Scotland to the Max

by Grace Burrowes

  Sutherland’s grip was the same as always—cool, soft, manicured. “Max, didn’t expect to find you cavorting among the locals or taking time to admire the lovely scenery.”

  His comment was accompanied by a particular smirk in Jeannie’s direction. Fern set his beer on the bar in a manner that assured Max the proprietress had heard Sutherland’s opening remarks and was not impressed.

  “I can make some introductions, if you like,” Max said. “Jeannie Cromarty is our project controller. Jeannie, Pete Sutherland, one of the investors in the Brodie Castle venture, though he might be here simply to take in some fishing.”

  Or to fire me. The thought flew on the wings of instinct rather than evidence, which meant Max couldn’t afford to act on it—or to ignore it.

  Sutherland grabbed Jeannie’s hand and kissed it, a move Max hadn’t seen him pull previously, outside of black-tie charity fundraisers.

  “Miss Cromarty, a pleasure. I hope you like working for us. From what I’ve seen of the project, we need all the talent we can get.”

  Jeannie withdrew her hand. “Then you must be very pleased to have Mr. Maitland in charge. We are on schedule and within budget, despite the previous earl’s tendency to hire first and plan later. Your beer.”

  She shoved the mug at Sutherland, which would keep at least one of his hands busy. Scottish women…

  Sutherland did not consume beer in public. He’d clearly ordered something from the taps in an effort to be less conspicuous. Not drinking good beer only made him more conspicuous.

  “I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say the Brodie Castle project can’t possibly stay on budget, much less on schedule,” Sutherland said. “Max neglected to factor in a very significant aspect of the build-out, and we could well end up with two halves of a site rather than one functioning venue.”

  Fern and Dinty had both heard that. Hell, based on the baby’s scowl, Henry had heard that.

  “You’ll excuse us,” Max said. “Mr. Sutherland and I need some fresh air.”

  Jeannie kept hold of Max’s hand, when he would have waded into this confrontation alone.

  Sutherland set down his beer untasted. “We can have this discussion right here, Max. I’m simply stating the obvious.”

  Jeannie patted Sutherland’s arm, much as Mrs. Hamilton’s mum might have patted an unruly child.

  “You’re stating your fears in front of your project controller, half your crews and their spouses and parents, though as far as I know, you’ve never laid eyes on the site you’re so worried about. Your project foreman and head carpenter were on hand until five minutes ago, and they are a pair of stout fellows who do not take kindly to business being discussed at a social gathering. Come along, Mr. Sutherland.”

  Dinty gently waved Henry’s left hand in the bye-bye motion. Henry waved the right on his own initiative.

  Jeannie settled the matter by hauling Max toward the door, leaving Sutherland no choice but to follow. Fern dumped his beer as the waltz ended, and Max added that to his list of grievances against Sutherland:

  He’d interrupted a social occasion Max had been prepared to enjoy.

  He’d started exactly the kind of gossip the project didn’t need.

  He’d insulted the locals and offended Fern.

  But all of that was just Sutherland being Sutherland.

  He’d also cost Max a waltz with Jeannie, which was not a transgression Max was prepared to overlook.

  The landlady at Pete’s rental cottage was pretty enough and friendly enough, as were a few of the other local attractions—Maitland’s little friend was another fine female specimen—but how in the flaming, whisky-soaked hell was a first-class international business venue going to emerge in the midst of this bunch of stomping, half-drunk, skirt-wearing barbarians?

  Max Maitland was in more trouble than he knew.

  “What is it you have to say, Pete?”

  The parking lot was much quieter than the bar, but people loitered on the front porch with their drinks, and a group of teenagers stood in a circle closer to the road.

  “I thought you wanted privacy, Max.”

  The blonde spoke up. “If we’re to have a business discussion outside of work hours and on Fern’s property, this is as private as it gets. What questions do you have about the schedule, estimates to complete, or incurred costs, Mr. Sutherland?”

  “My questions are for Max. He’s the project manager.” For now.

  Max looked bored. “As manager, I rely on a crew of talented professionals, among whom Ms. Cromarty numbers.”

  “She’s your—”

  Maitland’s posture changed, one foot sliding back over the gravel. He twitched the tail of Pete’s scarf to lie flat against Pete’s chest. The project controller smiled as if invading a man’s personal space was something other than rank insubordination.

  People thought they were being so subtle, but to a man who’d honed his perceptions over decades at the negotiating table, certain clues were impossible to hide.

  Maitland had lost his grip on the project in favor of a grip on the perky little controller. Pathetic.

  “Ms. Cromarty’s position is project controller for Brodie Castle Corporation,” Maitland said. “In that capacity, she has brought order to the chaos Zebedee Brodie left here, supported enforcement of safety standards, improved our relations with the local merchants, and acted as a cultural liaison between me and employees who are rightfully proud of the castle’s heritage. As a blood relative of Elias Brodie, Ms. Cromarty has a status here that you and I will never hold.”

  Tribal politics never did a project any good and always ended up costing money. The reasons to cut Max Maitland loose kept multiplying.

  Though Pete didn’t intend to be cruel about it. “I’m here without preconceived notions, just kicking tires, getting the lay of the land, showing the flag. No need to get your hackles up. We both know the site has serious, expensive, schedule-busting problems. For me to discuss them in greater detail would be egregiously inappropriate in this setting.”

  Maitland took a gander around the parking lot. An older couple—holding hands—were shuffling up the walkway with a Scotty dog trotting before them, no leash in sight. Considering the evening hour, the sky was an odd blend of dark and light that annoyed Pete’s already unhappy body clock.

  To think he’d married a woman from this peculiar place, and now she wanted to buy a house here. Was ready to drag Pete to the closing, in fact.

  Maitland’s gaze swung to Pete. “If you’re referring to the fact that we have primarily a residential property in the Hall and an event venue in the castle, then that’s been obvious from the first presentation and is one of Brodie Castle’s strengths. Every architect who looked at the prospectus pointed out the challenges of joining the two major buildings in a manner that’s efficient, affordable, and aesthetically compatible with the existing structures. What’s your point?”

  The question was politely annoyed. The project controller looked only mildly curious, but on the hill high above the village, the castle loomed black against the indigo sky. Pete expected the ghost of Braveheart to come galloping from the trees, torch in hand.

  No wonder the locals stayed indoors and half-drunk.

  “I’ll be honest,” Pete said. “The other investors didn’t read the plans very closely, much less the fine print at the bottom of your financial projections. They’re not happy, Max. They feel as if you’ve tried to put one over on them. You have a job for the next year, they have money wrapped up in a harebrained scheme, and when you’ve enjoyed the, uh, fishing here long enough, you’ll go jaunting on your way. Some of the guys have said as much.”

  “Then some of the guys need to be set straight. I’ve never walked out on a project. If I walked out on this one, I’d be leaving behind incentive bonuses I fought hard to get into my contract. I’d also be trashing a reputation in the industry that goes back to my high school summer jobs. You can’t boot me off this site except for cause, and t
hat you do not have.”

  Maitland was both an attorney and an engineer, which made him a special kind of stupid.

  “Max, you are a first-rate project manager for any housing development ever planned for the Maryland countryside. You’re a hard worker and a stand-up guy, but you’re out of your depth here. Maguire said as much, and he knows this type of job much better than I do. I’m giving you an opportunity to get your résumé together and make a dignified exit. Any other response from you under these circumstances would be egregiously inappropriate.”

  Dignity would mean a lot to Max, though he was looking more amused than affronted.

  “Very kind of you, Pete, but I owe the project my loyalty. Getting my résumé together isn’t high on my list of priorities.”

  Fine, then, they’d do it the hard way. “I’ll want a complete tour of the premises tomorrow, also the latest weekly reports, down to the penny, with all of the supporting documents.”

  Those reasonable requests had Maitland looking irritated. “I’m supposed to be in the States this weekend. That’s in my contract. Are you demanding that I stay here and play tour guide now when you’ve had weeks to look this place over?”

  The little Scotty dog came over and sniffed at Pete’s loafer, then trotted into the building alongside its elderly owners. For damned sure, Pete would not allow animals on the castle premises.

  “Mrs. Sutherland is trying to choose between three different houses,” Pete said, “each of which is more expensive than the next. I desert her at my peril. The weekend is the perfect time to do a site inspection, because the crews are off and no deliveries will interrupt us. Business is business, Max. You can socialize with whoever you’re missing so terribly in Maryland some other time.”

  And too bad if the idea that Max had a woman waiting for him back home offended his project controller.

  “I don’t understand something, Mr. Sutherland,” the little blonde said. “Your mates commit money without educating themselves regarding the risks, you don’t intend to honor the terms of Mr. Maitland’s contract regarding visits back home, and you think that by publicly announcing your insecurities mere weeks after project launch, you are somehow enhancing the probability of project success. Why should Mr. Maitland—why should anybody who’s hired on—stay around if that’s your version of how business is conducted?”

  The teenagers had moved closer, as if they sensed a discussion growing contentious. “This whole conversation is none of your business, ma’am, meaning no disrespect.”

  Maitland’s gaze was on the castle, behind which a big, pale moon was rising. “For the last time, Pete, Ms. Cromarty is our project controller. Any element of risk to the project, including your attempts to sabotage me, fall within the purview of her responsibilities. I’ve already put off my flight once, because I got wind you were doing your usual sneak attack. If you are requiring me to cancel the trip home, then you are materially breaching the terms of the deal.”

  Damn all lawyers to… to Scotland.

  “I’m not telling you what to do, Max. If you’re not around tomorrow, I’m sure Ms. Cromarty, or any of the locals you’re so fond of, can show me the site. I’ll be up at the castle by noon, and I’ll expect a complete set of financials by email no later than ten a.m. You simply need to decide where your loyalties lie. As somebody who means you only the best, I’m telling you that it might be time to cut your losses while you still can.”

  Pete strode off, not too quickly, not too slowly. If Maitland wanted an example of a dignified exit, Pete would provide it. State your piece, have the last word, be on your way. Surely somewhere among the heathen thumping and whirling inside the bar was a female who’d enjoy a little sophisticated company, and the bartenders even in this backwater should have the makings for a decent Bloody Mary.

  Pete left Max and his loyal minion outside, where they could enjoy the moonrise over their castle, like the condemned enjoying a last meal.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Glad that’s all sorted out, then,” Jeannie said, marching down the row of cars. “What a nervy bastard you have for an investor, Max. When he’s not spouting clichés, he’s leering at the nearest female, and how many of his chins does he think that wool scarf is hiding?”

  Max fell in step beside her. “Where are we going?”

  “Up to the project office. You heard him. He wants all the reports with backup information by ten a.m. tomorrow. What a toad, making you work on a Saturday. Making you miss your trip home.”

  What a relief to have somebody angry on Max’s behalf. “We can’t go up to the project office just yet.”

  Jeannie whirled around. “Henry! Dear God, I was so cheesed off, I almost forgot my only begotten son. Dinty has doubtless turned him into a sot, and Hugh will turn him into a flirt.”

  “Jeannie.” Max caught her by the biceps before she could barrel back into the Earl’s Pint. “Could you have a word with Dinty while you’re inside?”

  “Of course. What sort of word? You’re not leaving us, are you?”

  The castle sat above the village, a refuge hewn in granite and loyalty—to family and to the land, but also to a set of values Max shared. Hard work, integrity, honesty.

  “I’m not leaving Brodie Castle.” Or you. “Sutherland pulls this malarkey on almost every project, and half the time his co-investors aren’t backing him nearly so enthusiastically as he wants to think. We’ll tour the site with him, bury him in paper, and send him on his way.”

  Jeannie stepped closer, turning what Max had intended as a gentle halt into an embrace.

  “Can he fire you, Max?”

  “Yes.” Pete could fire Jeannie, Dinty, anybody. The contract read that Max had the authority to run the job without “undue interference” from the investors, but that he’d heed the reasonable guidance of the board on all matters of substance.

  What a lot of blather.

  “Wait for me,” Jeannie said. “I’ll collect Henry and be right back.”

  “When you collect Henry, please quietly ask Dinty to introduce good old Pete to the wonders of well-aged single malt whisky. Introduce him thoroughly. If Morgan is willing to help, so much the better. Tomorrow morning, I want Sutherland reeling on the end of a mule kick the likes of which he’s never encountered before.”

  Jeannie kissed Max on the mouth, which surprised him so thoroughly he didn’t object—or take advantage of her initiative.

  “That’s diabolical, Max. Fern has some wretched novelty whiskies she keeps around mostly for display, aged in fish barrels and worse. Sutherland will wish he’d stayed in Maryland.”

  Would that he had. “Don’t be long.”

  Max retreated into the deep shadows of the trees lining the parking lot. The night was beautiful in a way uniquely Scottish, with the starry sky a deep blue rather than black. Violins in close harmony drifted through open windows, the last strains of the waltz Max should have shared with Jeannie.

  Maura would love it here, and but for her, Max would not be returning to Maryland. That realization was a gut punch. The surprise wasn’t that he’d stick around a job site, but that he didn’t have any reason besides Maura to return to the place where he’d spent the first thirty-five years of his life.

  He’d developed thousands of acres of real estate in Maryland, everything from gentrified cul-de-sacs near the DC line to sprawling mixed-use residential neighborhoods along the main commuting corridors. Good work, all of it, and he was proud of his contribution, but not… not attached.

  Jeannie came down the steps, Henry in her arms, the diaper bag over her shoulder. “Dinty and Morgan are on a mission, and Fern’s recruiting Mrs. Hamilton’s mum to assist. Knows her whisky, does Granny MacPhee. I suspect half the village will take an interest in Mr. Sutherland’s education.”

  She’d spoken quietly, the glee of a determined conspirator lacing her words.

  Max took the diaper bag from her and looped it over his shoulder. “Then let’s be off, because it’s going to
be—”

  A sound caught his ear, footsteps, soft laughter—a guy—or two guys?

  Fergus and Hugh emerged from the trees, their smiles gleaming in the shadows. Fergus’s sporran was hanging off his hip, and Hugh’s hand was firmly tucked in Fergus’s grip.

  Well. This explained a few things. “Gentlemen.”

  They nodded and spoke in unison. “Maitland.” Fergus took a step closer to Hugh, the gesture clearly protective—and maybe a little possessive.

  “If you two are done enjoying the moonlight, I need some help.”

  Hugh’s sporran was off center as well. “What sort of help could you need at this time of night?”

  Henry yawned and offered a sleepy, “Bah-boo.”

  “Did you happen to overhear any of our conversation with Sutherland?” Max asked.

  “Hard not to,” Fergus said, dropping Hugh’s hand to straighten his own sporran. “I know he’s your countryman and your investor, Maitland, but he’s a donkey’s backside, meaning no disrespect to the jackass. Any damned fool who sank money into this project without realizing the Hall and the castle lie at different elevations doesn’t deserve to make a profit.”

  “He’s also pompous,” Hugh said. “Never did have a use for pomposity. Henry’s up past his bedtime.”

  Henry waved at Hugh sleepily.

  “He’ll be up later still,” Jeannie said. “Max and I are off to the project office to deal with the reports Sutherland is demanding.”

  “I hate reports,” Fergus muttered. “I hate even more strutting windbags who come around mucking up my project. I can help.”

  “That leaves me to watch the wee man,” Hugh said, “and fetch a tray of sandwiches. What else do we need?”

  “I wasn’t going to ask you to help with the reports,” Max said.

  Fergus stepped within chest-bumping range. “You don’t trust me, is that it? Because I got a little bit behind and made a few simple mistakes, you think—”

  Hugh touched Fergus’s arm. “You asked for our help, Maitland. Explain yourself.”