Laird of the Highlands: International Billionaires IX: The Scots

by Caro LaFever

  She turned to face him, another happy smile plastered on her face. “Everything is perfect for the place.”

  Lorne stood in the center of the arch, his coat still on, his rawboned hands fisted at his side. He stared at her, the blue of his eyes growing dark. “Ye don’t like it at all.”

  “I like it just fine.” Dropping her hand from the piano, she walked toward the stairs. “I’ll go look at the bedrooms now.”

  “All right. I ordered in some food for us this evening.”

  “Did you?”

  “Aye. I thought ye might be a wee bit tired.”

  He turned as she passed him, but he didn’t reach out and touch.

  She was very glad about that. If he touched, she might crumble.

  That thought, the wretched realization, made her armor tighten.

  “Thank you. You’re very thoughtful.” The stairs rose in front of her, another mountain she had to conquer on her own. Because she couldn’t let herself lean on this man, she couldn’t let him find her fears. She might only be the shell of the girl she’d been, but at least she had this hard, solid hull around her as protection.

  “Ye know, Ceri.” The burr of his accent had gone rough. “If ye don’t appreciate the place, it can be sold, no problem.”

  Glancing at him as she came to the first landing, she threw the words at him. Words she couldn’t help. “It’s your decision. It’s what you appreciate, not me.”

  His red-gold brows furrowed into a scowl. “What’s happened here, lass? What’s gone wrong?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.” She grasped the railing with a sweaty hand. “I told you I don’t enjoy cities very much, yet you insisted on coming here.”

  He walked to the first step and planted one foot on it, like he was thinking of coming after her.

  She stiffened.

  His gaze searched her face. “Is that all? Only your dislike for cities?”

  “Yes.” No. But she couldn’t tell him that. Not with the armor battening down inside and her heart shaking with fear.

  He knew too much. He was too close. To the whispering remnant of that girl she’d left in Brekelly. The girl she’d let die step by step for her mam and her brother. The girl she no longer knew and no longer wanted to know.

  And she didn’t know, couldn’t tell…

  Was he friend or still foe? Forever enemy or permanent lover?

  Grunting, he eyed her again. Then something changed in his stance and his eyes went wide. “I know.”

  “What?”

  “I know exactly the thing to get ye in a better mood.” His grin, the lightning-fast smile which turned him from a fierce man into a jaunty lad, crossed his face. “I’ll go get your presents for ye.”

  She’d forgotten that pile in the backseat of the car as they’d made their way into Edinburgh. Perhaps she’d let him spoil her and maybe this would drive these ghosts of dreams she’d left behind out of her once and for all. “Okay.”

  His eyes lit. “Go up and pick your favorite bedroom and I’ll be right there.”

  This time, her smile was real. “Come quick.”

  “I’m right behind ye.”

  Turning, she started up the stairs again.

  “And Ceri?”

  She stopped and looked down at him.

  “I aim to make ye happy.” His blue eyes gleamed with seriousness. “I promise ye I will.”

  The armor banged and buckled inside while her heart trembled once more.

  Chapter 31

  He’d done everything wrong. Everything completely wrong.

  Lorne sat at the kitchen table in the cottage, watching Ceri put on her mac. The day, like the past two days since they’d returned from the city, spat raindrops, and the morning fog hadn’t lifted, either.

  Another gloomy, cold day.

  Rather like himself.

  “I’m off.” She didn’t glance at him before opening the door and striding away.

  The thud of the door made his heart hurt.

  He should blurt out a truth, but there were so many swirling in his brain, he couldn’t focus on just one. And even if he could, he wasn’t sure.

  Not sure of her.

  Because the last moments in Edinburgh, in the townhouse he thought she’d love, still stuck in his head like a block of stone he couldn’t dislodge.

  “What is all this?” she’d exclaimed when he’d laid the packages on the king-size bed. He’d been pleased she’d gravitated to the master, with its soft grey-and-white colors that soothed him.

  “They are all for ye. Well, and for me, also.” Excitement coursed inside him. He should probably go to the kitchen and organize their dinner. But the only thing he could think about was helping her into one of a dozen lacy confections, and then helping her get out of it, too. “Go on. Pick a package.”

  She gave him a look, and for a moment, his frustrations about not being able to read people poured through him. Was that a shy look? A happy one? Was she as excited as he was? Or had he read her all wrong?

  With a tentative flip, she opened the first present. White tissue obscured the contents for a moment before she pushed it aside.

  Ah, yes. He remembered.

  The black lace see-through gown with matching panties. His imagination sprang to life, bringing him a picture of her long, dark curls strewn over her shoulders and breasts. Breasts covered with lace.

  She stilled, her entire body tensing. Those dark curls of hers concealed her face, and yet, he knew.

  He’d done something wrong.

  “What is this?” Her voice was hoarse.

  Lorne tried to recover the situation before it was too late. “If ye don’t like that one, there are others.”

  Her hand shifted to the next package. “They’re all filled with lingerie?”

  Granted the Bravo logo and the plain grey bags and parcels didn’t scream female lingerie. They were feminine, yet elegant and refined. So perhaps her surprise was understandable. But why wouldn’t she love these pretty things? Didn’t most women enjoy pretty things? “Aye,” he ventured into the response, not knowing where the trouble lay. “I thought ye might want—”

  With an abrupt jerk, she yanked the black lace gown from the package and threw it at him.

  Stumbling back, he gaped at her in blank distress.

  Her face was so white it looked like chalk. Her eyes weren’t any color he could describe at all. Her mouth, the lush, beautiful mouth he’d kissed and touched and loved, was a tight line of rejection.

  “Ceri?” he croaked.

  “I want to leave.” She wrapped her arms around her in a hard, taut grip.

  “Leave?”

  “Right now.”

  Before he could grab his addled mind and wipe away the confusion, she stormed past him, running for the stairs.

  “Ceri?” He scrambled to keep up with her and arrived in the hallway to find her already pulling on her mac.

  “What’s going on? What’s happened?” His frustrated brain raced inside his head, trying to find answers.

  She gave him nothing except a hard, cold stare. “If you don’t want to leave, I can take a taxi back to Pictloch.”

  Braving the frost emanating from her, he stepped close, grabbing her arms in his shaking hands. “Tell me. What is it?”

  For a moment, he thought he’d cut through whatever this crisis was and reached her. His lover. His love. Her dark brows furrowed and the cold nothing leached out of her expression.

  But then she tugged herself from his embrace and stepped away. Her gaze didn’t meet his. “I told you. I don’t like cities.”

  “And ye don’t like lingerie?” His gentle question hovered between them, a quiet, breathless hush of appeal.

  “I’m going.” Dismissal crossed her face. Of him? Of them?

  Before he could react, she twisted around and made for the front door.

  He’d clutched the car keys, grabbed their luggage, and managed to locate her lonely figure striding down The Royal Mile about
ten minutes later.

  They hadn’t spoken the entire ride back, even though he’d tried to start a conversation several times.

  Standing, Lorne paced into the den and picked up his mobile. For the dozenth time, he thought about calling Doc. His friend would provide him guidance and solace. He’d have some ideas about Ceri. What he should do or say. How he should proceed.

  He set the phone down. Exactly as he had a dozen times previously. Because something in his gut told him he was on his own with this one. If he was ever going to come out of his shell for good, if he was ever going to win this woman for life, he had to find his way himself. Not using Doc, as he had so many times before.

  Restless, he strode down the hallway and into Elis’ bedroom. His computers hummed in invitation, but like the last few days, nothing in him responded.

  The realization still astonished him.

  If Ceri wasn’t happy, he couldn’t work.

  And his woman wasn’t happy.

  Sure, the tension had eased out of her as they’d driven over the rolling hills and valleys of the Highlands. She hadn’t said a word, but it seemed as if his silent company had done some good. At one point, when he’d turned the Rover onto the lane leading to the castle and the cottage, she’d even placed her hand on his leg like she had as they’d traveled to the city. Again, he’d sensed it wasn’t a sexual move. This time it had struck him as…

  He frowned at his computer screens.

  Had it been a gesture of forgiveness? He’d thought so at the time. But who had been forgiving and who had been forgiven?

  Laying on the bed, he gazed at the ceiling. Two days had gone by since they’d returned. Two days where she’d avoided his gaze, brushed off his tentative questions and yet, at night, came to him as if she’d never get enough of him.

  The sex had been frantic. Horrible and devastating and so erotic he broke out in a sweat every time he thought about it. Which was a lot.

  His mobile buzzed, echoing down the hall.

  Wrenching himself up, he padded through the cottage and peered at the screen.

  Doc.

  Perhaps he should talk to his friend. Because he had no clue what to do.

  “Hello.”

  “I think this is the first time you’ve ever uttered that word into a phone.” Hugh sounded appropriately bewildered. “What’s going on?”

  That something in his gut curled and spat at him to keep the situation with Ceri to himself. “Why are ye calling?”

  “Because you’ve done no work in two days? Because you haven’t answered any of my emails?” The slam of a door in the background told Lorne his friend was worried. Doc wasn’t the type to slam.

  “I’ve got things going on,” he offered.

  “Things like Ceri.”

  “Aye.” That was true. So true it shocked him still. Somehow this lass had become the center of his life, his universe. His work, his castle, his heritage…none of it mattered without her.

  Yet, he didn’t know if he should blurt this fact out. She might run. Look at her reaction when he’d only given her a small taste of the presents and proposals he wanted to shower on her.

  That’s what held his tongue.

  What would he do if she rejected everything he offered?

  He sucked in a deep, harsh breath.

  Doc hummed. “Love is a rocky path.”

  Immediate fury swept inside him. His friend, the guy who went through ladies like they were a change of clothes, shouldn’t talk. “How the fuck would ye know?”

  His friend hummed again. “You’re in a temper.”

  “I don’t want to talk.” Another stout truth. “What do ye want or I’m hanging up.”

  Sighing, his partner got to the point. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to pull you away from your grand castle and your beautiful lady.”

  Lorne frowned at the dead fireplace. “Why?”

  “Not for long, mind you. But I’ve got some financial guys nosing around, wanting information I can’t provide.”

  A nervous shiver went through him. Instinct told him if he left right now, when his relationship with Ceri was so precarious, he might lose the narrative. He might lose important clues he needed to understand her and win her. “This isn’t a good time. Have them email me their questions.”

  “No can do.” Doc huffed out a breath. A worried breath if Lorne had to define it. “I need your cool logic to soothe these guys. We might forfeit the financing on the new game if you don’t come.”

  That couldn’t happen. Celtae Empire was set to launch this fall, and he had no intention of letting that date slip. “Shite.”

  “Exactly. Finance guys are a pain in the arse, that’s for sure,” his friend said. “Still, it’s only for a couple of days. You’ll get to check on Elis and his progress while you’re here, too.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Good.” Doc chuckled. “He loves your flat, by the way.”

  Since he’d pulled the lad from his other internship that had provided housing, he’d figured offering his home was the least he could do.

  His home.

  The memory of the penthouse filtered back to him. The grey walls, the quiet hush when he walked across the plush carpet. The expansive view of London’s financial district, the cool colors of the furniture blending into the muted night sky.

  Looking around at the cottage’s cozy den, he noted the differences. The clutter of Ceri’s plans for her lotions scattered over the side table by the ancient sofa. The patchwork quilt lying across the old leather chair in the corner. The pile of dishes in the sink, waiting for Mrs. Huntsman.

  The penthouse wasn’t his home anymore, if it had ever been at all.

  Yet, this cottage wasn’t quite home, either.

  The only home, the only place he knew for certain he wanted to be, was in Ceri Olwen’s arms.

  But did she feel the same?

  “I’ll expect you here by nightfall,” Doc cut into his thoughts. “I’ll set the meeting up for tomorrow morning.”

  Maybe it would be best to retreat and give her some space. Maybe he could figure the way forward with some distance. Because he hadn’t seized any coherent narrative during the last few days.

  Maybe he’d take a trip to Harry Winston’s and buy Ceri something she couldn’t possibly say no to.

  Could she?

  Ceri knew she was acting out of panic. She knew she needed to confront herself and make decisions. She knew she was only delaying the inevitable.

  “I think these are the grandest gardens I’ve ever seen,” gushed one of the women in the tour. The tour consisted of a dozen horticulturists from America. “The current laird must be so proud.”

  He very well might be. The current laird might not have an instinctive connection to this land and this castle. But during the last month, Lorne Ross had steadily grown accustomed to this place he’d been born to.

  She’d realized it only in snippets at first.

  The way he’d walked into the Rose and Thistle when they’d gone to dinner with Elis. He’d strode into the pub with a sturdy step and met the villagers’ gazes straight on. He’d managed to engage with the tourists who had crowded around their table and didn’t seem fazed when Mr. Stevenson quizzed him about his new roof.

  “Are these Scottish primroses?” Another tourist hunched over the line of purple flowers.

  Ceri wrenched her focus back onto her job. “Yes. The story goes that these roses were planted by the first Lady Ross when the castle was built in 1382.”

  For a few minutes, she was able to keep her mind on the questions coming at her from a dozen directions. Inevitably, though, her thoughts rebounded to her reality.

  A reality she needed to confront.

  Lorne Ross belonged here.

  There’d been the day he and Elis had gone off to fish, her brother ruddy with excitement, her lover looking a bit more tentative. Yet they’d both been delighted when they returned with their fresh catch of salmon. Lorne had eve
n said he could see now why his da liked to fish.

  And then, more than any other time, there’d been the morning right before he’d taken her to Edinburgh. She’d risen from an empty bed, something she’d become used to, knowing running was a part of his routine. Stepping into the kitchen, ready for some tea, she’d come to a stop.

  He was standing. Right in the middle of the garden. His T-shirt was grasped in one hand and his head was thrown back, letting the flame of his hair whip in the gentle wind. The soft sunlight dappled over his naked shoulders. The tight, black shorts emphasized his compact butt and long, lean thighs. But for once, it wasn’t lust she felt.

  What she’d felt in that moment was a profound knowing.

  Lorne belonged here.

  On this land and in his castle. With the people who believed in him, and looked to him to lead Pictloch into prosperity. For all her work with the tours, it wasn’t enough. Not even her dreams and plans for a restaurant and a store were enough to make Pictloch and its people thrive. But Lorne Ross had his own plans, and those would be the key to keeping his people flourishing.

  Will had been wrong about his son.

  She’d been wrong, too.

  “Ceri.” His gently dangerous voice came from behind her.

  Swiveling around, she glanced at him in surprise. He never came near the tours, that she’d noticed. He was dressed in his London finery. Cream linen slacks paired with a fitted tan jacket. Bright-red power tie contrasting with a pinstriped shirt. Not her lover anymore. Not the man who walked down the cottage’s hallway with bare feet and never touched anything except jeans and a T-shirt.

  Her heart twisted.

  Because she realized Lorne Ross was more than this place. More than just the laird. The man she loved had made his mark far from here and that mark was as much a part of him as Castle Ross and Ben Ross and Loch Ross. “Why are you all dressed up?”

  “I’m going to London.”

  Shock and disbelief ran through her. Right behind those reactions came something more insidious.

  It could be he’s giving up.

  Perhaps he won’t return.

  You might have successfully driven him away.

  She’d been awful these last two days. Tight and tense. Snappy and short. The only time she allowed herself to wallow in her love was when they were in bed.