by Caro LaFever
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Bruce.” Lifting her head, she managed a cool nod.
He gave her one last smirk before she marched through his office door, past the receptionist, and into the bustle of Pictloch’s main street.
The sunny spring day had brought out quite a few shoppers. They ducked into the cheese shop, the bookstore, the grocer’s. Greg Carnegie, who’d set up his jewelry shop to take advantage of the tourists, nodded and smiled at her as she passed.
“Ceri! Ceri!” Mrs. Rose Roy, the owner of The Rose and Thistle and the first person to welcome her to Pictloch, waved from the front door of the pub. “Come and have some tea. I just made a pot.”
What she wanted to do was hike into Will’s beloved forest and find a place to sulk. A place to worry. She knew she’d be fine because ultimately, she was a survivor and a fighter. Still, she suddenly felt like the last of Will’s lingering care and concern and protection had disappeared in the storm of his son’s return. For five years, she’d felt safe. Even after Will’s death, she’d felt she’d found acceptance.
Her heart shook inside.
“Come on, now.” The older woman’s round face frowned. “What did Inspector Bruce do to ye, that old goat?”
She managed a slight smile at the label and marched across the cobbled street. “He wouldn’t help me.”
“Help? What kind of help would ye be needing from the likes of him?” Rose stepped back into the pub and bustled behind the bar, her wide hips swaying under a simple blue skirt. “Sit yourself down and tell me the gossip.”
Making a face, Ceri nevertheless set her purse down on one stool before sliding onto another. “I’ve got some problems.”
“Och.” The pub owner placed two bright-red cups on the bar and poured steaming tea into both. “Don’t we all.”
She didn’t quite trust Rose.
In her experience, women weren’t to be trusted anymore than men. Her mam had loved her in a distracted, scattered way. Yet Dilys Olwen had always been much more interested in the current man in her life than a small girl who’d demanded too much attention. The girls she’d grown up with in the streets and schools of Brekelly had accepted her at first, though when she’d become prettier, they’d shunned her as too much competition. And since marrying for money, she hadn’t been able to count one woman as a true friend.
But Rose had never treated her with anything other than acceptance and even outright championship. The offer of friendship had been there from the very first time she’d stepped into this pub. From the light in the other woman’s eyes, that offer was still there.
Ceri was close. Very close to taking the offer up.
Slumping on the bar, she scowled at the steaming cup. “Will’s son is back.”
“Ye don’t say.” Rose’s voice went high in clear surprise.
“I do say.” She took a sip of the sweet, milky tea, trying to stave off the low thump of panic. “He’s moved into the castle.”
“Well, that won’t work for long. Not when the tourists come in a few weeks.”
“Correct.” She straightened her shoulders, taking heart. “He’ll have to leave then.”
The older lady smoothed a wet rag across the gleaming oak bar. “Can’t think why Lorne Ross would return to Pictloch, honestly.”
“You knew him when he lived here?” Ceri didn’t want to be curious about the guy, but she couldn’t help the bubble of interest. He’d been so odd, and yet so dangerous.
“Sure and I did.” Rose nodded, her frosted-blonde hair bobbing. “Everyone did. He was the laird’s son.”
“He can be the laird, if he wants. He just can’t have my castle.”
“Your castle?” The woman across the bar grimaced, her brows rising. “It might be yours in legal terms. In spirit we all have—”
“Right. You’re right.” She couldn’t afford to lose even one villager in this fight. “Our castle. That castle is what makes Pictloch its money.”
“Aye.” The older woman nodded once more, her expression softening. “I’ve done well since Will opened the castle.”
Ceri wanted to yell she’d been the one to convince him, but she sucked back the words. What mattered is the villagers needed to understand: The new laird was a threat, not a blessing.
“Will was mighty proud of him.”
“He was?” She frowned. “They didn’t seem close.”
“Maybe. Will loved that boy until the day he died, though. I’m sure of it.”
Ceri had been sure of no such thing and she’d thought she knew Will Ross better than anyone in Pictloch. Will had said very little about Lorne and the only emotion he ever exhibited about his son was sorrow. However, perhaps she’d done her own bit to keep any talk of the son from entering into their cozy, make-believe family. Will might have loved Lorne more than she’d suspected. She had to acknowledge the possibility.
But he’d given his precious castle and forest to her.
To her.
“And I know, too, that he was proud of the success the boy had in London.” Rose took another sip of tea before continuing. “Lorne Ross might have plenty of money and a penthouse suite in the big city, yet at heart, he’s a Scotsman, and this is his home.”
Her fingernails cut into her palms as the words vibrated in her soul. That’s what she’d worried about more than anything. Will had assured her his son would have no interest, still she’d fretted from the very day he’d announced his intention to leave the castle and estate to her. “He didn’t leave the castle to him, though. Will left it to me.”
“He did, didn’t he?” The older woman glanced up, a faint look of distress in her eyes. “I suppose Will thought his son was too busy with his own kingdom in London to care much for this small one here in the north.”
“He owns a business in London.”
“So, Will told ye?”
“Not much.” Ceri reached over to clutch the teacup in her white hands. “My brother told me.”
“I’m surprised Will didn’t crow his delight to ye.” The woman’s face grew puzzled. “He certainly did to all the townsfolk.”
“He did?” A bright blaze of emotion which felt suspiciously like betrayal ran through her. “Why didn’t I ever know that?”
“Can’t say. Will was quite proud of Lorne and the gigantic fortune he’s amassed.”
“Gigantic?” She’d understood conceptually that Lorne Ross was rich. Pots of money meant rich. But gigantic made her heart bump against her chest. Gigantic meant he had a weapon to use to bludgeon her patience into the ground. “How gigantic?”
Rose eyed her, looking worried again. “He’s a billionaire. Didn’t ye know?”
No. She hadn’t known. Video games made a person that much money? She sucked in a deep breath. “Why would he care about an old castle when he could buy a hundred around the world?”
“I suppose because it’s his family’s castle.”
The words slammed around in her head making her weave on the stool. “It’s my castle.”
The front door of the pub flew open and three young teenage girls barreled into the room, giggling and laughing. Their youthful joy scraped along her straightening spine.
“Mum!” A blonde bounced around the back end of the bar. “Did ye hear?”
“Hear what, Lucy?” The older woman ran a loving hand across the girl’s head.
“Why, we have a new laird at the castle now,” one of the other girls piped in.
“The Chief Inspector told Mr. Stevenson, who told Mrs. Carlyle at the grocery store.” The other girl took in a deep gulp of air, her face flushed with excitement. “Then—”
“We found out.” Lucy danced behind the bar, her blonde hair fluttering. “And mum!”
“What?” Rose looked with indulgence on her youngest.
“He’s filthy rich.”
“He’s young.”
“I hear he’s gorgeous, too.”
Ceri stood and placed the cup on the bar with careful precision. She shoul
dn’t let this childish enthusiasm trouble her, yet it did. It appeared her worry about the villagers’ reaction had been correct.
Rose gave her a look before shushing her youngest. “Ceri, don’t go worrying yourself about these girls and their teenage infatuations.”
“Mum!” her daughter protested as her friends stopped their enthusiastic hopping.
“It’s not only us, Mrs. Roy.” Another of the girls pouted. “The news is spreading across town and everyone is excited.”
“Everyone is glad he’s returned.” The other girl threw a dart of a look at Ceri.
She didn’t allow it to prick. There’d been so many looks like that thrown her way, she’d long ago learned to deflect them with a simple swish of her armor.
“That’s right.” Lucy swerved around the bar to land by her side. “You’ve got to have seen him, haven’t ye?”
“If anyone has, it would be her.”
“She’s the one who stole his castle, ain’t she? He’s caught her red-handed now.”
“Margie.” Rose’s voice went sharp. “There’ll be none of that.”
The girl pouted once more, but went quiet. Yet the trio’s stares didn’t mellow and their stances didn’t soften.
Ceri felt it like another punch. Exactly as with the Chief, she wasn’t going to be able to depend on some of the villagers. If these girls were any indication, she might not be able to depend on any of them.
“You’ve seen him, haven’t ye?” Lucy shot out the question once more.
“Yes, I have.” Grabbing her purse, she swung it over her shoulder and tried to ignore the thump, thump of her heart. “He’s at the castle now.”
“Oh!” Margie drew her hands together, her eyes alight with fascination. “It’s like a fairy tale.”
Ceri stared at them, the grave concern on Rose’s face, the three girls all delighted with Lorne Ross’s return. She remembered the sneer on the sheriff’s face and the amused distance in his receptionist’s eyes. She’d been a part of this community for five years, and yet, precisely as with her own hometown, that didn’t really matter.
Gold-digger.
He’s caught her red-handed.
This wasn’t a fairy tale. It was her new reality. And just as she had when she’d been eighteen, she’d bet she’d have to face this challenge on her own, too.
Without pots of money.
Without Will.
Chapter 4
“Mr. Ross.” Reid’s voice reminded Lorne of a buzzing bee. Distracting and irritating, but not something a person needed to pay much attention to. “You must see this is not the way to win the war.”
“Must I?” He stared through the beveled window at the rolling hills of his estate. The castle’s tower gave him an expansive view. Much of Ross land encompassed what was called the Caledonia Forest. The ancient pines had been his dad’s most precious possession, even more than his son. The trees shot into the hazy blue sky, the green tips waving in the brisk Scottish wind.
Lorne wished for the thousandth time he felt some affinity, some attachment.
“Yes, you must.” His solicitor walked to where he stood, the inevitable papers rustling in his hand. “The woman could cause a stink in the village, and the London tabloids could run stories. She also could waste your time by fighting you in court.”
“But it is my time to waste. And I don’t care about the London tabloids.” He eased away from the window and away from Reid. “I thought I’d been clear.”
“Yes.” The older man sighed. “Very clear. No money for her.”
“Correct.”
Her seventy-two hours would be up at the end of today. She was smart. He’d noted the intelligence in those dark eyes. A woman like her, a female who searched for weak prey, would know when the game was lost.
She’d leave.
A flash of memory crossed his mind. The blaze in her eyes as she neared him. The sweet lilt on her harsh words. The scent and impact of her body as she drew close.
Far too close.
Lorne slammed the door to that particular memory, closed it for the hundredth time.
He’d retreated from their first meeting. True. He’d had to, and he knew himself well enough to know what he’d done had been rational, not foolish. Yet the memory had plagued him all day until he’d forced himself back into her presence. The action had been the right thing to do. Standing in the cottage’s tiny kitchen, watching her, everything that had been unsettled went quiet. She was as he'd judged, nothing more, and now the memory of his retreat was no more important than Reid’s irritating voice.
The irritating voice cut into his thoughts. “It wouldn’t take more than your pocket change to get her to leave. The security team’s report was clear. She’s got barely enough money to keep this place going.”
“No.” Padding across the room, he opened the doors to the wide hallway. Reid didn’t have to tell him what was in the report. He’d read it once and could relate every word back to anyone who wanted to know about Ceri Llewellyn. “No money.”
The solicitor sighed.
There was a chance he would have to use the report and his money to drive her off his estate. He’d calculated the chance in his head last night—right around five percent. So, he fully expected to see the hatchback he’d spotted parked on the side of the cottage driving down his long lane sometime in the next few hours. Out she would go onto the road leading away from Ross land.
Gone for good. Gone forever.
The punishment he’d planned as he drove to Scotland would take a bit longer to execute. His security team would follow her travels, dig up her plans, and ruin them. He didn’t know how long he’d proceed with this course of action. Maybe for a few years. Maybe until he’d felt his father had been successfully revenged. The woman might not plead for forgiveness now, however, eventually she would and he might let it go at that point.
“Mr. Ross.” Reid coughed his way into Lorne’s awareness. “We’ll need to make contingency plans in case she doesn’t comply.”
“Is that so?” He frowned. Doc often talked about Plan Bs and fallback positions. His partner had tried to explain that it was much like backing up a computer. But protecting your work wasn’t the same as admitting defeat before you began. He had never seen the sense in this. A person found a goal, focused on that goal, and achieved the goal.
“You must see.” Reid’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “She might not agree.”
He didn’t see. How she could examine her situation and not understand what was best for her survival? “She’s intelligent. She’ll leave.”
“Sir.” The solicitor huffed and Lorne noted the man’s expression had grown distressed. “She might not. And what will we do then?”
He walked to the long desk he’d had installed the day before last in his old bedroom. On it stood three computer screens, all in a precise line along the wall. Looking at his watch, he calculated the satellite crew would arrive in a little more than an hour. After thinking about the situation, he’d decided it was best he make his presence felt at Castle Ross and in Pictloch. At least, for a couple of months. Thus, the necessity of setting up his work so he could operate effectively from here.
“Sir?” Frustration laced the word.
“Ye have filed the papers stopping the castle tours?” Lorne fingered the black keyboard. He’d been astonished his father would have allowed such a thing. His father’s true love had been the forest, yet Castle Ross had never strayed far from his heart. To allow the general public into the rooms that were meant for only Ross feet to stand in? To have strange people staring at his mother’s portrait? To encourage crowds of tourists to stomp through the castle gardens, strewing trash and debris behind them, and filling the air with their noise?
A shudder went through him.
His father must have gone soft in the head. Or that woman had made him do it for the money. Probably a combination of both.
“Yes.” His solicitor huffed again. “They should be served t
omorrow and that will effectively shut her down from doing anything with the castle until your dispute of the inheritance is heard in the courts.”
He laid his hand on the desk. “Good.” Brushing his palm along the wood, he zeroed in on the threads of grain in the fine oak. It reminded him of the seamless consistency of his latest computer code. He suddenly itched to get back to what he did best, get back to the straightforward clarity of his work.
“Mr. Ross.” Reid shuffled to his side, too close, too irritating.
“Ye can go to your bedroom.” He’d put the man in Lady Aileen’s room. The ornate velvet bed hangings and tapestry-laden walls might muffle the man’s constant whining, he’d thought. The fact a supposed ghost also trailed around the room might provide some entertainment. Much to his disappointment, so far, the man hadn’t reported any issues, and hadn’t stopped whining, either.
“As your counsel, I have to say this.”
Lorne brought his head up slowly, wishing he could keep his focus on the wood. There’d been something in the roll of one grain that made him think he could incorporate it into his code. But he wouldn’t be left alone until the man had his say, he’d learned. “Say what?”
Reid appeared stern and serious, his owlish eyes piercing. “You don’t really want this castle.”
He didn’t. He didn’t love this place, or plan on living here for any length of time. Still, that had nothing to do with his goal. Staring at the man, he said nothing.
“If your aim is to get back at this woman, there’s a simple solution.”
He inspected the solicitor. He liked simple. Simple was most often the way to go. “What?”
“As the only surviving child, according to Scottish law, you are due half.”
Lorne kept his silence. Waiting.
Reid patted the papers in his hands, a sly smile crossing his face. “You could demand half of the moving estate.”
“Moving estate.” He said the words softly, carefully.
“Half of anything that isn’t the property itself.” The man’s smile went gleeful. “You could take all the famous paintings.”