“Seems a stretch. But, if what you say is true,” she said, pointedly parroting him, “that’s exactly what happened.” She shrugged. “No different really than being half a world away and running into an old school chum in some airport. Odd, but it happens.”
She held his gaze steadily, and he might be the biggest fool in the world, but he believed she was telling the truth. The more he thought on it, the particulars of it, the thing she’d said about leaving his bed this morning… and that look of absolute happiness on her face when she’d opened the door to him just now… Christ. He was an idiot.
Arms still folded, doorknob still within reach, she regarded him silently for a long moment. “You said you wanted to meet me. The Sinclair of Ballantrae me. Why? Did you talk with your father before he died? Did Taggart speak of me to you?”
Tag shook his head. “We hadn’t spoken in a very long time. I didn’t even know he was ill until word got to me while on a dig, several months ago, that he’d passed on.”
She cocked her head. “You don’t sound particularly regretful. ”
He tightened his jaw, worked to keep his temper in check. He knew from her letters that she’d had an entirely different relationship with his father than he ever had. It was entirely understandable that she’d take his father’s side in this. But it didn’t make it any easier to swallow. And he’d be damned if he’d explain or apologize for living his life the only way he’d been able to, and survive with his sanity intact. “You don’t know anything about what went on between my father and me and my brothers, so don’t pass judgment.”
“You could always enlighten me.”
He could feel his pulse tic in his temple. “I could. But I won’t. What happened between us is none of your business.”
She didn’t prod him further, for which he was intensely grateful. He’d known coming here would be fraught with unforeseen emotional snares, but he could never have predicted just how tangled he was going to make it, albeit unwittingly.
“Fine. So why don’t we begin with what I know. I had a letter from Taggart’s associate, Mick Templeton, notifying me of his passing, and saying he’d follow through with your father’s wishes. I know what he’d told me he wanted, but not what he’d actually done about it. That was three months ago. It was the last I heard from anyone.” She nodded toward him. “Your turn. What do you know about our arrangement? Why come all the way over here if you have no interest in your heritage? And why did you say you were looking forward to meeting me?”
Tag debated on how to answer her. He wasn’t ready to reveal his unusual emotional connection to the letters she’d written. Or the confusion warring inside him now that he realized the woman he’d spent a once-in-a-lifetime night with, was the same woman whose words had somehow managed to captivate him as well. He wanted to trust that this was nothing more than a simple misunderstanding, that they would look back and laugh about this confrontation, and how suspicious they’d both been of each other’s motives. But he wasn’t quite there yet. Certainly not with the amusement, but more importantly not with the trust.
Which could get a great deal more complicated when he revealed why he was really here. He saw no point in putting that off any longer.
“I became aware of your existence at the same time I became aware of my father’s overseas assets.” He didn’t see the need to mention that this was his father’s only overseas holding. Nor did he see fit to tell her that his father had kept this particular purchase a secret, even from his own accountant. He regarded her closely as he finished. “Your name came up while I was going over the business papers dealing with his purchase of Ballantrae.”
“Purchase? You mean the investment papers,” she corrected.
Light began to shine on the situation. “You think my father was merely an investor in the property? As what? A tax write-off for him?”
“Of course that’s what I think. That’s what he was, what his investment was. In spare business terms anyway. It was far more than that personally. To him. And to me.”
Tag scrubbed a hand over his face. Despite his previous anger and his continued distrust, he was finding no pleasure in this. “As the overseer, perhaps you aren’t intimately familiar with the terms of his agreement, but—”
“Overseer?” She laughed. “Obviously whoever explained his ‘overseas assets’ to you hadn’t read over the documentation.”
She might be many things he was unaware of, but one thing he knew for certain was that Maura Sinclair was no fool. He hadn’t read over the fine print of the contracts, taking Mick at his word that his father was the owner. He’d pieced the rest together, yes, but from what little he’d skimmed, the contracts had appeared to back up that claim. Could Mick have been misinformed? Had his father merely been an investor in the property? Which, he supposed, would make him part owner. Mick had been pretty clear about it, though, very certain. To the point of making sure Tag understood his responsibilities regarding the property he now “owned.” Responsibilities, which, come to think of it, might be the same as that of an investor.
He’d shoved aside the folder of paperwork when he’d opened the cherrywood box and began reading Maura’s letters. And had, admittedly, never gone back to them.
In lieu of revealing that to her, he said, “Why don’t you explain to me exactly what your arrangement with my father was?”
She eyed him guardedly. “Why is it I feel there is an underlying tone to that question? If you think there was something untoward about my relationship with your father, be man enough to simply come out with it.”
He was confused, frustrated and still disconcerted about discovering he’d slept with the woman who’d written those letters, but he had to admit he admired her control. But then, at the moment, without the paperwork in front of him, she held all the cards, didn’t she? Well, they’d see about that.
“No, I don’t think there was anything untoward,” he told her truthfully. Her letters, after all, had been that of companionship, not some sordid May-September love affair. “Not in the way you mean, that is. But if in fact you own Ballantrae, or owned it at one time, I can’t help but wonder what was in it for him? He funneled a great deal of money your way, and didn’t appear to be getting much of a return for his investment, tax writeoff notwithstanding. I assumed he’d expected his money was being used to increase the worth of his investment. Money that, from the rather dormant looks of things, hasn’t exactly been spent spiffing up the place. Although, come to think of it, maybe that was a wise calculation on your part. If you don’t make the improvements, then he can't sell your childhood home out from under you. Which means you might have known my father better than I thought. Because that would be exactly something he would do. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I’m sure that was probably exactly why he did this.” Tag could only wonder why he hadn’t put it together sooner. “That way he can screw over his entire heritage and all his ancestors in one fell swoop.”
She merely looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. But he wasn’t exactly tossing out wild speculations here. In fact, that was the only rational explanation he could come up with.
“He would never have sold me out, even if he could have, which by the way, he couldn’t.” She waved that away with a brisk flip of her hand, as if that weren’t the part that was bothering her. “But how is it you do what you do for a living, and have absolutely no understanding of the worth of heritage?”
“You’re telling me my father handed over tens of thousands of dollars as an investment in his ancestry?” He laughed. “My father may have changed in his final years, but no man changes that much. He loathed his ancestry, his heritage.”
She sighed, then raked her hands through her hair in weary frustration. “Do you have the paperwork you were given with you?”
He had a great deal more than that, but he was still unprepared to tell her that. About the letters his father had kept, carefully preserved in that cherrywood box. Maybe she knew his father had kept
them, tucked away like cherished mementos. Tag had no idea what had been in his father’s letters, after all. But he did know that the man who’d raised him had not one sentimental bone in his body. Yes, he cared deeply about their heritage, but only in the way of a man ashamed of his ancestors’ past actions, a man determined to change the way in which his family name would be remembered.
To listen to his father’s lectures on the subject, it was clear he’d have been thrilled to discover a way to wipe clean from the slate of history every mention of any Morgan before him.
“Yes,” he said at length. “Out in the truck.”
She stared at him through the gloom of the small service vestibule. “Well, since we’ve spent almost the entire duration of our relationship fumbling about in the dark, I say it’s time to bring everything into the light. Figuratively and literally. So why don’t you retrieve whatever files you brought with you, then we’ll ascend to a higher level—” she sent him a pointed look, “and get to the bottom of this matter once and for all.”
She pulled the door open once again, and he stepped past her, back into the chill wind that whipped about the courtyard. He sent her a pointed look of his own, all but daring her to try and lock him out, which given how this meeting had gone so far, he couldn’t exactly blame her if she did. But he wasn’t leaving until he had some answers. And he had more questions now than when he’d arrived. To that end, when he opened the back of the small work truck, he pulled out both his duffel and the backpack he’d stowed his carry-on items in.
"Why the lorry?” she asked from right behind him.
He hadn’t known she’d followed him out, so her voice, so close behind him, stilled his actions for a moment. Then he went ahead and slung the duffel over his shoulder and turned to face her. “Apparently someone else came up the mountain in the storm last night and missed the warning flags. The front right panel of the rental car was smashed in and the tire was toast. I’m surprised you didn’t notice when you had your truck removed.”
“It was fine when I was up there. At least I thought it was. In truth, I was more concerned about my truck not going over the edge while we hooked it up to his lorry. Robey put my spare on and he was planning on digging you out when I left. Didn't he mention that to you?”
“Robey wasn’t exactly big on talking.” Much to Tag’s frustration, as he recalled. Not exactly the wealth of information he’d been hoping for. He hadn’t even given up Maura’s name, claiming he hadn’t caught it. Tag’s little Catch Me game had come to a swift and unfortunate end before it had even begun. “He loaned me this truck. I’m due back in Calyth at the end of the week to pick it back up.”
“I’m sorry. Honest. I had no idea.”
He slung his backpack over his other shoulder and kicked the rear panel door shut. He had wondered when he’d arrived at Robey’s only to find his car all dinged up, for a split second anyway, if she’d been somehow responsible. She’d been upset according to the innkeeper, but he hadn’t given the impression they’d been angry tears. Besides, he hadn’t done anything to hurt her. Jesus what a tangled mess this all had become.
She stood in front of him when he turned toward the house. “Why are you bringing in all that?” she asked, motioning to his baggage.
“It’s already getting dark and I’m not about to go driving through the mountains again.”
“There is a lovely inn right in the village. I can ring Molly up and—”
Now he smiled. She had the upper hand at the moment, but he held a few cards in his own. “I might be unclear about the specifics, but I’m pretty sure I own at least a chunk of this crumbling edifice. I’m sure you can find someplace to put me up for the night.”
She folded her arms, her gaze turning to steel.
“No need to look at me like that. Last night was last night. I have no expectations in that direction, trust me.”
Now she had the nerve to look offended.
He pushed past her. “And don’t worry about the accommodations. I’m used to sleeping in pretty rustic conditions. I don’t require anything fancy.”
“Good,” she said, storming past him, through the courtyard door. “I believe we have some free space in the dungeons that would suit you fine.” She tossed what could only be described as an icy smile over her shoulder. “It won’t be the first time a Morgan has spent a night in there.”
Chapter 12
Maura led him on the winding path up several short, twisted flights of stairs, then down the wide, bookshelf lined hallway to the main parlor. She only used it for company, which was rare. But she wasn’t ready to invite Tag into her private quarters. An hour ago, she’d been fantasizing about dragging him there and picking up where they’d left off last night.
How quickly things change.
Taggart’s son. Taggart’s estranged son. She still couldn’t quite grasp it, though she knew she’d better, and quickly. She couldn’t believe he thought he’d inherited the whole of Ballantrae. That’s not how she and Taggart had set up their agreement. In fact, he was a few short weeks away from having no claim on it whatsoever.
She paused inside the door of the cavernous parlor. The room itself wasn’t that large by the standards of some of the other rooms in the castle, but the high ceilings, tall, narrow windows, and oversized fireplace gave a person the sensation that if you spoke loudly in here, your voice would echo for ages. “How are you at getting a fire started?” she asked.
For a brief second, the wry humor she’d so quickly come to associate with him flickered around his mouth and eyes. “As long as I’ve got the proper materials, I’m generally pretty proficient.”
She wondered if there was some sort of hidden message there, but was still too flustered by this whole turn of events to take time to ferret it out. “Well, it’s already laid,” she began, then winced inwardly at the unintended pun. For all the frustration and tension arcing between the two of them since his surprising arrival, she was forced to admit that a large percentage of it—for her, anyway—was still sexual.
She really must work on that.
“All you have to do is strike the tinder there,” she went on, refusing to let his imposing presence or her overactive libido get the best of her. “I’ll go get my documentation. It’ll take me a few moments. Make yourself at home.” She’d said it automatically, as a good hostess would.
Only he looked over his shoulder, glancing at her from where he’d crouched in front of the massive grate, and his expression made it clear what his thoughts were. Of course. I am home.
Yes, well, she thought as she hurried out to the hallway, ducking behind the mammoth main hall staircase and through the door leading back down to the underground passages, we'll see about that. It was clear he had completely misunderstood, well, pretty much everything. From the nature of her relationship with his father to the nature of their agreement.
Breathless from rushing, she still took the final steps up to the main floor of the north tower two at a time. She didn’t want to leave him alone back there for any longer than necessary. Stooping in front of a metal file cabinet next to her desk, she yanked out the bottom drawer, tugging free the appropriate accordion file. It not only contained the original papers they’d both signed, but also held the deposit tickets reflecting his monthly payments and the notes from the bank regarding the loans she’d secured based on that monthly stipend. And in the rearmost dividers, she’d kept all the letters Taggart had sent her over the duration of their relationship.
She sat back on her haunches, debating on whether to pull them all out, or if she should show these to Taggart’s son. As proof, if necessary, of their agreement and their relationship. It was clear the two hadn’t reconciled and she was protective enough about the man she’d become so fond of, that she wasn’t going to toss his words, feelings, and thoughts, which had been intended for her eyes only, in the lap of his ungrateful son. But she left them in there all the same. He didn’t have to see them.
File tucked und
er her arm, she debated driving back around or taking the passage, but opted for the passage. She didn’t want to explain how she’d come to drive up to the front door. Grabbing the lantern from its post, she hurried back down the stairs.
She still could not reconcile the handsome, funny, fascinating man she’d met and become so wildly enamored of that she’d actually gone to bed with him hours after meeting him… with the moody, suspicious man currently prowling about her parlor. How was it a family came to be torn apart as his had been? Taggart had spoken only once of his wife and the tragedy of her early demise, leaving Maura to draw her own conclusions about his grief and that of his young sons. Had that been the beginning of the rift between them? But to last for so many years, to the point that even his terminal illness hadn’t been enough of an impetus to encourage a reconciliation?
Of course, Tag had alluded to the fact that she had no idea what his relationship with his father had been like, and Maura was adult enough to know that just because she’d gotten along with the man, did not mean his sons didn’t have valid reasons for removing themselves from their own father’s life. And yet, what could have been that awful? The man she knew was opinionated and gruff on occasion, and he wasn’t the most open of men emotionally speaking—but then what man was?
Still, he’d been a great observer of those around him and had great command of the written word. His letters had been shorter than hers, and as a whole, he hadn’t been too keen on responding to her requests for more information about the American side of her roots, but he had spoken of his life’s work, the cases he’d tried, both as a lawyer, and those he’d sat on as a judge. He’d been impassioned about the importance of law and his devotion to upholding his part in the—as he called it— best judicial system in the world. It wasn’t something she’d ever followed, though he made it fascinating. Uncle Niall, of course, would have been enraptured. She’d wished more than once that the two of them could have met.
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