by Caro LaFever
But pouring them down the drain wouldn’t work, and they were his property.
Dragging them all out along with a stash of ammunition, she glared at them. There were two pistols and what she thought might be an assault rifle. Didn’t Scotland have rules about guns? She eyed the pile of weapons as she stood. Where could she put these so they’d be safe, yet not easily available to a man prone to brooding?
The idea popped into her head.
The shed on the beach. They’d be safe there and on McPherson land, but far from any kind of temptation that might strike at the spur of the moment.
By the time she’d lugged the ammunition and firearms to the shed, it was noon. The morning sun had turned into a sullen sky. She’d only spent a month here every year. Still, she could tell by the whip of the wind there was a storm coming.
Shrugging, she turned back to the secret steps. Storms came and went in the Scotland Hebrides. By the time she’d talked to the McPherson and was ready to head back to her dad’s cottage, the sky would be predictably clear.
Time for the Lord of the Isles to rise to his new life and new possibilities.
Time for Lilly Graham to have her say and make him see straight.
Time to make breakfast.
It had been hours since her own, and her grumbling stomach reminded her of the fact. Good that the half-fridge and side pantry were filled with food. Apparently, depression hadn’t destroyed his appetite.
She hummed to herself when she saw the Lorne sausage. The square-cut meat had been a part of her childhood for as long as she could remember. Team it with fresh scrambled eggs and sliced tomatoes, and even a man with a hangover couldn’t be mad for long.
He must be mad.
Iain didn’t open his eyes. He’d learned that wasn’t the best idea after drinking all night. He also didn’t move. That always caused his stomach to churn.
But his nose quivered.
Sausage. There was sausage grilling.
Madness.
He didn’t eat in the morning. His routine had become very simple. When he finally felt as if his stomach wouldn’t rebel, he’d roll out of his bed. Once he’d accomplished that, he’d crawl to the shower and sit under the hot blast of water until his head didn’t feel like it was going to fall off. Then, he’d gingerly wrap a towel around his waist and go find his special batch of coffee beans. Not until he’d had several big cups would he even contemplate putting anything into his stomach.
His nose twitched again.
That was definitely sausage. Someone was cooking sausage.
He grunted in disbelief.
“You’re awake.” The perky female voice pierced straight through the last fog of sleep and rang a bell directly inside his pounding head.
“Here.” A thud hit the bedside table where he usually found an empty whiskey bottle in the morning. “You must like coffee.”
The swirling smell of rich coffee hit his nose. His stomach grumbled, not sure about the break in routine.
“I like coffee, too.” The cheery voice kept banging into his reality. “I’ve tasted this, and it’s great.”
He grunted once more. He had gone mad.
“You have good taste.”
Finally, because she apparently wasn’t going to disappear into the mists of his mania, he opened one eye.
“Hi.” Her eyes were bright with friendliness. The sea-green of her gaze hit him like a wave of the ocean. “Good morning.”
“Go away,” he croaked.
She’d come back, dammit. Lovely Lilly with her perverse need to interfere and her peachy, golden skin. She hadn’t been a figment of his liquor-drenched brain. She was real.
All too real.
“No can do,” she chirped, disappearing around the arched doorway of his bedroom. “Go take a shower and then we can eat and talk.”
“Talk.” He rolled his head into his pillow and thought about suffocating himself.
His head pounded.
His stomach rumbled.
His body refused to stop breathing.
Turning over, he stared at the stone ceiling. He could hear the female humming in the kitchen, a low crooning that for some reason soothed his headache.
The coffee did smell good.
With a tentative shift, he eased himself to sit on the side of the bed and realized he was naked. The sheet clung to his feet and not much else. She must have got an eyeful of his arse. The thought zinged right to his cock and for the first time in months, he had a morning erection.
“Shite.”
Trying to distract himself, he lunged for the coffee. He closed his eyes as the hot liquid ran down his throat. She was right, he did have a taste for good, strong coffee. He’d learned to appreciate the dark Turkish flavors he and his buddies had found in the Middle East. Along with the coffee, he’d also developed a taste for the Iranian peaches that littered many eastern markets.
Peaches.
“You should jump in the shower.” Her voice strolled right into his head, accompanied by the image of her plush, round cheeks and pretty, curved lips. “I’m starting the eggs now.”
“Go away.” He took another deep sip of coffee.
Her only response was a laugh.
Iain opened his eyes and faced reality. The only way he was going to get rid of her was by physically throwing her out. To do that, he had to get himself awake and alert. He’d learned to take orders at a very young age, and only after years of work had he climbed into a position where he gave them to others. And look where that had led him.
Taking orders was a safer bet.
Even if they came from lovely Lilly.
Groaning, he pushed himself off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom he’d designed for himself last year. When he’d finished burying his da, he’d strode into the castle. Through the grand rooms on the ground floor he’d went, past the huge bedroom his da and mum had slept in, up the dramatic and imposing stone staircase. He’d ignored the tapestries and trophies his ancestors had accumulated during centuries of rule. He’d focused on taking one step after another, afraid if he lifted his head and took in his heritage, he might have to end his life right then and there. Because his honorable ancestors and lofty legacy would demand it as a needed sacrifice.
He’d ended his march here. In the tower.
The oldest part of the castle, it had been long-used as storage, a dumping ground for the past. Malcolm McPherson hadn’t believed in throwing any family heirloom away, although the rug might be in tatters and the mahogany bed set might be close to dust.
Iain had focused. Focused on moving it all down into the main part of the castle. Focused on clearing out everything until he ended up with nothing.
Which suited him.
He wanted to live like a monk. He wanted plain walls and cold furniture and empty rooms.
Only with his music and the bathroom had he allowed himself some comfort.
The stone walls rose two stories high, arching above the room like the ceiling of a medieval chapel. He’d placed the round, deep hot tub under the one window and the glass-encased shower on the other end of the narrow room. In between lay the rock-lined, double sink. He’d done the work himself, ordering the supplies directly from London. He wanted no interactions with hopeful villagers, and he wanted none of his money going to local businesses.
“Hurry up!” she yelled from the kitchen.
This time, he ignored her.
Because this time was the only time he allowed himself to enjoy.
Stepping into the shower, he wrenched the handle, and a surge of hot, steaming water poured from the slot in the rock. Installing the largest water heater available, he’d wanted to make sure he could stand in his sanctuary for as long as he wanted. The water streamed onto his head and shoulders, and he let his body relax into the heat.
He didn’t miss much about his multiple tours of duty. He didn’t miss the dust and burning sun. He didn’t miss the long, sleepless nights on lookout, or the constant state of
anxiety. He didn’t allow himself to think about his men, his buddies, so he didn’t miss them, either.
The Turkish baths, though, the ones he’d indulged in when he’d taken his leave in Istanbul? Those he missed.
The heat of the water soothed his aching muscles and, after a while, the fog of his hangover lifted. With a careless swipe, he soaped his hair and then his body. He kept his eyes closed. He always did when he was in the shower. Here, he allowed himself to forget.
But not forgive.
“Are you almost done?” The words came from right outside the glass doors.
Iain’s eyes popped open. “Jesus, woman. Give a man some privacy.”
“I’ve seen it all before.” She chuckled. “It’s just that the eggs are done and I don’t want them to get cold.”
Her chuckle didn’t match her perky, irritating persona. No, the sound was low and husky, luring and seductive.
Iain grabbed for the one small washcloth and covered his reaction to that chuckle. “Go away.”
“That’s your favorite phrase, isn’t it?” She crossed her arms in front of her chest, her eyes sparkling with interest. “We’ll have to fix that.”
“Good God.” He didn’t need fixing. He didn’t need to talk. He needed to be left alone. But first, he had to find some clothes. Then he could remove this woman once and for all. “Would ye mind stepping from the room, so I can finish and dress?”
“Hurry up,” she repeated, before twirling around and walking away.
Much to his relief.
His cock didn’t agree. His cock suggested he should have pulled her nicely rounded arse into the shower to share in its delights.
He shut his stupid body part down by turning the water to freezing. After a full minute, his cock wilted and his head cleared of any lusty imaginations. Stepping out of the shower, he slung a surprisingly crisp and clean towel around his waist and strode into the bedroom.
His bed was made, the comforter smoothed over what looked like his second set of sheets. When had she had time to do that? His gaze narrowed, as he suddenly noticed there were no clothes.
No clothes?
“What the hell have ye done with my clothes?”
Chapter 5
His bellowed words slammed into the stones surrounding her like a strong sea storm raging against the rock this castle stood on.
Lilly stopped in mid stir. Crap. She hadn’t thought about what he could wear once he awakened. She’d decided the towels and sheets should come first since they were the biggest mound.
“Just wear your towel.” A little sound of delight hummed in her throat. She hadn’t been able to see much with the steam filling the shower and glazing the glass, but the man did have quite a nice set of shoulders, so why not enjoy the view?
“Shite.” The disgust in his voice didn’t subside.
“Come on.” Maybe teasing would work to get him out of his funk. “Don’t be shy.”
The bright fire she’d lit in the kitchen and the one in the den kept the rooms toasty warm. The simple wooden table stood by the fire so he wouldn’t catch a cold. He’d get over his snit in a second, and she wanted everything ready for His Majesty when he appeared.
Placing the hot dish filled with eggs in the center of the table, she studied the breakfast spread out before her with satisfaction.
Once she’d cleared away the junk and dirt, the kitchen had turned into a chef’s delight. She wasn’t much of a cook, there was never enough time in the day and she was always rushing from place to place. Yet she could appreciate the line of copper pans hanging overhead, gleaming now after being cleaned. She could appreciate the black metal spice rack with its scrolled sides and lines of little bottles filled with familiar spices like pepper and cumin, but also with exotic ones like ras el hanout and za’atar.
The McPherson must be a good cook.
Or had been at one time.
Because all the utensils and fancy equipment had been dirty and dusty with disuse. It looked like he’d eaten from the containers themselves most of the time. While she’d found fresh eggs and sausage and some good milk, the majority of his supplies were a bunch of ready-made meals not fit for a peasant, much less a lord.
“Did I mention I want ye to leave?”
She swiveled from the table to confront a ferocious male scowl and a hot-pink sweater.
A hot-pink sweater?
“Don’t ye say a word.” The Lord of the Isles stomped to the table in his bare feet and glared at the very nice breakfast, if she did say so herself. “What else am I supposed to wear when you’ve taken all my clothes?”
Her attention was snagged by what he wore below. A kilt made of…leather?
She shouldn’t, but she couldn’t stop the laughter.
He jerked around and glared at her instead of the food. His sky-blue irises seemed bluer because of the blood red in the white of his eyes.
Compassion stirred inside her. “Sorry.”
With a grunt, he turned and sat on one of the hard wooden benches lining each side of the table. “I might as well eat my own food, even if I never told ye to make free with my kitchen.”
“You should get some cushions,” she said as she sat on the other side. “A bright red or blue would cheer up the place.”
He stopped scooping the eggs onto his plate. “Maybe I don’t want to cheer the place up.”
“Why not?”
His Majesty threw her a dark look, which wasn’t as effective as she bet his dark looks usually were. The hot-pink sweater just made the look seem adorable.
“Oookay.” Scooping eggs on her own plate before he took them all, she snatched the last of the sausage, too.
The man had an appetite.
Why did it please her so much to fulfill that need?
Lilly frowned at her breakfast. She’d never been the mother-hen type, not even with her two half-sisters. She’d been more the cheerleader and the pied piper with her colleagues and fellow travelers. Why did this man bring out this odd protectiveness and nurturing instinct?
“What are ye frowning about?” he muttered. “Ye aren’t the one with a bothersome meddler breaking into your home.”
“I didn’t break in. I didn’t have to.” Shrugging her odd thoughts aside, she dug into the food. The eggs were the right consistency and the taste of the vine-ripened tomatoes reminded her of how much she liked the English-grown varieties.
His straight dark brows lowered. “What the hell do ye mean by that? The front door is locked. I did it myself.”
“You have a back door, don’t you?” She gave him a sassy smile. Now that she was in and talking to him, it didn’t matter if he knew. By the time she left here, she’d have his agreement to get counseling and get well. She wasn’t leaving until she’d won this concession. That might take several hours, but she’d do it. And she had a whole month here on Somairie to track his behavior and make sure he kept his promises to get help.
“Hell.” His eyes lit with realization. “I showed ye that when you were a kid. How did ye remember?”
“Children tend to remember romantic staircases and secret doorways.”
“Romantic?” He snorted. “Only a female would think such things were romantic.”
Since she was no longer a romantic herself, she didn’t object to his disgust. Instead, she relished the warmth of the fire and the richness of the food, letting the ancient walls surrounding them work their peace inside her soul.
He obliged her by falling silent, focusing with an intent urgency on the eggs and sausage. The way he gulped his breakfast down made her even more positive he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks, perhaps months.
Compassion and a reluctant tad of affection bubbled inside her heart.
The shutters on the deep-seated kitchen window clattered in a sudden burst of noise.
She jumped.
The McPherson jerked his attention away from his food and scowled. He stood with an abrupt jolt and marched to the window to peer out. “Goddamm
it.”
“What?” She turned on the bench to stare at his broad back covered in absurd hot pink.
“A dolster.”
“What’s a dolster?” That was one Scottish word her dad had never used. And she could tell by the rough way he said the word it was Scottish.
He swung around, the scowl on his face going from fierce to ferocious. “That’s right. Ye ain’t a true Scots now, are ye?”
She didn’t take offense easily, yet the way he sneered the words made her straighten her shoulders and throw him a glare of her own. “I’ve probably spent as much time on this island over the years as you have.”
He snorted. “If ye don’t know what a good dolster is, ye ain’t Scots.”
Rising from her chair, she walked to the window to inspect whatever this fearsome dolster was.
A storm, apparently.
The view looked out on the outcrop of craggy Lewiston Gneiss and onto the ocean. During the time she’d spent making breakfast and waking His Highness, the winds had grown wicked, and the sea had turned into a muddy, green turbulence. Waves crashed along the white of the beach and battered the harsh, black rise of the rock below them.
“It’s only a storm.”
“It’s only a storm, she says.” His voice went high to mimic her.
Lilly glanced at him. She hadn’t been this near him since last night when she’d leaned over to tuck him into bed. In that prior occurrence, she’d merely felt pity and a strong compulsion to help. Now his powerful physique hit her.
He stared down at her. She wasn’t overly tall, but she’s wasn’t a munchkin. He had to be several inches taller than six feet. The muscles of his arms and shoulders were covered with the ridiculous fluff of a pink sweater, yet the fabric couldn’t hide the brawny bulges. More than anything, though, it was the essence of him that overwhelmed her at the moment. The clean smell of him, the tough line of his jaw and brow, the intelligence gleaming from those bloodshot eyes.
“Nothing to say?” he grumbled.
She shook herself out of the daze of his impact. “Scotland has storms. Lots of them. I’ve experienced a few.”