by Caro LaFever
A boy who loved this island and its castle.
A man who’d loved his father and his country’s honor.
What had happened to change that boy and that man?
She decided a poke might yield some kind of prize she could puzzle over. “My stepfather would be glad to buy some of these treasures.”
His shoulders stiffened in front of her. “They’re McPherson property. There’ll be no selling any of these treasures to rich Americans.”
Curious. He might not want to take care of his stuff, yet it was still his stuff.
Something to build on, hopefully.
He came to a halt at another door, this one with inlaid iron bands lying in straight bars every few inches.
“This door appears to be meant to stop invaders,” she said.
Pulling out an old-fashioned, wooden key from his jeans pocket, he fiddled with the lock.
“Did it?” She didn’t like his continued silence. It made her worried for him.
“This stopped the world from coming in. But not any longer.” Yanking the door open, he stood at the sill, staring into the gloom. His body went taut, and by the line of his tense shoulders, she knew he was in pain.
“Iain.” She placed a hand on the middle of his back. “I can go down the other stairs. It’s not a problem.”
“Naw.” His voice came, rough but resolute. “Let’s get ye to the front door.”
He flicked on another light, illuminating a wide landing covered in a worn blue carpet. It led to another set of stairs.
She remembered those stairs. She’d stared at them whenever she visited the castle as a kid. The marble balusters were carved in a twining swirl of the McPherson family crest. Her dad had pointed out the curl of the rose leaves and the spiky cuts of the thistle. Topped with gold-tinged mahogany, the handrails led down to gigantic black stone newel posts engraved with the name of the ancient McPherson who'd founded the clan.
The stone stairs were layered with dust, while the marble and mahogany barely shone through the dirt coating their magnificence.
This shouldn’t be. This neglect.
Glancing his way, she nearly teared up at the look of sorrow on his face. For him and his home.
“We’re right above the Grand Hall, aren’t we?” she piped into the cool silence, trying to figure out a way to help him through this.
“Aye.” He moved forward like he was walking through water, like he was wading through too many memories. “Come on.”
She wanted to grab his hands, but they were fisted. Plus, she probably shouldn’t touch him and ignite her lust. So instead, she came close to his side, her arm swishing on his as they walked.
Iain looked at her and a wry smile crossed his face. “Are ye going to protect me from all the wee wraiths, lovely Lilly?”
“Wraiths?”
“Ghosts to ye.” His smile widened.
Her heart lightened at his expression. “I don’t think there are any ghosts here.”
“Oh, there are.” His blue eyes went dark, and the smile fell off his face. “There are.”
No longer caring about her lust, she grabbed his fisted hand. She wiggled her fingers through his until their hands were entwined. “Then we’ll meet them together.”
He tightened his grip on her as they walked to the staircase and started down. The light came from a series of chandeliers, sprinkling a sooty glow over the dust-covered furniture.
The last time she’d been here, she’d been nine. The summer before she’d met the dazzling McPherson boy and been terribly hurt. At the time, this room had been filled with villagers and tourists. Malcolm McPherson had held court near the huge, roaring fireplace, his blue-and-black kilt on, his white mane of hair flowing behind him, his ruddy face flushed with happiness.
The man had loved this castle and his heritage.
And his son.
Lilly glanced at the son, only to find his gaze pinned on his feet like he needed to make sure he didn’t step into the middle of a bog or a puddle of the past. “Iain? Are you okay?”
“Fine.” He said the word as a man does when he means exactly the opposite. “We’ll be at the front door soon.”
“I know.” She had to skip a bit to keep up with his determined march. “I’ve been here once or twice.”
That brought his gaze back to meet hers. “Have ye, then?”
“Yes.” It suddenly occurred to her that it was odd she’d never seen him. “I never saw you here though. Isn’t that weird?”
His big hand tightened around her smaller one. “Not so weird.”
“Why?”
He looked away, zeroing in on the floor. “The tours were my da’s thing. Not mine.”
“Um.” Stymied for a moment, she kept her focus on him and caught the flash of emotion. “A-ha! You were shy.”
“Sometimes.”
Her heart went piddly-pip, and fell right at the man’s feet.
Friends, Lil.
Right. A friend’s heart could occasionally go piddly-pip. Couldn’t it?
And then he did it again.
He blushed.
It came up from his throat and made his white skin rosy. If her heart hadn’t fallen completely into palpitations, it would have done so now. “Iain—”
“Here’s the fastest way to the front.” Throwing open another sturdy door, this time stone, he marched into the next room.
Okay. She’d give him a pass on his blush. Perhaps keeping the distractions coming might help him, however. This whole scene seemed to overwhelm him. She could tell by his tight grip, the way his eyes were clouded with misery, the way his rangy body moved like it had aged a hundred years. “My dad liked to bring me here whenever I visited.”
“Thinking it was a fairy tale castle?” His laugh came, hoarse and hollow. “Thinking ye were going to find a Prince Charming here.”
“Maybe at the time.” Her heart hurt for him and his lost innocence. And even hurting for her loss, too. “But I grew up.”
“Do we ever really grow up?” He stalked past the long gallery holding a vast array of oil paintings and statues of his ancestors.
“Yes.” She hesitated, not sure of the path they were traveling. But truth was always the best policy. “I think we do grow up and become wiser.”
“Wiser.” Jerking to a stop, he stared at her, his gaze stormy with pain. “Ah, Lilly. Ye are still as naїve as when ye were a lass, aren’t ye?”
“No.” She kept his hand in hers, although he tried to tug it away. “I’m not a child.”
His eyes immediately went half-mast, hiding his pain behind his armor. “I’d never say ye were a child, donas.”
“I think we should go back.” She pulled him toward the stairway they’d left behind. “This is too hard for you.”
“Not hard at all.” His superior strength made it easy for him to win the battle. He yanked her into the next room. “Besides, we’re almost halfway to the front door.”
She remembered this room, too. When she’d been a child, this had been her favorite room whenever they toured. Unlike some of the darker, medieval parts of the castle, this room, the room her dad had said was the drawing room, was light and bright. The red carpet with golden stars running in a circular pattern. The floor-length windows looking out on Margaret McPherson’s prized gardens. The massive, white-marbled fireplace with the intricate carvings telling stories of Scottish history.
The room appeared utterly depressing now. The windows were covered with heavy, dingy drapes. The carpet appeared torn at the edges. The fireplace lay cold and empty.
“Come on.” He dragged her to the door at the end of the room, pacing past the covered furniture like it was all about to pounce on him. “We’re almost there.”
They were moving very fast now, and she couldn’t catch her breath. “Slow down.”
He didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t. His mouth was so narrow it looked like it was pinned shut. The hand in hers was coated with sweat. The line of his shoulders
looked like a ridge of rock.
“Iain,” she gasped in distress for him and for her poor pounding heart.
“Here we are.” Stopping cold, he eyed the towering set of double doors she remembered as always being open when Malcolm held his parties. The ancient oak lay smooth and solid, a testament to the stable, strong history of the McPherson clan.
Of whom, only one remained.
She was pretty sure of that fact, if she remembered the lore she’d heard in the village correctly. She knew he was an only child, and she couldn’t remember any other relatives hanging around the castle during the summer.
Was that his problem? Did he hate having all this history sitting on his shoulders?
Perhaps there were other relatives. Family that would care about his health and help her help him. She could hope.
“Do you have cousins?” She stared at him, wishing for the best. “If you do, maybe they could help keep this place up.”
He gave her a blank look of surprise and then the storm clouds descended in his eyes and a dark scowl replaced the pinched frown. Still, he surprised her. He did something astonishing. Something a friend wouldn’t do.
Throwing her hand away, he marched to the front doors and threw them open. “Get out. Go away.”
Chapter 14
“There ye are, love. Home at last.” Her dad stood in the doorway of his cottage, his expression sunny, his gaze hopeful.
Lilly would like to cudgel one man, and she’d spent the last fifteen minutes thinking about all the ways she could do it as she stomped through the inner courtyard and across the castle’s stone bridge.
Now she wanted to cudgel another man.
“This isn’t home, Dad.”
At the sharp tone of her voice, his smile fell.
Crap. Just because the McPherson was a pain in the ass and a jerk too, she shouldn’t take her anger out on her father.
“Sounds like ye could use a spot of tea.” Her father shuffled into his cottage leaving her to follow behind carrying a big load of guilt.
“Sorry, Dad.”
“Not to worry.” His voice came from the kitchen, gentle and forgiving as usual. “I know your real home is in New York. It is what it is.”
No, it wasn’t. She let her mom think that over the years because it caused less friction. Apparently, her father had gotten the same message, even if it wasn’t true.
She didn’t do home.
Her dad appeared with two steaming cups, his smile back in place, his gaze placid and accepting of what he thought was reality.
The guilt almost suffocated her.
It hit her with an abrupt kick—she’d been so focused on Iain Arrogant McPherson she’d forgotten the real reason she’d come to Somairie. Her dad. “I’m sorry I got caught at the castle during the storm.”
He chuckled as he sat. “I wasn’t surprised.”
“That was the plan, wasn’t it?” Her tone went sharp again.
“Not mine.” He glanced at her before sipping his tea. “But I wasn’t worried.”
“No?” Grabbing her cup, she glared into the hot brew. “I was all alone in a castle with an angry, drunk man.”
“Who happens to be Iain McPherson.”
He said the jerk’s name as if he were some kind of beloved knight. Or vital god. Or hero.
He was that last one. The thought made her even angrier. “He’s mean.”
Her dad’s head tilted, surprise covering his face. “Is he now.”
“Yes, he is.” Taking a quick sip, she let her hurt billow inside. “He yells and stomps around.”
“Mmm.”
“He’s nice one second and angry the next.”
“He didn’t like that ye got rid of his whiskey.”
“He didn’t like anything I did for him.”
Not true. He had appreciated her cleaning and thanked her. He had enjoyed the massage and let her know. And he had asked her to come back, even though his last words were his typical, annoying mantra.
“Sometimes a man needs some time to understand what he’s got.”
She looked up with sharp jerk to catch the wistfulness in her dad’s eyes. Had her dad not appreciated her mom when they’d been a couple? Or maybe her own untimely birth had pushed two people together too quickly. A clutch of the inevitable guilt twisted inside. “Dad.”
“So what’s your plan now?” He placed his cup on the table with a placid thump, as if he were prepared and approving of anything she wanted to do.
He’d always been this way.
When she’d told him she wanted to attend the New York Film Academy rather than the elite college her stepfather had picked out for her, Edward Graham had sent a large check to help her make it happen.
When she’d said she planned on traveling the world taking photos, instead of settling for a regular job and settling down with a man to have children, her father had patted her arm and told her she could do anything she set her mind to. Although she knew in her heart he yearned for grandchildren.
And the very first day she landed on his doorstep to spend a precious month in his company, he hadn’t given one word of complaint to her when she’d decided to go save a man who didn’t deserve her attention.
“Nothing.”
His gray brows rose. “Nothing?”
“He’s on his own.” Standing she stalked into the small kitchen and slammed down her cup so hard the hot tea sloshed over the rim and onto her hand. “Ouch.”
“What have ye done, lass?” Her dad came from behind her and examined her reddening skin. “Och.”
He flipped on the cold water and grabbed her hand. She didn’t know why, but her eyes filled with abrupt tears.
“Ye know, Lil.” He kept his own hand with hers, though the water had turned ice cold. “I’ve never known ye to be a quitter.”
“Dad.” She sniffed.
He turned her hand so the water hit directly on the burn, soothing the pain. “And I’ve known Iain McPherson since he was born.”
“He’s mean,” she said once more, knowing she sounded like a small child. Yet she couldn’t seem to help herself.
“Then he’s hurting.” Turning the water off, he reached above her head and pulled out a soft towel and a bottle of lotion from one of the cupboards. With a gentleness that was typical of him, he patted the moisture off her skin and smoothed the rich cream on the burn. “There now, you’ll be fine in a bit.”
She glanced up to meet his warm, brown eyes. “I came here to be with you, Dad. That’s my plan.”
“Ye had another plan a couple of days ago.” He still held her hand in a firm grip and the expression on his face told her—he wasn’t going to let this go.
“I’ve changed my mind.” She took another stab at standing her ground.
“Mmm.”
“Don’t you want to spend time with me?”
“Yes.” There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in his voice. “We’ll have time enough for that, I think.”
“Dad, you can’t—”
“I can.” He squeezed her hand before finally letting her go. “I’ve been thinking during these last few days when you’ve been gone, and I came to the conclusion you’re exactly what Iain McPherson needs.”
A chill went through her at the hopeful look in his gaze. “I’m only going to be his friend. Nothing more.”
“Ah, then.” His smile grew. “Ye made some progress with the lad.”
Her shoulders slumped as she remembered she had. Another realization quickly followed. If she didn’t go back and help the McPherson, he’d very likely slide straight into his depression again and she couldn’t live with herself if he did something awful to himself.
“Crap.”
Her dad laughed softly. “I know ye. Ye were never one to walk away from someone who needed help.”
“Double crap.”
“And he needs yours, Lil. It’s clear to me as the sky outside.”
The memory of those sky-blue eyes, once bloodshot and then cle
ar, rose inside.
She wasn’t going to let him slide into depression once more. She couldn’t.
She sighed. “I guess I’m going back to the castle.”
The donas wasn’t coming back.
Not after what he’d just done.
“Good riddance,” he snarled as he turned from watching her march away—her spine stiff with rage, her blonde curls bouncing in the wind, her lovely, lush tush taunting him with what he’d never have. She threw open the castle gate and without even giving him a glance, stormed out and down the bridge. He swung away from all of her and instead, stared at his heritage. With another snarl, he stomped back into his personal hell.
Iain slammed the two front doors closed.
Leaving him alone with his memories and the wraiths of his past.
He glared at the painting of his father that stood at one end of the hallway. His mother’s portrait stood at the other end, her smiling, kind gaze looking across the space to her husband’s.
Grief welled in his throat, making him choke.
Marching over to his father, he threw his head back and confronted the dead man.
“Did ye have to, Da?” he cried. “Did ye have to paint me into a picture I couldn’t fit into? Not in a million years?”
His father’s merry smile, a smile that had greeted him every time he came home from the Royal Marines, didn’t move.
“Did ye have to ask me to be a man I can’t ever hope to be?” His voice dropped low, in a hoarse gasp. “Did ye ever think I wasn’t a hero at all?”
He slumped to his knees on the cold stone floor. “Did ye ever think I couldn’t be what ye were, Da? Not at all.”
Malcolm McPherson had believed his son could be everything he wanted him to be. For seventeen years, Iain had been that man. But then he’d made a horrible decision and had to confront the reality that he’d been playing a part, pretending a role, performing on a stage he didn’t belong on.
Thank God his father hadn’t seen him like this. The real man.
Iain dropped his head, not able to face his father’s gaze. “I can’t be what ye want me to be, Da. I can’t.”