels and ignoring her look of disbelief, he began to help her clean up the mess.

“Guthrie, you’re going to get cut.” She looked up from his big feet and saw him staring at her robe gaping open. She was wearing a tank top and shorts, for heaven sakes. He was nearly naked! She sighed. “I…I think, besides worrying you were going to be charged with assault, I was concerned that the men might have cut you or Ethan.”

“You said yourself you didn’t think fighting with swords was their strong suit,” Guthrie said, drawing closer as he moved in her direction to capture more of the splintered glass.

“Aye, but they weren’t just practicing with you, either.”

“They didn’t stand a chance.” Guthrie smiled at her. “You needn’t have worried.”

She caught his gaze, his green eyes darkened. “Did Ian scold you too much after I left?” She’d been concerned about that too. Afterward, she thought she probably shouldn’t have made such a fuss about it.

“He’s the pack leader,” Guthrie said.

Which most likely meant Ian had chewed him out. “I’m sorry. But it will probably be best if you don’t have to safeguard me.”

“You think one of the toga wearers would try to fight me?”

She smiled at that. “The Greeks thought of swords as an auxiliary weapon. They were mostly spear bearers. So if you were armed with only your sword and any of them were carrying spears, you’d be in real trouble.”

Guthrie chuckled. “Not if they have been drinking, which I’m sure they will be, aye?” He threw out his glass- and milk-covered paper towels and washed his hands.

“What did you ever see in Baird anyway?” Guthrie asked, meaning to sound casual, but his words came out a lot gruffer than he intended.

She paused and frowned a little at him. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake in liking someone? Not really knowing the person as you thought you did? That they’re showing you only their good side?”