by Lynn Kurland
He might have been exhausted, but he looked a bit like a man who had just unburdened himself of a terrible secret.
“Want to tell me more?” she asked.
“I find I do,” he said seriously. He took a deep breath, then began. “My mother had passed suddenly and I thought it would take my father’s mind off it—and mine as well, to be honest—to play a few rounds of golf on her native soil.”
“Were you living in Scotland at the time?”
He shook his head. “I’d moved to London by then. My father had gone back to New York, I think in an effort to have a change of scenery to ease his grief.”
“Wait,” she said, “back up a little. Where were you before London?”
He shot her a brief look. “New York, slaving away in my grandfather’s firm.”
“After having graduated from Columbia,” she said.
“Aye, guilty as charged,” he said. “The rest is boring, but I’ll tell you to keep you awake, if you like.”
“I like. Start with Granddad. He sounds fabulous.”
Nathaniel laughed a little. “He’s less fabulous than he is a miser with delusions of landing himself a title, but he certainly has the money to buy one if he weren’t so cheap. I’ll admit with a fair amount of shame that I made him buckets of money to add to his enormous piles during my tenure at his firm. I had money enough of my own, though, thanks to my father having given me my inheritance early. I had already been working for myself, living in London, when my mother died.”
“Is yours a good business?”
“Extremely.”
She smiled. “Hence the Aston Martin?”
“Exactly.” He shook his head. “My parents had been here in Scotland, in a little cottage on the shore, for the last few years she was alive. After her passing, as I said, my father returned to New York.” He sighed. “He had intended, before she fell ill, to retire and take her on a tour of the world. Events caught them both up before he could.”
“What does your grandfather do exactly?” she asked.
“He invests,” Nathaniel said. “Or I should say, rather, that he sits in his den, counting his money, whilst others do the investing for him. He limits himself to finding ways either to get back what he’s loaned out—which happens very rarely—or to make trouble for his posterity—which he does constantly. He amuses himself by arguing about inheritances until he can see the corpse for himself and make sure it’s not going to rise like a damned zombie. Old money and vats of it, I’m afraid.” He shot her a look. “I have the feeling you understand that.”
“Don’t remind me,” she said grimly. “My father’s Seattle roots extend back to the first timber company.”
He smiled briefly. “I understand that, believe me.” He shook his head. “So, I had rented that wee cottage that is now my house because my father had sold the place he’d lived with my mother and I didn’t think I should try to buy it back. We had had ourselves a proper breakfast, then set off to play a bit of golf. A storm came up suddenly, and my uncle and I—my uncle had come along with us to add to the distraction and because he is a very keen golfer—ran with my father to find shelter in the forest.” He glanced at her. “I suppose I needn’t tell you what happened next.”
She shook her head because she honestly couldn’t help herself. “If it hadn’t happened to me, I would think you had hallucinated it. So, did the three of you travel . . . well, you know.”
“My uncle and I wound up in the past whilst my father, quite fortuitously, remained in our current day.”
She looked at him gravely. “That must have been terrifying.”
“It was,” he agreed. He dragged his hand through his hair. “I don’t like to think about that next few weeks, to be honest. I was able to come home, but my uncle remained in the past.”
“Is he still there?” she asked in surprise.
“Aye, and willingly.”
She watched him as he passed another car or two and wondered if he might have unburdened himself enough for the day. “You don’t have to tell me anything else,” she said. “We could just drive in silence.”
He smiled briefly. “Nay, I’m well enough if you can stand to listen. I’m just not a fan of medieval dungeons, so the memory of Malcolm MacLeod’s leaves me wanting to go for a bit of a run.” He smiled. “Not many I can share that with, are there?”
She had her own thoughts on that, but she supposed the present moment wasn’t the time to offer them. Highland magic? She thought she just might punch the next MacLeod who said those words with a straight face.
“No,” she said finally. “Not many. So, what happened then?”
“I managed to get home—dumb luck, I suppose—only to find that my father had suffered a heart attack and was in hospital. I saw him before he died.” He paused. “I think he was waiting for me.”
“Do you have siblings—oh, you do, don’t you?”
“Older brother, younger sister. Gavin is not one to linger in any one place for long, but Sorcha lives in London. She has too much money and a bit of a death wish, but I can’t tell her that. Gavin has a fondness for extremes, so he’s likely presently hanging from some bloody rock face by his pinky fingers alone.” He shook his head. “He did manage to show up for the funeral, though, and there we were, a happy little group of three gathered to present a united front on Long Island. That’s when the true torture began.”
“A fight over an inheritance?”
“A fight being pursued to this day,” Nathaniel said. “My father had made me trustee of his portion of the old bastard’s largesse. My grandfather objected.”
“But your father had a good attorney, right?”
“The best,” Nathaniel said solemnly, “and no, it wasn’t me. The trust is set in stone, I have control, and my siblings don’t care as long as their checks continue to arrive on time. My father fought Poindexter off for years.” He smiled at her grimly. “My grandfather believes I don’t have the stomach for the same sort of fight.”
“He should see you with a sword in your hands.”
“I’ve considered it, believe me.”
“Do you care?”
He winced. “I know it’s only money, but he offends my sense of fair play.”
“That and your mother probably told you to give him hell.”
Nathaniel laughed a little. “My father, actually. My mother was the only one who could manage the old fool. The truth is, my grandfather doesn’t need the money. I think he fights because he’s bored. Add that to the usual assortment of greedy cousins, daft aunties, and, again, my grandfather who refuses to listen to his very expensive attorneys, and you have a family drama made for telly.”
“And all the while there you are, taking these day trips to another time zone,” she said. “Exhausting.”
“Very,” he agreed. “I will say it tends to put things into perspective in a way I don’t think I could manage on my own. When one begins to dream in medieval Gaelic . . . well, haggling over hundreds of millions in my grandfather’s boardroom seems rather pedestrian by comparison.”
She considered that until they had garaged his car and were setting off in his Range Rover. She waited until they were back on the road south before she looked at him.
“Do you ever wonder why you continue to go back? To, well, you know when.”
“Every day,” he said with a sigh. He considered, then shook his head. “There always seems to be something I need to do, but I can’t imagine why I’m the one who needs to see to it. I can’t do anything the MacLeods aren’t already trained to do, and far better than I.”
“What about your uncle?” she asked. “Is it possible you’re supposed to rescue him?”
“He doesn’t want to be rescued,” Nathaniel said. He looked at her. “The truth is, my uncle is drunk most of the time and hopelessly in love with the laird’s daug
hter the rest. He almost became a Jesuit priest, so his command of Latin is impressive. He’s the local vicar, in a manner of speaking. They love him, and he has his own designated spot by the fire. I can see why he wouldn’t want to come home and face my grandfather.”
“Maybe there’s someone else you’re supposed to rescue.”
“I can’t imagine who,” he said with a sigh.
She didn’t think she had enough information to speculate. “Do you ever wonder if you’re related to those MacLeods in the past?”
“I haven’t had the stomach to investigate. If Uncle John actually manages to marry the laird’s daughter it would mean that my uncle is my uncle and potentially my medieval grandfather at the same time.”
“Eeww,” she said. “That’s disgusting.”
He laughed a little, then reached for her hand. He looked at it briefly before he put it on his leg and covered it with his own. “You have blacksmith marks on the back of your hand.”
“I know,” she said. “I should wear gloves to avoid the sparks, but I don’t.” She looked at the little round scars there, then smiled at him. “It would have been a good profession to have, I suppose, back in the day. Warm in the winter, don’t you think?”
“What I think is that you’ll never know the truth of it because all you’ll do from here on out is speculate,” he said, shooting her a look.
“I learned how to use a dirk this morning, you know,” she said. “I’d be worried if I were you.”
“Emma,” he said with a sigh.
“I won’t go anywhere without you,” she said.
“I saw you cross your fingers just now.”
She smiled, partly because he was charming and partly because he was stroking the back of her hand and that was enough to distract her from subversive thoughts. For the moment.
She thought that might not last.
Chapter 20
Nathaniel realized the taxi had stopped only because Emma elbowed him awake. He supposed he should have been counting how many times she’d already done that, but he was so damned tired he didn’t think he could manage it. How he was going to face off with his grandfather, he surely didn’t know.
He tossed the driver money, crawled out of the cab behind Emma, and suppressed the urge to look for somewhere to sit down.
“More coffee?”
“Whisky would be better.”
Emma smiled at him. “Didn’t you sleep on the plane?”
He shook his head slightly but supposed there was no useful reason to tell her why not. The truth was, he’d sat in a lovely first-class seat next to that beautiful woman who had stolen his heart, and he’d spent eight hours watching her sleep. He supposed she knew he’d been doing it because every time she woke, she would remind him that watching her while she drooled was impolite. He’d promised her every time never to use that against her at an inopportune moment, held her hand, and wondered how it was he had been fortunate enough to encounter her on the edge of an enchanted forest.
Fate’s make-up call, he supposed.
At the moment, she looked as if she’d just stepped out of an issue of Gorgeous Lawyers Quarterly. He would have signed whatever she put in front of him just to buy himself more time to look at her.
He realized with a start that she was studying him a bit more closely than he was comfortable with.
“What?” he asked, wondering if he’d forgotten something important, like his trousers.
“I’m still confused as to why you bought me this great court outfit yesterday so you can take me along to your meeting.”
“I wanted company.”
She pursed her lips.
“I wanted to supervise you.”
“Better, but not perfect.”
He considered her a bit longer. “I wanted your company and I wanted to keep an eye on you. How’s that for honesty?”
“That I believe,” she said. She looked over her shoulder at the building there, then back at him. “What now?”
“We march into the fray. Stay behind me.”
She laughed a little at him, but walked with him inside just the same. He forced himself to stay grounded in the present moment—an alarming thought, to be sure—and not remember the countless number of times when he’d stood in front of that bank of elevators and waited for a posh box to take him up to his grandfather’s offices. He’d worked for his grandfather for only five years, but he thought he could bring to mind a piece of misery for each one of those days with hardly any effort.
“You okay?”
He smiled briefly at Emma. “Fine.”
She lifted her eyebrows briefly, then turned to the elevator doors as they opened. Nathaniel held the door open and looked at her only to find her looking in astonishment at someone inside.
“Dad,” she managed.
Nathaniel had thought he was past surprise, but obviously he was not. He stepped back from the man striding out of the elevator, and he never stepped back from anything.
“Emma, what are you doing here in Manhattan?” the man demanded. “You’re supposed to be in Scotland.”
“Ah—”
Nathaniel rubbed the back of his neck on the off chance someone had mistaken his unthinking motion for what it was—reaching for a nonexistent sword strapped to his back—then held that hand out toward Emma’s father.
“Nathaniel MacLeod,” he said briskly. “And you must be Emma’s father.”
“Frank,” Emma managed. “Frank Baxter. My father. Dad, this is Nathaniel MacLeod.”
“A pleasure,” Nathaniel said smoothly.
Frank Baxter sized him up with a brutality that Nathaniel couldn’t help but admire. If he’d been a lesser man or perhaps encountered Emma’s father at a different point in his life, he might have been pleased to have that sort of adversary to take on. At the moment, he was simply satisfied to let the man have his look and not give any ground.
He was, however, happy he’d bothered to comb his hair and do a decent job on the knot of his tie.
Emma’s father grunted, dismissed him without comment, then turned back to his daughter.
“What are you doing here,” he repeated, “and not in Scotland where you’re supposed to be?”
Nathaniel looked at Emma and winced. She looked as if she’d just walked into a clutch of medieval Highlanders who had decided she might make a good addition to the fire they already had going. He supposed he’d spent too much time in an environment where split-second decisions, made without regret, were the order of the day, but apologies could be made later. He stepped between Emma and her father, put his hand on her back and guided her into the elevator, then stepped inside himself. He turned and favored her father with his chilliest smile.
The man had, after all, destroyed a ’67 Jag. Unforgivable, really.
“Wait one min—”
The doors closed. Nathaniel supposed he was fortunate Frank Baxter hadn’t shoved his hand between them to keep them from closing, but perhaps things were looking up. He looked at Emma.
“Sorry,” he said, not meaning it in the slightest.
“He’ll be waiting,” she warned.
“One could hope,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll watch you have him for lunch later. We’ve got breakfast to face first.”
“Thank you.” She smiled, but it wasn’t a very good smile. “He does business here quite often, but I never would have expected to see him here this morning.” She took a deep breath. “Thanks for the rescue.”
“I’m quite sure you’ll return the favor at some point.”
“Well, I have been well-trained in the art of the dirk.”
“See?” he said pleasantly. “You’re just waiting for the right opportunity to exercise your prodigious skills.” He smoothed his tie down and buttoned his suit coat. “I will be your second, of course, standing just b
ehind you whilst offering helpful suggestions in my best Windsor-approved poshness that I use when I want to intimidate. Your father will be bleeding from the crispness of my consonants alone.”
Her smile was a bit better that time. “What do you use with the gold diggers who hunt you?”
“Cockney, lass. Throws them off.”
She smiled. “And with Grandfather?”
“A bit o’ the old Gordie,” he said. “I learnt it from Brian, of course, who cut his teeth on the same from his da in Glasgow. Drives Lord Poindexter absolutely to drink. Watch and see if he doesn’t have a decanter at his elbow just in case.”
She looked at him and shook her head. “You don’t look at all nervous.”
He sighed in spite of himself. “I’ve done this too many times to be nervous any longer. Now, ’tis just an extremely tedious business to endure so I can get on to more pleasant things. Feel like a show later?”
“Anything but a variation on the Scottish play.”
He blinked, then laughed a little. “After our brush with Cawdor, I couldn’t agree more.”
The elevator doors opened, and Nathaniel walked out first to make certain they weren’t going to be mowed down either by a gaggle of his grandfather’s lawyers, who would want to assault him, or any number of relatives, who might want to trample him to death before he could get to his own lawyer. To his relief, there was only Peter diSalvio there, slouching negligently against a wallpapered wall, yawning hugely.
Nathaniel sympathized. If he had to do too many more of these, he would simply lie down and die from boredom.
It was all a completely useless exercise, of course. His father, Archibald Poindexter MacLeod III, had come into his inheritance at thirty, then managed his money quite capably on his own for many years. When he had grown tired of it, Archie had looked over his own posterity, rightly judged his eldest, Gavin, to be a complete loss at maths, identified his youngest, Sorcha, as too distracted with other things to pay attention to anything that didn’t have to do with sticking arrows into targets from ridiculous distances, then turned his gentle eye on his middle child.