Lion of Caledonia: International Billionaires VII: The Scots (9 page)

His laughter died down and he turned to face her. “I need someone to put this party together, lass.”

“Ms. Douglas.”

A mocking look entered his eyes. “I guess I have to obey if I’ve got a chance with that favor I need.”

“Yes.” She knew what that favor was going to be and she knew she wanted to do it. She shouldn’t, but she did.

“Ms. Douglas.” He elongated the words, a tease as usual. “Will ye help me put this party together?”

Twenty plus years ago, when she’d arrived at her grandfather’s house, she’d gone from a cramped foster-care flat to the breathtaking beauty of a Kent estate. Lord Fellowes’ ancestors had successively built on the original Tudor mansion and extensive gardens until the place was listed with the English Heritage Commission. Along with a stunning property he’d inherited, her grandfather had also inherited the family pride and the family influence.

As a child, she’d seen a lot of parties. As a young adult, she’d organized every one of them.

“Now don’t go silent on me again.” Cam put on a sorrowful look. “Ye see before ye a desperate man.”

“Why me?”

While her grandfather had all the help in the world, someone needed to direct the staff. Her grandmother had died well before Jen ever set foot on the estate, and her mother’s two brothers and their wives hadn’t wanted to take on the task. And Grandfather, much like this man standing before her, liked to give directions and walk away, assured it would be done.

“Ye clearly know your way around the garden area.” Cam’s gaze was intent, as if he were trying to ferret everything out about her. “And you’re an organized lass with the work.”

Yes, she was. She’d always been one to keep the clutter cleared and things organized. But it surprised her that he’d noticed. He’d noticed the garden and he’d noticed her surreptitious shuffling of his papers.

She shouldn’t be surprised.

What was she thinking?

Those eyes of his saw more than most. She needed to remember he was lethal.

“Plus,” he continued, now slouched along the bookcase by the African masks. “Your CV stated ye had run a staff before.”

Jen started in her chair. Why had her grandfather included that? He’d been the one to set up the connections for her getting this job and she hadn’t spent any time thinking about the details. The only thing she’d had in her head was how she was going to turn into a thief.

“So ye see,” her employer kept his gaze on her face, “when I thought about it for a couple of days, it became clear to me what I had to do.”

She had been the one to quietly take the reins of her grandfather’s estate at a very early age. Someone needed to discuss the menu with the chef. Someone needed to calm the nerves of the housekeeper. Someone needed to decide what flowers should go where in the spring.

Jennet Fellowes could do this. Her employer, as usual, had spotted the correct answer to his problem.

“It’s going to cost you a lot of money.”

“Hmm.” He gave her a wicked, satisfied grin. “You’ll do it.”

“I didn’t say that.” She liked his grin. Way too much. The fact made her starchy. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“If a woman starts talking about money, it’s a deal.” His grin turned from wicked to sardonic. “How much do I have to pay ye?”

She started in the chair once more. She hadn’t been talking about money for her; she’d been thinking about the staff she was going to have to hire and the mattresses and linens and food and flowers and…and…

Starch went to stiff. “I don’t need your money.”

“No?” Irony wove through the one word.

She didn’t appreciate the combination of cynicism and intelligence. In her experience with her cousins, that turned a person mean. “No. And I’ve decided I won’t do it.”

“Not for all the money—”

“Not for any money at all.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t move, didn’t arch a tawny brow or give her a knowing smirk. He merely stared at her.

“I won’t.”

“Now, lass.” He kept those predator eyes on her. “Ye must know. Issuing a challenge like that, to a man like me, is going to get ye in trouble.”

* * *

H
is little mouse
had given him her best stiff upper lip and sailed out of the library with her flat
NO
lingering in the air.

Cam chuckled, a soft, husky sound.

For all her talk about couldn’ts and can’ts, for all her
I didn’t do anything
and her quiet, mousy ways, Ms. Jennet Douglas had a heart of a lion.

She just didn’t know it yet.

But he did. He knew the challenge before him. Somehow, he was going to have to wheedle her agreement, tease her into a yes, tame her stubborn will.

He could not wait.

He chuckled again.

Pacing to the window, he spotted her, exactly as he expected, exiting the back of the house into the garden. She’d changed from her boring office suit of ugly jumper and stodgy wool pants into trim jeans and a bright blue mac. She might have said no to his proposal, but apparently, she planned on continuing to improve his unsightly garden.

He stilled as a short, frightfully-clothed lad jumped out of the hedge and ran toward her.

What the hell was his boy wearing? And what the hell was he doing outside?

The mouse had told him Robert went outside, yet something in Cam believed it couldn’t be true. She must be mistaken. Maybe even lying, though she hadn’t given him any clues this was true.

She hadn’t been lying. The lad was outside.

Robert had on a flame-red, woolen hat of some sort. It looked suspiciously like a blanket Cam had brought home from Edinburgh several months ago. The blanket had promptly disappeared, much to his disgust. On his body, his son wore a steel breastplate that could only have come from one of the dozen or so statues of armor Martine had insisted on littering the mansion with.

Behind him, he dragged a long, vicious looking sword.

“Fucking hell!” Cam roared.

Neither of his challenges turned or paid any attention to him at all, the thick glass blocking his rage. Spinning around, he stomped through the library door, down the long great hall, and into the corridor leading to the rear of the house.

He slammed the back door open with a slap.

Both heads turned then.

“Why are ye outside?” he barked.

The mouse straightened and stepped in front of the boy. Like Robert needed to be protected from him.

He wanted to roar again, but she was right.

His son took off for the boathouse, red wool flying behind him.

“No, ye don’t.” Instinct reared inside, and he took off, following the kid down the path between the flowerbeds.

“Cam!” His son’s guard protested, her sweet voice rising to a squeak. “Don’t chase. He’ll get upset.”

What about his father? What about his father’s heart that beat in a terrified refrain as he saw the damn sword lurch behind his child’s legs? What about the panic his father felt when he knew he couldn’t raise this boy?

What about that?

He raced past the mouse, intent on catching this lad. This lad he didn’t know.

“Got ye.” Grabbing the steel and wool and wiggling, struggling boy, he lifted all of it into the air. He yanked at the medieval sword, a sword he’d carefully locked up in a steel-lined, glass case not a day after he’d purchased it.

“Let me go,” Robert howled, not a cough or a hitch in his enraged voice. “That’s mine!”

Cam threw the sword in an arc across the garden. It landed with a thump on the far side of the orchard. “No, it’s not,” he muttered into his son’s ear. “It’s mine.”

A small, solid fist plowed into his jaw. Another banged into the edge of his eye. “Ouch,” he yelped in surprise.

His boy had a hard punch.

A wonder bloomed inside.

His son could punch.

“Let me go.” A furious little face, with a tawny frown and fierce eyes, glared at him. “Right now.”

That frown, those eyes. He looked into an exact duplicate every day when he shaved.

The wonder flooded everywhere inside him. His heart, his soul, his past, his future. “Hey,” Cam said, a smile curling his mouth. “Hey.”

The mouse rushed up. “Put him down. He might be hurt.”

“He can’t hurt me.” The lad glanced at her with disdain before going back to glaring at his father.

“You've got a good punch, son.”

“For goodness’ sakes.” She sniffed. “As if that’s of any importance.”

The boy ignored her, keeping his suspicious gaze on his captor. “So what?”

Not a cough. Not a wheeze. His child wasn’t fainting in his arms like he’d been told he would if his father ever made him upset. His son wasn’t whining about the cold or complaining about the heat, as Mrs. Rivers told her employer he did all the time.

This child wasn’t the boy he’d heard about for years.

“So,” he drawled, still clasping the struggling lad to his body. “If ye want to use your punch effectively, you’ll need some training.”

The mouse sniffed again.

His boy stopped wiggling. “What do ye mean?”

Eyeing him, he decided he’d be safe to drop him on his feet. “A boy needs training in all sorts of things.”

“Ye reckon?” Robert didn’t run this time. Instead, he brushed his crazy hat out of his eyes and gave his father another good glare.

Cam glanced over his shoulder to the loch. The uncertain Scottish sunshine had decided to be sunny today, and the light glinted and glided on the waves, beckoning him.

And maybe his son.

This might be the way to win the challenge—with both of them.

“I reckon it’s a good day to learn how to sail and a boy needs to know how to steer a boat.” He turned to face his challenges.

She appeared doubtful. “I don’t know if it would be good for Robb—”

“I can steer a boat without your help.” His son’s glare never wavered.

The mouse swung her gaze to the kid with a look of horror in her eyes. “Robbie, you didn’t take one of those—”

“Prove it to me then,” Cam cut through her objection.

Both of his challenges gazed at each other, a silent conversation flowing between them. The kind of conversation he’d yearned to have with his boy for years and years. An ache of regret mixed with determination surged inside him.

“What do ye say?” His offer came out stiff and harsh, but it was an offer. A genuine one.

“Come on, Jen.” Robert grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the boathouse. “You’re coming with.”

She looked at him before glancing at the boy.

Then, she began to walk.

T
he sailboat flew like a dream
. Cam had known it would.

He’d motored the ship past the bend in the moor, into the broad expanse of his loch, before rolling the sails aloft. Of all the possessions Martine had collected in their marriage, this long, deep stretch of water was the only thing he’d fallen for.

The wind whipped the short hair of both of his passengers. His boy’s hair was darker, hinting of his dead mother’s coloring. The mouse’s hair, out here in the light, glinted with variations of sun and honey and wheat.

She turned and smiled at him, a bright, shiny grin that lifted his heart right out of his chest. “It’s wonderful,” she shouted over the slap of the sails above them and the splash of the water below.

Robert turned along with her, but he didn’t smile. His gaze was still suspicious, causing Cam’s heart to stutter.

“Robbie.” Her hand slipped through the boy’s hair. “Isn’t this great?”

His son shrugged.

Frustration roiled in him and before he could push it away, he wheeled the boat around. “Prepare to jibe,” he yelled.

The kid glanced back, a quick flick of attention, and then he turned to his friend and yanked her head down as well as his own.

The boom swept above their heads.

Her head popped up and she glared across the deck. “You did that on purpose.”

True. Embarrassment washed away the frustration.

You’re an impulsive lad and it will get ye in trouble over and over again.

His father had been right. He had been in trouble all the time in school. Yet somehow, he’d figured a way to make this restless spirit inside him work. His instinctive drive to find the next story and to climb the mountain in front of him
no matter what
had worked.

Until he’d landed in this hellhole six months ago.

“Don’t worry,” his son piped in, his hand latching onto hers. “I read about sailing. I knew what he meant.”

The unexpected support threw Cam. He tried to focus on the wheel, the waves, the wind. Instead, all he held inside was a surge of pride and honor.

His boy was smart.

His boy had the instincts.

His boy studied sailing.

“I don’t care. That was a horrible thing to do.” Her clipped English voice rose. “We could have been swept off the boat.”

He forced himself to meet her frosty gaze with a grin. “But ye weren’t.”

“Jen.” His son looked at her as if she were crazy. “It was just a test.”

“A test?” Her delicate brows frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean ye need to learn to be aware at all times.” Robert scrunched his face at her. “Da is always saying that, and I knew exactly what was going to happen.”

The lad knew. He might have secret conversations with his new best friend, but Robert knew what his father had intended.

“Ye listen to me?” A shot of pure joy rushed through Cam.

The boy stood from his crouch, eyeing the boom before scooting toward his father and the boat’s wheel. “It’s my turn to steer.”

“Is it?” Pride ran along the joy inside. How could he have missed this boy? This son? Where had his head been during the last six months? Hell, for the last seven years?

Robert reached the side of the cockpit and with an agile leap, came over the teak siding. “It is.”

He stared into two determined eyes. His eyes, with the brown and gold, the intelligence, the courage. He grinned down at this face, this face he’d missed, this lad he’d never seen.

The edge of his son’s lips quirked.

That one small acknowledgement, this one tiny signal, filled Cam with something he’d never felt before. An exhilarating, stunning knowing that here,
here
he’d found his meaning.

“Come on,” the boy pleaded. “Let me.”

Stepping back, he let the wheel slide out of his fingers and into the hands of someone much younger than he.

But just as smart, just as cunning, just as capable.

He met her gaze. Those misty, mysterious, magic eyes. The frost still lingered, yet there was deepness there too. A well of understanding and warmth, something that drew and drew him.

“You might want to come out here in front,” she taunted, a wry smile gracing her mouth. “Let Robbie have a smack at you.”

His boy glanced over his shoulder, and this time, he actually smiled. At his father.

A tight, hot well of emotion filled Cam’s eyes. Before he made a fool of himself, he slid over the edge of the cockpit and sauntered to the bow and the mouse. “Let him do his worst,” he called back without looking.

“Do you think it’s safe?” she said when he reached her side.

“Probably not.” He pulled her down with him so they sat below the sails. “But that’s what life’s about, right?”

Her average hands rose to swipe at her hair. “He might do something wrong.”

“He might.” Cam had his emotions back on even keel, enough that he could take a glance at his son before looking at her. “And he might not.”

She gave him a worried glare.

“Listen, little mouse.” He hunkered in, almost whispering in her ear. “The wind’s light. There’s no traffic around, and if something happens, it’ll take me two seconds to get to his side.”

The worry slid from her eyes.

“Happy now?” He grinned when she gave him a smart tap on his knee before going quiet. Turning, he kept his gaze on the boy.

Robert stared into the distance, his small hands clinging to the wheel, a look of intense concentration on his face.

No coughing. No whining.

He’d been wrong to listen to his mother. He should have done more investigating and questioning these last six months. Instead, he’d taken the easy way out and ignored what was right in front of him.

“You see.” The mouse sat right beside him, so close she didn’t have to yell to be heard. “He’s fine.”

“I see.” He saw more than his boy. He saw his past and all his mistakes and how he’d let them define his relationship with his only remaining kin. “And I aim to change some things.”

“Good.” She nestled into the arc of his arm and chest, surprising him. Yet something about her solid weight at his side settled him, just as the subject of his son, the painful, prodding thorn, eased its prick. “I knew you would.”

“Did ye?” The wind swept through her hair and now up close, he could see the threads of gold and copper twining through the blond. “Ye know me so well, eh?”

She gave him another wry smile, then aimed those eyes straight at him. Her average face. Her average mouth. Her average everything dazzled him. The way the sunlight dappled across her porcelain, so-English skin. How the glint of the light turned her lashes to brilliant white. And those misty eyes, a deep well of grey, glazed mystery he wanted to explore.

“What did you name her?”

Her question shocked him out of his focused scrutiny. “Her?”

“The boat.” She waved her average hand.

“
Nova Caeli
.” He smiled at her confusion. “It’s Latin for fresh air.”

“Appropriate.” She took a breath in and let it out.

“No attacks lately, hmm?”

Her gaze whipped to his, a line of cautious consternation creasing her forehead. “No.”

“That’s good.” He dipped into her neck, wanting to lick, but willing to only take a sniff of her. “Very good,” he purred into her ear.

She stiffened. “Cam. Robbie’s looking.”

“Is he?” Tucking himself in closer, he nuzzled. “Maybe he’ll learn something new.”

“Cam.” Her voice went all English on him, clipped and cutting.

Chuckling, he eased away and shot a glance at his son.

The boy’s entire concentration was on the loch in front of him. Remembering what he’d been like at seven, he couldn’t help but think kissing wasn’t even on the kid’s radar. “I’m thinking ye were lying to me again, lass.” He glanced back to meet her wary gaze. “The boy wasn’t watching.”

“He might have been.”

Stretching out his legs, he leaned his head on the rail and stared at the sails flickering in the crisp wind. He took the moment in, the warmth of the sun competing with the cool breeze. His son steering the boat with a competent grip—no whining, no wheezing. This woman beside him, solid and real. He hadn’t been happy for so long. Right now, though, he was.

“Da!” Robert’s voice broke through the happiness. “What do I do now?”

He jerked his head around and surveyed the scene. Understanding his son’s concern, he jumped up and paced to the cockpit.

“Maybe…maybe…ye should take it.” His boy’s gaze wavered and his hand lifted from the wheel.

“Naw.” Cam covered the small hand with his own and steered it back to the wheel. “We’ll do it together.”

* * *

J
en glanced over her shoulder
, toward the front, and saw the reason for Robbie’s concern. A big, lumbering tour boat plowed toward them, white-and-red flags waving in the wind, and several curious faces peering out of the windows.

She looked back at the wheel. Cam bent close to his son, his expression serious for once, as he murmured instructions. The boy appeared worried, but listened with intense interest, his head bent toward his father.

Something quivered inside her. The something that could have been her heart, yet she didn’t want to examine it closely enough to find out.

Cam glanced at her. “Don’t worry,” he called through the whip of the wind. “Robert’s got this.”

The boy’s face lit with an immediate, incredible pride and joy. And whatever it was inside her, tumbled. This man, this boy, so right. “I know he can do it,” she chimed in.

Her young friend threw her a big grin and confidently swung the wheel around. Their boat broke away from the other, tacking to the right, and she looked up to see the boom swinging her way.

“Duck, Jen!” Robbie’s voice barked with excitement.

She ducked. Just in time.

These males. Being around these two would ensure a person never had a moment of peace or a moment of rest. A life filled with thrills and dares and adventures. She’d lost her desire for any of those things when she’d been very young.

Jen sucked in a deep breath of fresh air.

What was she thinking?

She wasn’t enlisting for adventures with these two. Sure, Robbie was her friend but he wouldn’t be for long. Not when she took his favorite ring and disappeared. Sure, Cameron Steward kept showing his interest. Yet she’d bet anything that if there were other women here, more exciting women, he wouldn’t pay any attention to her at all.

“Jen!” The young boy’s voice pierced through the splash of the waves. “I’m going to turn us completely around.”

She gave him an encouraging smile and managed not to meet the glint in his father’s gaze.

Exactly as claimed, the boat glided over the water and aimed its bow towards the mansion standing like a bulky matron on the distant shore. To her relief, Cam didn’t come back to snuggle or tease. Instead, he seemed content to stand behind his son and watch the rocky shoreline. Occasionally, he leaned down to whisper something in his son’s ears or point out how some instrument worked.

Robbie’s face told it all.

Adoration. Trembling delight. All his dreams coming true.

Her throat clutched. Not with the familiar tight knot. No, this was a clutch of the heart, of bittersweet happiness.

They were finding each other.

She saw it. She felt it. And she yearned to be a part of it.

As the boat rode the waves, she let herself take in the last of the setting sun, the fishy smell of the loch, the bracing stroke of the wind. Taking this time, she pieced herself together again.

The memory of her pledge to her grandfather.

Her own family and their demands. That’s what she needed to focus on.

The boat edged toward the boathouse.

“Keep it straight, son,” Cam instructed, before swinging his big body over the teak cockpit. He paced to the main mast. With agile, efficient movements, he rolled the sail in, and then the other. Giving her a quick grin, he strode down the boat and started the motor. Within a few minutes, they were lodged in their berth.

The father stared at the son. “Ye did good, Robert.”

A fearful glee crossed the kid’s face. “Robbie.”

“Robbie, eh?” His father jumped off the sailboat and wrapped the rope on the end of the dock. He glanced at his son again. “Robbie’s a name for a youngster.”

The boy bristled with immediate indignation.

His father ignored the warning and plowed on. “I’d say any boy who can pilot like ye did isn’t a youngster any longer.”

The bristle faded.

“I’d say,” he continued, “that a boy should be called Rob after a trip like this.”

“Rob?”

Cam nodded, a solemn look on his face. “Rob.”

Another clutch came, this time in her heart. In her imagination, she saw the bonds, saw the ties and ropes and strands wrapping around the son and father, drawing them closer.

“Okay,” the boy finally agreed, a hesitant wonder in his voice. “I guess that would be fine.”

“Well,” his father clapped his big paws together. “That’s set, then.”

He stared straight at her, with his odd, intense eyes. “Time for a wee bite to eat, don’t ye think, Jenny?”