Lion of Caledonia: International Billionaires VII: The Scots (6 page)

* * *

B
y the time
she had Robbie settled in the one cozy armchair with a plate of crisps and a ham and pickle sandwich, Jen had learned more about this house and her employer than in the past several weeks combined. Also quite a bit about the absent housekeeper.

“She falls asleep all the time.” He crunched a crisp. “She’s supposed to be taking care of me, but she never does.”

Jen made a noncommittal noise as she took a seat on the upright chair lying across the small end table from him. Mrs. Rivers might not be following this boy, because she’d been given the task of following the transcriber instead.

“Not that I need to be taken care of.” Another crisp disappeared into the chattering mouth. “I’ve been taking care of myself forever.”

The nonchalant claim made her blood rise. “Do you go to school?”

“I don’t need school.” The kid snorted. “I can learn anything I want to on my own.”

“You should be in school, though.” She bit into her sandwich before she said anything more intrusive. This wasn’t her child and it wasn’t her right to state the obvious.

“My da keeps hiring tutors because I’m too sick to go to regular school.”

She swallowed her food as she looked the child over. He didn’t appear sick. His skin glowed with health. Those familiar odd eyes were clear. And while he was on the thin side, he didn’t look emaciated. “You’re sick?”

“I used to be.” Robbie picked his sandwich up and stared at the pickles with suspicion. “When I was little.”

“What were you sick with?”

“Asthma. But I don’t have it anymore.” He took a hesitant bite of the sandwich and chewed.

“Are you sure?” She took another bite of her own sandwich, while keeping her gaze on the confident child. He sat in a familiar negligent lounge, with his cape still wrapped around his body and his funny hat listing to one side of his head.

“Yes. I never cough anymore and I haven’t had to use my inhaler for a long time.” He set the sandwich on his plate and took off the top slice of bread. Carefully, he separated the pickles from the ham.

“I’m sorry.” She’d never had much interaction with children as an adult. All her cousins had kids, yet they were mainly kept with nannies, and since she rarely ventured to any family gatherings anymore, she hadn’t seen them in several years. “You don’t like pickles. I should have asked.”

“It’s okay.” He placed the slice of bread back on the sandwich with a precise pat. “I tried it. It’s important to try everything.”

The phrase was said as if quoting another. She’d make a solid bet on who he was quoting. It sounded exactly like something Cameron Steward would say. “Where is your tutor?”

A big grin lit his face. “I chased the last one away by clanking some chains outside his bedroom door.”

“What?” She leaned in, entranced in spite of herself.

“Right after midnight.” He giggled. “I heard my da tell him about some old ghost who wandered the halls with his dungeon chains still on him, so I thought that would do the trick.”

Another ghost story. The combination of this boy and his father was a scary one. Literally. “You shouldn’t—”

“He left the next morning.” Robbie crunched on his last crisp, a look of satisfaction crossing his face. “He was stupid anyway.”

“But you need to be taught.”

“I learn everything I need to know by studying by myself.” He considered her, his eyes keen. “I collect all sorts of things and I read.”

Jen thought about the huge library she sat in every day, and the collections. “The marbles and the shells. They’re yours.”

“You found them?” A flare of excitement lit his eyes. The exact same light had lit his father’s eyes a few days ago. “I can show ye all of them again and tell ye about them.”

The library and this child’s enthusiasm would go a long way in teaching him many things. Still, this vibrant boy needed far more stimulation than living in this dusty, old house with an aging housekeeper and his restless father.

“Perhaps later.” She sat her cup of tea down and eased back in her chair. “Is your father looking for another tutor?”

“No.” He gave her another grin, this one filled with victory. “I’m thinking he’s finally given up.”

“Robbie.” She sighed. “You’ll need to get another tutor at some point. Or go to the local school. You could make friends there.”

“I have friends.” The kid munched on the last of his sandwich.

“Who?” She had taken several long walks when the garden work had made her muscles ache with the need to stretch. Walking for hours one way around the loch and then hours the other way, she hadn’t come upon one house on either side. “Where do they live?”

“They live right here.” Pushing his plate away, he sucked down the rest of his milk.

She frowned in confusion. Were there more family members lurking on the second floor? “Where?”

“Outside.” His expression filled with mischief. A teasing mischief.

The boy had so much of his father in him, she couldn’t help but fall. Which made the slide into falling for his father all the worse. “Robbie—”

“I have a robin friend, and also a hawk who lets me feed him sometimes.” He settled further into his chair, his hands clasped comfortably in front of him, those keen eyes growing sleepy. “And I have tons of rabbit friends and there are mice too.”

This child should be a part of a band of fellow boys. He should be running around teasing girls and driving his teacher to distraction. The injustice of his isolation made the burn inside her bubble. “You should have other children as friends.”

Robbie shrugged, yet she caught the wisp of yearning in the movement. “I’m too sick.”

“You just told me you aren’t sick.”

“Yes, but Da thinks I am, and I can’t talk him out of it.”

“Have you tried?” She set her empty plate on the table lying between them.

“A few times,” he mumbled, glancing away at the simmering fire. “He doesn’t like being with me much.”

His wistful, sad tone enflamed the burn of her temper. Jen didn’t think of herself as having a temper. She supposed she did, somewhere buried deep inside, but she hadn’t used it in so long, she didn’t know what to do with it.

Until now.

Someone needed to talk to Cameron Steward. Someone who was in a hot temper.

The kid peered at her before shooting a jaunty, reassuring grin her way. “Don’t worry. I’m okay with it. He’s busy.”

“Not too busy for his son.”

“It’s not like I want to be with him anyway.” The grin fell off his face. “I don’t need him.”

The claim was said with bravado, yet she saw underneath. As a child, she’d learned to see underneath everyone’s words so she could prepare herself. This time what she saw underneath this child’s words prepared her for battle. “Perhaps he needs you.”

He chuckled with clear disbelief. “My da doesn’t need anyone. He says a real man stands on his own.”

What poppycock. Yet, her grandfather and her male cousins would likely agree.

Jen grimaced.

“Ye don’t believe that?” Cocking his head, interest lit in Robbie’s eyes.

“No, I don’t.” She gazed straight at him, broaching a subject she’d thought about and wanted to nail down. “I think men need others and I think men even cry.”

A wash of heated red filled his cheeks reminding her again of his father when she’d rejected anymore of his kisses. And just like his father, he struck back. “That’s not true. My da told me.”

“He told you what?”

“Men don’t cry.”

“When did he tell you that, Robbie?” She held her breath.

His hands slipped off his stomach and dug into his coat, hiding them from her gaze. “A while ago.”

She’d bet a fortune it was only a few days ago. The fact her questions had caused this boy to be chastised for something every kid did at one time or another, made her angry at herself. As well as his father. “Sometimes I cry when I’m lonely.”

His eyes latched onto hers, though he didn’t confess anything.

Jen stepped farther out, wanting to make sure he understood. “At night, when I wake up and I feel lonely, sometimes I want to be with someone else.”

“Do ye?” A wary look flickered across his face.

“That’s when I go and find someone who’ll make me a pot of tea and talk to me until I’m not lonely anymore. Perhaps even cuddle with me in bed.”

“Oh.” The kid closed his eyes, but she could see the wheels turning in his small head. “Do ye think this would make ye friends with that other person?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

Those odd eyes popped open. “I guess maybe I might have another friend, then.”

Yes. He definitely did.

And his new friend was going to have a heated chat with his father.

E
dinburgh used
to be his favorite city.

When he’d been a lad, growing up in the stately New Town with his professor father and his eager-to-please mother, he’d spent hours running the streets of Old Town with his boys. Scampering about in the labyrinth of cobbled lanes, narrow closes, and down into the dark, underground chambers where the poor once had lived, he and his friends had explored every nook and cranny of the town.

Cam had loved every single inch of the city.

Now, though, after traveling to Istanbul and Hong Kong and a hundred other cities, Edinburgh had soured. The city brought back memories, both good and bad, and delivered a large heaping platter of guilt every time he walked its streets.

Other cities didn’t do that.

He didn’t go to Edinburgh now unless he had to.

“Well, you’re done with the meeting then, and on your way home.” Tre’s voice faded in and out as Cam drove through the Scottish countryside holding his phone to his ear. “Did your agent bring the new contract?”

“Yes.” The drizzle that had fallen for the entire five days he’d been in the city had now turned into a sheet of rain. Combined with the dusk, it made it hard to see the road in front of him. “It looked good and I signed.”

“Another million or two in your pocket.” His friend sounded pleased. “Good for ye.”

Tre had never been jealous of his success and had never once made a claim of ownership to any of the writing. He’d merely scribbled down some of Cam’s stories, he said, stories that had been initially told out loud to pass the time. Pass the time as they waited for a real story to blast into a war-torn town. He hadn’t realized what his friend was doing until Tre had a good five hundred pages of typed notes.

The notes had become books.

Very lucrative books.

Cam hadn’t cared about the money. He’d cared about the stories. The ones he made up and the ones he discovered with Tre. But Martine had cared about the money. She’d cared so much she’d spent quite a bit of time finding out about Cameron Steward, and figuring out a way to catch him.

“Did ye talk to the school, too?” His friend’s voice broke through his bitter memories. “You’ll want to move on that before the summer begins.”

A punch of guilt mixed with relief knocked him inside. When he’d brought the subject up to Tre, his partner had been eager to have him back. Back to roaming the wars and disasters, sleeping in a new bed every night, finding a thrilling tale around every corner to bring to the world.

“I talked with them.”

Tre went silent.

Had he given away a hint of the guilt he felt? He jerked the car wheel around, steering the roundabout while wrestling with his wretched indecision.

“You’re having second thoughts, aren’t ye, dobber?” His friend’s voice came over the line, somber and serious. “And right ye should.”

His best friend had been eager to have him back, but dubious about whether it was the right thing to do in the long run. His partner had always had an overdeveloped sense of responsibility.

“No second thoughts. The boy hates me.”

Another long silence stretched down the line.

“Cam.” His best friend sighed. “It’s only been six months.”

“Six months is long enough.” The wretched indecision turned and twisted into hard pain. “He won’t have anything to do with me.”

“Well, I won’t be fighting with ye.” Tre’s voice still held a wealth of doubt. “He’s your son.”

“Correct.” He turned into the long lane leading to his prison. The house loomed out of the gloom, only one faint glow of a lamp on the third floor shedding any light onto his path. “I hate this place. He hates me. This isn’t going to work.”

His friend gave him another sigh.

He was going to be stuck here at least through the summer. But once fall came, he’d have the boy settled in his new school and his story, the story the mouse was typing, would be complete. Then he could take off and be with his friend and partner.

Tre could return to being his transcriber.

Instead of the mouse.

She had drifted in his thoughts and memories and body throughout the last few days, even though he’d done everything he could think of to get rid of her. Her average mouth opening to his, bringing him blaze and heat and hot. Her average hands running through his hair, touching off a fire, a madness inside. Her cursedly deep, mysterious eyes, staring into his as she rejected him.

I don’t want to kiss you again.

He was alarmingly close to getting attached. He had never done attachment well. Certainly not to places. Certainly not to women.

“I have an idea,” he blurted.

“Do ye?” Tre’s voice warmed as it always did when his partner had what he called another one of his harebrained ideas. “Tell me.”

“I’ll have a party.” This house was a big barn and could handle a load of his friends. He’d invite his agent and all the writers he knew in Edinburgh. Tre would come from London and bring a bevy of fellow correspondents and TV people. “Might as well use this damn place for what it’s designed for. I can house dozens.”

His friend laughed. “It would be nice to see the place before ye sell it.”

“You’ll come?”

“Of course.” Tre chuckled again. “I’ll bring the fair Amanda with me too.”

Amanda Reed.

The woman who’d teased and flirted every time they’d met. One of the few successful female war correspondents, Amanda was a legend among the boys who traveled the world looking for stories. Brash and brazen, she’d take on any assignment a man would and come back with the best story, the best photos.

Amanda Reed was a handful.

She was definitely not a little, inconsequential mouse.

“It’d be good to see her,” Cam said.

“Ye reckon?” His friend’s chuckle turned dirty at the edges. “Might spice up your life a bit, eh?”

She could. She would. She’d made that clear every time they’d been together.

He’d never accepted her invitation because something in his gut told him it wasn’t quite right. Now, now after the mouse’s rejection, it felt exactly right.

“Maybe.” Probably. He hadn’t had sex in almost a year. He’d been too busy burying his mother and trying to win over his son. It struck him with a sudden, sharp relief.

He didn’t really want the mouse.

He just needed sex.

“Maybe, my laddie says.” Tre laughed again.

“Fuck off.” He grimaced as he shut off the engine. “Plan on hearing from me about the dates. Sometime in the next month.”

His friend cheerfully agreed before cutting the line, and Cam wrested himself from the car, dragging his luggage out of the boot.

The house was dead silent, his shoes the only sound as he strode through the front door. If he didn’t know all the ghosts swirling in this place were made in his imagination, he’d swear there were some real ones lurking in the shadows. Pushing away the thought, he dropped his suitcase, a clattering noise that echoed down the great hall, and paced into the library.

To find the mouse. Waiting. For him.

“Mrs. Rivers said you’d called to say you were on your way home.” She was perched on her usual seat, but the computer was off.

Home. A word that had never spelled anything except trouble for him throughout his life. “I’m back, you’re right about that.”

He shrugged out of his well-worn leather jacket and threw it on one of the rickety antique chairs Martine had picked for him so long ago.

“They’re French, Cam,”
she’d said, the ever-present disgust running through her voice.
“They’re worth a fortune.”

Trying to banish the ugly memories, he zeroed in on the woman sitting placidly behind his unwanted desk. “Ye want to do a spot of work now? Think I’ve got some more of the story to tell?”

“No.” Her average mouth formed the word slowly. “I have something to discuss with you.”

“Do ye?” He couldn’t decide what the subject could be. Not kissing, she’d made herself plain on that topic and he’d done the same. “What?”

“Your son.”

She knew about his son?

A mix of fear and anger tumbled inside. His son should be sheltered. His son was out-of-bounds. “There’s nothing to say about him.”

The mouse frowned at his taut words, but didn’t take the warning. “There’s plenty to say.”

Had Robert been crying again at night and disturbing her? Had she quizzed his housekeeper until the truth was revealed? Cam had made it clear in the short, sharp conversation he’d had with his son: No more crying. He’d thought that subject was closed too. “I’ll have a word with Mrs. Rivers. Ye won’t be awakened again.”

Her frown deepened. “He should be allowed to cry. He’s all alone.”

A tight snarl of grief coiled inside.

His son
was
alone. The boy had lost his mother before he’d been aware of her. And he’d lost his grandmother less than a year ago. A grandmother who had guarded him like he was a prized jewel. But more than anything, his son was all alone because his father was a failure in the role. “I’ll take care of it. Ye don’t need to fret.”

“Robbie is not an
it
.”

The name plunked down between them. She knew his son’s name. In fact, she used a nickname he’d never called his son.

How did she know that? How did she even know of Robert’s existence?

He’d been careful to hide any details of his son from the fawning press. Of all his friends, Tre was the only one who knew of Robert and the sickness that kept the boy isolated. Mrs. Rivers had strict instructions to keep the boy on the second floor, and his son was so sick, he rarely left his bedroom. His housekeeper had also assured him this mouse had been told to steer clear of that area.

A howl of protective rage broke from his mouth. “How do ye know his name? And what the hell is this nickname? His name is Robert.”

“He and I have become friends and Robbie is how he introduced himself.” The mouse didn’t cower or run. She knotted her hands in her lap, in her usual way, and he thought he detected a hitch in her breathing, yet she didn’t back down.

“Friends. Friends?” he roared.

She didn’t respond to the noise. Those eyes of hers just kept looking coolly into his.

Cam prowled away, circling into the window bay to scowl out at complete darkness.

She finally rustled behind him. “He’s lonely. He needs other children and more stimulation.”

Fury and frustration ran through his blood. “He can’t be around others. It upsets him and then he gets sick.”

“Really?” Her voice stayed cool and calm. “I haven’t seen anything like that in the past five days.”

“Five days?” Wheeling around, he stared at her in horror. “You’ve been with him all five days? Where the hell was Mrs. Rivers?”

“She sleeps. Quite a lot, according to your son.”

His mother had held the housekeeper in high regard, and when he had arrived at her hospital bedside, having been called from a headline story in the Philippines, his mother had made him promise before she died. Promise to heed Mrs. Rivers in everything regarding his son. “She’s there to take care of him. I don’t mind if she sleeps. Just so she takes care of him.”

“She doesn’t.” Rising from the chair, the mouse walked towards him with a tentative, hesitant step. “
You
need to take care of your son.”

The constant, continuing resentment and shame rumbled inside. “I take care of him. He’s well-fed, and safe.”

“And lonely.”

Pacing away from her and the accusation, he fixed his gaze on the ugly landscape hanging above the fireplace. “You’ll be happy to know, I’m about to address that issue.”

There was a pause as if she were surprised he acknowledged the problem. “In what way?”

“I’m sending him to boarding school.” The words clutched in his throat, not only because it was an admission of defeat, but also it was a defeat of his dream of connecting with his son. He whipped around to meet her gaze. “This fall.”

The mist of her eyes turned to ice. “He’ll hate that.”

The decisiveness in her voice made him want to yell. “Ye know him so well?”

“Better than you, it appears.”

The accusation, accurate and deadly, pierced him straight through his heart. His boy had never let his father hang out, play, have fun with him. He’d never had five precious days in his son’s company. Not like this woman.

He charged at her, an aching heart, an angry man. “Don’t ye understand?”

She stood her ground, her gaze keen. “No. Tell me.”

“I don’t know him because he doesn’t want me to.” His breathing heaved. “He hates me.”

Shock flickered across her face. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Yes, he—”

“He adores you.” A soft sound of disbelief came from her throat. “He quotes you all the time.”

“What?” He staggered in stunned surprise.

“He thinks the sun shines from you.” A coat of wryness layered the words, as if she found that impossible to believe.

“He’s mistaken about that, eh?” Cam tried to throw up a protective grin yet didn’t succeed. He was too astonished by what she was saying to put himself back together in his routine way.

Her gaze narrowed. “No.”

Stunned again, he stared at her.

“For Robbie, you are the center of his life.” Her relentless words kept coming, hitting him. “You can’t walk away from him.”