Lion of Caledonia: International Billionaires VII: The Scots (3 page)

The lights blazed down on the something twinkling in that cabinet.

As usual, she saw nothing and no one who would protest at her curiosity. Sliding inside, she closed the door behind her.

A half-dozen great blunderbusses hung in a line above the object that had caught her interest.

Creeping nearer, she peered through the glass.

Not a ring, but some kind of decorative item. A curved, sterling-silver crest and three matching tassels with a leather pouch behind it. Beside the item lay a long sword and short knife. All of the items were locked in the glass cabinet, but lying on top of the glass was a distinctive black and silver sheathed knife. Or she figured it was a knife. The weapon lay on the edge of the case as if someone had just laid it down.

“What are ye doing in here?”

Cameron Steward’s voice boomed from the doorway, and she whipped around to stare at her employer. “I’m…I’m…”

He prowled into the room, his gaze never leaving hers. “You’re…you’re…”

His mocking tone straightened her spine. “I’m—”

“I’d think a little mouse like ye would be afraid of all these big, bad guns.” The mocking tone deepened his voice to a rich molasses.

Little mouse? Her spine snapped to complete attention. He might be a big lion of a man, but she was no mouse. Not anymore. A flare of unfamiliar anger swept through her.

Grabbing the first thing she found, she shook it in front of her. “I’m looking for something to use in the garden.”

Her words landed between them and his long legs stopped. Those odd eyes glittered with instant humor. “With that?”

She gulped in a breath and stared at the weapon in her hands. True, it didn’t look like a shovel, but it didn’t look like a regular knife, either. It was too broad. “Yes.”

Humor went from his eyes to his mouth. A glint of white flashed when he smiled. “That’s a 17
^th
-century antique called a
Sgian-dubh
.”

“Um…” Heated embarrassment ran up her neck. Digging with an antique would make her appear ridiculous.

“Hundreds of years ago, every good Scotsman kept a black dagger under his arm or in his stocking.” His lethal smile widened. “Just in case.”

The heat of her embarrassment mixed with another kind of heat she didn’t want to stop and identify. “Well—”

“Still, I’m not one to reject a helping hand.” His smile mocked her too. “If ye want to tackle the garden in your spare time, I’m not going to say no.”

“Um.” If he gave her a few years and a hundred thousand dollars, she’d be able to turn his backyard into a garden fit for a king. However, that wasn’t why she was here.

“But not with one of my antiques. Put it where ye found it.”

Feeling like she couldn’t do much else, she placed the antique down with a careful touch.

“Come along.” He didn’t seem fazed by her muted response. With his usual grace, he turned.

She wasn’t a short woman, yet she scrambled to keep pace with his long, strolling legs. He led them down a flight of stairs, past a kitchen with an old Aga oven and an ancient fridge from the seventies. Reaching the end of a dark, low-ceiling hallway, he grabbed a musty, woolen coat and thrust it into her hands. “Wear this.”

She noticed he didn’t grab one of the dozen other coats hanging on a strip of hooks for himself. Maybe the heat his body generated while strutting across his land made him impervious to the chill of the weather.

Before she could push the thought of heat away again, her temporary employer banged the stone door open and marched into the back of the garden. Jen trailed behind, grappling with her lingering embarrassment and growing bewilderment at her reaction to this man. The mix made her uneasy and also more determined. She could escape this bizarre situation if only she could find the damn ring. But here she was, thrown out into the garden, a place no sane person would store a ring.

“You’ll find some stuff there.” His big paw waved to a broken-down shed. “Help yourself.”

He gave her another mocking quirk of his brow and mouth before tramping past the overgrown flower beds and over the hill facing the loch, disappearing into the mist coming off the water.

She let out a relieved breath.

He was too much for her, and the sooner she got away the better.

Finding the ring couldn’t be done, though, at least for now. Who knew when the man would pop his head into a room and question what she was doing? For the time being, she’d have to do something outside, which was fine. She preferred the outdoors to the drafty building behind her. However, she wasn’t going to do his bidding and work for free in his garden.

She had too much new spine to do that.

Spotting a ramshackle building on the bank of the loch, she hiked onto the muddy path of the garden. The bare limbs of a line of chestnut trees whipped back and forth above her head in the stiff breeze coming off the lock. She came out onto the open lawn of the mansion next to the old building. The aged planks of oak and the cracked tiles of the roof told her this was old, and like everything else on this estate, ill-cared for. Bulky wooden piles stood in the water, holding up a second floor with a rickety porch possessing nothing more than one old plastic chair.

Jen didn’t think she’d want to risk sitting on that chair to stare at the loch in contemplation. She might well find herself hip-deep in freezing water.

Still curious, she walked to the side of the building. The sliding door she found was hard to open, but she managed to yank it wide enough to peer in. A stout, rounded boat with a small covered area floated next to a sleek sailboat. Both of them appeared well-kept, compared to anything else in this mansion or grounds.

Her employer must sail. And maybe fish.

Not that she cared.

It was only surprising to note: he could take care of things if he chose to. So why didn’t he care about the great mansion he must have paid millions to acquire?

Not that she cared.

She glanced at one wall and noted a thin stairway going up to the second floor. Figuring she had nothing else to do, she walked over and gingerly tested the wood steps. They seemed sturdy enough, so she climbed.

There was only one room, with a mangled kitchen and small, filthy bath on the side. A loft, with stairs she decided right away not to test, rose above. The place was empty of furniture and empty of spirit.

A feeling, soft, then harsh whispered through her soul.

Stepping to the one window, she stared out onto the waves. The clouds blurred the sun; only a thin stream of light glittered on the waves. The blue-grey ridge of mountains loomed over the other side of the loch, and the lap of the water on the rocks below competed with the ever-present whip of the wind.

Her finger etched a line through the film of dirt on the window.

Something rose inside, a desire she’d never experienced. In a flash, she saw what this rundown place could look like. The porch with a padded swing and a sturdy table piled with food. The loft above filled with a warm, cozy bed. A snug little fireplace with a plump sofa basking before it.

Before, she’d only ever had flashes of what a garden could look like. During the past two years, she’d put those visions into practice with the clients she’d worked with. Even as a child, she’d thought of her grandfather’s gardens as a place of refuge, a place almost like the home she’d lost as a five-year-old. For the first time, she saw an inside as a home instead of an outside.

A clatter of something falling echoed from below.

Jen jerked straight, her heartbeat picking up its pace.

Was it him? Was he lurking downstairs trying to see why she wasn’t slaving away in his garden?

Silence rang from below. She didn’t know much about her employer yet, but she knew enough to know silence wasn’t something that occurred around him unless it had something to do with his writing.

She tiptoed to the stairwell and stared into the gloomy bowl of the boathouse.

Nothing moved. No sound.

Did something just fall? All on its own?

Shivering in her borrowed coat, she forced herself to creep down the stairs. Both boats lolled in the water, looking ordinary and non-threatening. She scurried to the open door and walked out into the chilly, early-spring air.

No one stood outside. No lurking man with a curled grin and a mocking gleam in his eye.

No one at all.

A movement flashed to the side of her and she whipped around and thought she saw something or someone rustle through the edge of hedges. Then everything went quiet once more. Maybe she’d been wrong, merely letting her imagination go wild.

Yet as she strode toward the bleak mansion, she still felt the hair on her neck rise.

She was being watched.

But by whom?

S
he was definitely a mouse
.

And he had no interest in mice.

Cam stood by the bay window, in his usual place, a place where the words seemed to flow better than anywhere else. His transcriber sat in her usual place, a place she seemed to have become used to during the last week. She perched herself on his big leather chair, behind the massive desk his wife had bought him after the success of his third novel.

He’d never liked that desk.

He rarely sat in that chair.

“Did you want to stop?” The mouse’s crisp, upper-class English voice cut through his thoughts.

Realizing he’d been quiet for several minutes, he straightened. “No. We’re not done.”

Ms. Douglas responded in her docile way, her fingers poised on the keyboard, her focus centered on the screen. During the past week—during the hours and hours he’d dictated, during the series of mornings they’d spent together—he’d never once seen another hint of the stubborn courage she’d displayed in their first meeting.

Unreasonable as it was, he felt disappointed.

He should be grateful for her quiet demeanor; it let him focus on what was important, his writing. He should appreciate her undemanding presence; he’d had too many women in his life who demanded everything. He should enjoy the fact she barely scratched the surface of his life; he had far too many scratches already.

Instead, her whole attitude irritated him.

He wanted to see a spark in her eye or hear a jab in her voice. Even a flash of annoyance on her placid face would be welcome. It would at least be something amusing to concentrate on in this prison he occupied.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stop?” Again, her voice came, bereft of emotion.

Women had always given him emotion. If nothing else.

“No,” he snapped. “Shoosh. I’m thinking.”

She acquiesced, as always, her focus never leaving the screen, her hands draped on the keyboard, waiting.

He frowned at her. And at himself.

Why did his gaze seem to latch onto her as soon as she came to his library door? Even in the midst of dictating the best story he’d ever told, his attention still was snagged over and over again by…Her.

He couldn’t understand the draw.

Dressed in a simple buttoned-up shirt and jumper, with another one of her plain wool skirts that routinely hit below her knees, she exuded nothing womanly or provocative. The colors she chose were what he’d call bland or muted or boring.

Mousy.

His mouth quirked into a quick grin.

She must have caught the movement or perhaps some instinct alerted her. Turning her head slowly, she gave him a look. A look he’d received a hundred times in their brief acquaintance. A look he’d begun to despise.

Her look gave him nothing.

No irritation or annoyance. No responding humor or amusement. Not a touch of anything at all.

His smile disappeared.

As if satisfied she’d banished his humor, the mouse turned her focus back to the computer. The movement made the blonde fluff of her short hair swish on her brow.

Even the color of her hair wasn’t interesting. It was blonde, a kind of boring blonde. He supposed one could claim it matched her very white skin. One could also say her skin was the kind most English women prized—fair and porcelain. He hadn’t spotted a freckle or a mole on that face of hers. He supposed one could claim she had pretty skin.

He’d say her skin was rather drab. Along with her hair and her clothes.

So why did he keep staring at her? Why did he have an urge a time or two or three to walk over and mess her hair, something he’d done long ago to get a girl’s attention? Why the hell did he want her to really look at him?

He grunted at himself in disgust.

Her hands immediately vibrated on the keyboard as if they were tied to his voice and responded to his every sound.

The thought troubled him.

Turning away from her with abrupt determination, he focused on the billowing clouds riding the horizon. He pinned his gaze on the roiling waves of the loch he owned. He pushed every thought out of his head other than the one that mattered.

Just like that, as it always did, the story came roaring into his head and heart, and his soul settled into what he was meant to do.

The click of her fingers on the keys mingled with his spoken words as another hour flew by.

A thrill of triumph ran through him. The story was his best so far. Surprisingly. He had to admit, even over his male pride, he’d been afraid six months ago. Six months ago, when duty had called and he’d had to come back to this obscene estate his wife had chosen and his mother had loved. Back to being caged by family obligations. Back to being alone.

He’d been afraid of losing Tre. Afraid that without Tre, he wouldn’t be able to write.

“Don’t be a dobber,” Tremaine Lamont had stated in his thick Scots accent when Cam had expressed a bit of his unease. “You’ll be fine on your own. I’m just the typist.”

It had taken him six months to find another story and find enough courage to advertise for a transcriber. But the first three hadn’t lasted more than a week among them, and none of the words he’d spoken to them had been right, anyway.

Not until now.

Not until the mouse.

Unlike Tre, she never interrupted or gave suggestions. She merely typed and then left. Yet something about her quiet, her stillness, something about her presence brought the story out of him in a way that had never happened with Tre.

The thought struck him as disloyal, so he tucked it into the bottom of his mind.

He still missed Tre.

Or maybe, if he were completely truthful, he missed the life he’d had with his best friend and partner. The traveling to the Middle East or the depths of Africa. The adrenaline rush as they escaped danger. The excitement of running into another godforsaken town in a war zone and finding the next story. He with his trusty tape recorder and Tre with his ever-present camera.

They’d been a team.

Then, six months ago, they hadn’t been.

“No, no,” Tre had said, his head shaking. “Not for me. Ye know that.”

Not for him, the staying in one place, and living a normal, boring life. Not for Tre, and although he’d been stuck here for months, not for Cam, either. He’d been so sure of that fact, and so sure of his failure after months of trying, that before Jennet Douglas had appeared, he’d begun the search for a school.

A boarding school.

Sure, he’d struggled with the guilt, yet finally, he’d come to the conclusion nothing he was doing made a difference in the boy’s life. Why not admit it and cut all ties other than the required?

The lure of going back to Tre, to his real life, was too hard to ignore.

But now? Now he didn’t know.

Because this little mouse seemed to have the ability to pull something out of him and his story he’d never experienced before. That thought made him close his mouth and glare at the ugly garden he owned and despised.

“Are we done?” Her accent was crystal clear, utterly aristocratic, it pulled a reluctant smile out of him. His father would have loved the mouse.

“Aye, we’re done.”

Instead of clicking off the computer and leaving without another word, she sat, staring at him with those eyes.

Those eyes.

Her eyes were deep set and rounded, with a thick layer of lashes. The color wasn’t blue as he’d first pegged them. He’d been around her enough now to describe them as a dark grey, like the mists rising off his loch in the morning, right before the sun rose in the sky.

Her eyes were the only interesting thing about her.

Something moved in those eyes. Something that made him uncomfortable. “What?”

She took a quick breath and after their first meeting, he knew this meant she was flustered about something. “I have a question.”

“All right.” After he’d told his story for several hours, he generally felt drained and needed to get out of this house and walk for miles. Still, the deviation from her usual pattern made his brain come to life again with curiosity. “Go ahead. What’s your question?”

“There’s crying. Every night,” she blurted.

A hard fist of anxiety landed right in the middle of his solar plexus. Along with it, came the overwhelming sense of frustration that never left him. “It’s nothing.”

The delicate line of her fair brows creased her forehead. “I’m telling you I hear it clearly. There’s no question—”

“It’s the wind.” She didn’t need to know about the boy. Both his mother and Mrs. Rivers had repeated over and over: any stimulation was bad. Too many people interacting with him meant more germs and more worry. “Scotland has strong winds.”

Her mouth twisted.

There wasn’t anything interesting about her mouth either. She never wore enticing lipstick. She didn’t have alluring, lush lips that beckoned a man’s kiss. Rather, her mouth was very average. Maybe even on the thin side.

Cam couldn’t drag his gaze away from her twisted mouth. He also couldn’t drag his guilt out from the center of his gut.

“England has wind too,” she said. “That’s not the wind I’m hearing.”

He forced himself to lean on the wall by the bookshelf with lazy nonchalance. Throwing a mocking smile on, he plucked another story out of his head. “Well, then, ye might have heard Fairfeld’s legendary ghost walking about, doing his usual thing.”

Those delicate brows rose. “What?”

“You’ve not heard of our ghost?” He tut-tutted as confidence in his storytelling submerged his guilt. “I’ve been remiss.”

“There’s no ghost.” But something in her expression told him he’d caught her attention.

“They say he’s the youngest son of the last laird who lived here.” Cam nudged himself out of his loitering pose and paced to the desk, warming to the imaginary story. “It’s said he cries for his lost love, the bonnie Sarah.”

“You’re lying.” Her average mouth firmed.

He lied all the time. He’d lied from early childhood on. Lying about where he and his lads had been overnight. Lying about getting his university degree, when all along he’d been shadowing Old Ben McGee, the best war correspondent in the past twenty years. Lying to Martine about having to go back to the war zone.

Lying, lying, lying.

It had made him his fortune, though, so who was he to question the skill?

Cam leaned over the desk and stared into her misty eyes. “Who’s to say if the ghost exists or not?”

“I am.” She eased farther into her chair. “There’s no such thing as a ghost.”

He sighed, a disappointed sound. “Ye are a Sassenach, and it’s well known they have no imagination.”

A wry curve flicked her mouth at the common slur.

And that one tiny movement made his heart pump like a madman in his chest. He’d spent his life tracking the wild movements of tribes and terrorists and traitors. He’d reveled in the massive movements of rebellion and war. Only the most outrageous and outlandish made his heart beat with excitement and life.

Just one tiny movement from a mouse…

He yanked himself back and paced away.

“I still say it’s not your ghost,” she tossed the words at him as he made his escape. “It’s a human being.”

Yes, yes it was.

His son.

* * *

J
en frowned
down at her gloved hands and sighed.

The sigh, unlikely as it seemed, being as she sat in the middle of a garden, was not happy.

Two weeks.

Two bloody weeks of sneaking around the giant mansion lying behind her, searching a hundred bookcases and armoires, opening a thousand drawers, peering into a million cubbyholes.

Finding nothing.

She stabbed the moist earth with the old trowel she’d picked up in the shed. Though really, she couldn’t say she’d found nothing. She’d found a ton of odd, eccentric things.

In one portion of a cabinet, she’d found an extensive hoard of marbles. In an armoire, she’d found dozens of round glass jars filled with dried leaves and grasses. Yesterday morning, she’d stumbled onto a vast collection of shells all placed methodically in boxes by size and shape.

She couldn’t imagine her employer as a man who’d save shells.

Mrs. Rivers?

Jen snorted.

Mrs. Rivers, the nonexistent housekeeper. The only clue she still existed was the fridge filled with new food every other day. Even if Mrs. Rivers did do more than stock food, she surely wouldn’t be saving twigs and grass and shells.

So who?

The memory of the crying ran through her mind. The crying hadn’t sounded female; she’d crossed off Mrs. Rivers as a likely suspect. The crying didn’t resemble her employer’s voice at all. Adding in the way he’d responded a week ago when she’d questioned him, the sound didn’t come from him.

He’d puckered his mouth and then put on a show. Quite a lively storytelling show, yet not one she believed. Add in the fact that since that moment the crying had stopped, and it pointed to someone besides Cameron Steward.

Perhaps he’d found his silly, make-believe ghost and yelled at it to shoosh, in that rich, redolent accent of his.

With a rough sound of disgusted disbelief, Jen pushed herself straight and inspected the one accomplishment she’d achieved in the last few days. It was still early in April, and Scotland’s winter lingered in the mist of the loch and the coldness of the mornings, yet the flower beds lying before her were coming to life.