“What are you doing here?” she said, taking the offensive.
“What are you doing here?”
“Did you come to gloat? You probably didn’t think I had the guts, but I came to see it to the end.” With a little armtwisting from her aunt.
His struck-by-lightning look didn’t waver. “What?”
“Bid!” Charlie poked him on the arm, and Oliver held up his hand.
“Hey!” Molly said. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Aunt Kit said, “Hello.”
“Hello,” Oliver said, distracted. “Who are you?”
“This is Kit,” Charlie said reverently.
Introductions seemed to be called for. “Katherine McDougal—my great-aunt—this is Oliver Worth.” But Aunt Kit and Charlie were staring at each other again. “Have you two met before?”
“Seriously,” said Oliver, “what are you doing here?”
“Why are you trying to buy my house?”
“I’m not trying to buy your house. I’m bidding on the—” He looked down at the folded newspaper in his hand. “On the—” He looked at it again. “McDougal house.” He looked at Aunt Kit. “Oh, it’s your house.”
“Bid!” Charlie said, and Oliver held up his hand again.
“It’s not my house,” said Aunt Kit. “It’s Molly’s.”
“Who?” said Oliver.
“It’s my house,” Molly said, taking the newspaper from him. “It says right here, Molly McDougal.”
“Ha! So you’re not Krystal Smith-Jones?” His beautiful lips twisted sarcastically. “What a surprise.” He turned to his grandfather. “Why did you tell me it was Romy’s house?”
“It is Romy’s house.”
“You’re right,” Molly said, “I’m not Krystal Smith-Jones. I’m Molly McDougal.” If nothing else, it was a relief to finally be rid of that silliness.
“Also,” Charlie said helpfully, “Madame Romanescu.”
“No, she’s not.” Oliver looked as if he’d been insulted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“This man is awfully rude,” Aunt Kit noted. “And yet I do believe you’re going to be stuck with him, dear.”
“ Ah, but I am,” Molly said to Oliver in her Romy voice. “Do you remember me now, dear one? We spoke on the phone once, weeks ago. You told me to leave your grandfather alone.” She turned to Aunt Kit. “Yes, he is rude—I told you.”
Oliver had turned into a statue. “Bid,” Charlie said, nudging him again.
“Romy?” he finally managed between numb-looking lips. “You’re Romy?” He tore his gaze from her to look at Charlie. “Why did you tell me she was Krystal?”
“Who’s Krystal?” said Aunt Kit.
“Long story,” said Charlie. “Your turn to bid, Oliver. Say,” he said to Aunt Kit, “do you play golf?”
“Yes,” Molly said, “I am Romy,” still in her Gypsy voice.
“Romy.” Oliver’s face looked like Charlie’s—reverent and wondering. “It’s me,” he said. “Shorty.”
She laughed, a slightly hysterical sound. “No, you’re not. Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“Yes, ma’am, I am,” he said in that low, slow drawl she loved. “You gave me a lotta good advice when I was out there herdin’ the dogies. I gave you some, too.”
“You . . . did?”
“Yes, ma’am. I told you not to squat with your spurs on.”
“Bid,” Charlie commanded, and Oliver held up his hand.
“Shorty?” Molly’s voice quavered. She pressed clasped hands to her heart. Could it be? “Shorty?”
“Romy.”
“Sold!” said the auctioneer.
“What just happened?”
“Oliver bought your house,” said Charlie, patting her on the shoulder. “Who’s Shorty?”
“Who’s Krystal?” said Aunt Kit again.
“You bought my house?”
“I thought it was Romy’s.” Oliver took Molly’s hands. “Oh, Romy, look at you. You’re so . . . young.”
“Oh, Shorty. You’re so . . . tall.”
They moved closer, until their lips were almost touching. She ran her thumbs along his cheekbones, the line of his jaw. “Are you my landlord now?”
“I’ll sell it back to you,” he said tenderly. “Cheap. No money down.”
Aunt Kit pressed her hands to her temples. “I’m not getting any clarity on this at all.”
Oliver looked like a boy when he grinned. Molly fell in love with him when he spread his arms wide, as if to embrace them all, and said, “Let’s go get a cuppa Arbuckles’, straighten this whole thing out.”
“Don’t you have to pay them or something?” Charlie remembered.
“Whoa, Nellie.” He patted his breast pocket. “Be right back.”
“I’ll go with you,” Molly said, not ready to let go of him yet. Not when she’d just found him.
“Okay, but hang on. Something I gotta do first.”
She hoped it was what she thought it was.
It was.
Charlie glanced at Kit—what a sexy name—who was exactly his height in her flat-heeled shoes. Crazy, but watching Oliver and Molly kiss, especially like that, was making him blush.
Kit didn’t blush; she just looked interested. “When did this happen?” she asked, gesturing. “I thought they didn’t like each other.”
“Oh, I always knew they liked each other. Ha-ha—maybe I’m psychic!”
“Maybe you are.” She lifted his right hand and peered into his palm. “Oh, look. Your fate line’s like Route 66.”
“Yeah?”
“Coast to coast.”
“Not surprised. I always thought I was the sensitive type.”
“ And see this?” She ran a soft finger—he liked her French manicure—down to the base of his wrist, while his smile turned dreamy. “Here’s where you meet the second great love of your life.”
“Where?”
“Right here.” They looked up at the same time, into each other’s eyes. “And you live,” Kit said seriously, “for freaking ever.”
“What about you?”
“Same thing. My life line practically wraps around my wrist.” She showed him.
“ Amazing. Freaking fantastic.” He looked forward to talking like someone from New Jersey. “Means we’ve got a long, long time, Kit. Okay if I call you Kit?”
They strolled away, arms entwined, leaving Molly and Oliver where they were. They could catch up later—they had even longer.
THE UNFORGIVEN
RUTH RYAN LANGAN
For Tom, whose heart will always be my home.
ONE
“There it is, missus.” Duncan Logan, the burly, white-haired driver of the vintage Rolls, pointed at the stone manor house in the distance. “There’s Ravenswood.”
Brianna Kerr, who had alternated between anger and despair during her flight to Scotland, stopped fiddling with the strap of her purse and strained for her first glimpse of her late husband’s family estate. Though she’d seen pictures of it, they had been taken years ago, when it had been beautifully maintained as one of the premier properties in the Scottish Highlands. She had to swallow back her disappointment. Now, after years of neglect, the hedges along the curving ribbon of road were sadly in need of a trim, the sloping lawns and gardens were overgrown, the statuary was faded and even toppled and broken.
Like me, she thought. Like my life, my dreams. Broken.
When the car came to a halt, the old man hurried around to hold open the passenger door. “You go ahead, missus. I’ll deliver your bags to the gatekeeper’s cottage and lay in some firewood as you requested. That is, if you’re sure that’s where you really plan on staying. As I’ve warned you, ’tis in sad shape indeed. I’m sure you’d be much more comfortable in the village where there are shops and . . .”
“I’m sure. Thank you, Duncan.” Her credit card was already maxed. Besides, the last thing she wanted was laughing, chattering shoppers around her. She craved quiet. P
eace. Time alone. To brood. To heal.
Would she ever heal?
As she climbed the wide stone steps, she saw the flutter of curtains at the window moments before the front door was thrown wide.
She forced a smile on her lips. “Mrs. Logan?”
Duncan’s wife filled the doorway with her bulk. As wide as she was tall, with a simple white apron tied around her enormous middle, and her salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a severe bun, she looked more like an actor in a play than the flesh-and-blood housekeeper of an ancient Scottish manor house.
“Gwynn Logan. That I am.” The older woman looked her up and down, as though taking her measure. “And you’d be Mrs. Kerr.”
“Please call me Bree.” Brianna offered a handshake.
There was a moment’s hesitation before the older woman offered her hand. “Well, I’ll try. Though things were more formal when her ladyship was alive. I suppose”—the older woman’s tone was wistful—“with her ladyship gone, nothing’s as it was in the day.”
Nor will it ever be again.
The thought sent a sudden shaft of pain through Bree’s already shattered heart. It was a struggle for her to remain composed.
She was grateful that the housekeeper took that moment to look toward the driver just stepping back into the car.
“Now, where is Duncan going? What about your things?”
“I asked him to put them in the gatekeeper’s cottage.”
“The gatekeeper’s . . .” The older woman shot her a startled look. “As the widow of Barclay Kerr, and the only surviving heir to Ravenswood, this is now your home. The cottage is in shambles. It wouldn’t be right for you to stay anywhere but here. Despite its sad condition, ’tis heaps better than the cottage.”
Bree tried to put her at ease. “My husband once told me the cottage was a cozy place that had always charmed visitors.”
“Master Barclay may have stretched the truth a bit. Besides, you’re family, and it doesn’t seem right for you to stay there when you have all this.” When she realized that she was babbling, Mrs. Logan stepped aside. “There wasn’t time to give it a proper cleaning, but I hope once you’ve had a tour of the manor house, you’ll change your mind and perhaps spend the night here.”
Bree put a hand on the older woman’s arm. “I’m sorry about giving you so little notice of my arrival.”
“Not to worry. I think it’s grand that you’ve come at all.” She stood aside to allow Bree to enter. “Welcome to Ravenswood, Mrs. Kerr.”
“Thank you.” Bree noted the formal title and smiled to herself. She’d just been given a not-too-subtle hint that the old ways would not be easily changed. “Just a brief tour, if you don’t mind, so I can get my bearings. The flight was turbulent.” Like my life, these days. “I’ll take a more careful look after I’ve had a chance to rest.”
As Bree followed the older woman up the stairs, she forced herself to look beyond the faded floors and walls to appreciate the beautiful woodwork, the fine old plaster, the exquisite crystal chandeliers cloaked under layers of dust.
The housekeeper paused at the doorway of a huge suite of rooms. “This belonged to her ladyship.”
Despite the neglect, Bree could see what it must have looked like when the gilt bed was dressed, the chairs and settee devoid of their dust cloths, the closets filled with fashionable clothes and accessories.
Spying a family portrait, she crossed the room to study the figures of the handsome man, the beautiful woman, the boy with blue eyes and wheat-colored hair. All of them looking so happy, so carefree. Those were the innocent times. The times before . . .
“Master Barclay was the light of his mother’s eyes.” The old woman’s tone was wistful. “There was nothing she wouldn’t do for the lad. Nothing she wouldn’t give him.” She sighed. “She’d have given him the moon, had he but asked.”
Had he asked? Bree wondered. Had he, in fact, demanded? Was that when he’d begun to feel entitled to the moon and stars and to all the pleasures of the world spread out before him?
She turned away, feeling a sudden need to escape.
“ ’Twould be no trouble for me to make up these rooms for you tonight, Mrs. Kerr. This is where you belong. In her ladyship’s big, beautiful bed.”
At the housekeeper’s words, Bree gave a firm shake of her head. “No, but I do thank you, Gwynn.”
Rebuffed, Mrs. Logan turned away. “Let me show you the upper floor, then.”
Though it was an effort, Bree trailed the older woman up the stairs and peered into room after room, while the housekeeper relayed story upon story about each.
“This was where young Master Barclay used to play with his tin soldiers when the weather turned and he couldn’t ride his pony. You can see the stables from this window. Such a fine equestrian he was.”
In another room, “These had originally been used by Master Barclay’s nanny. When she was no longer needed, her ladyship had this suite painted a lovely shade of blue, Master Barclay’s favorite color, to celebrate his return from university. She wanted to give him some privacy, while keeping him close enough that she could enjoy his company. She’d hoped, of course, that he would be so content he would never want to leave.”
In a third suite the housekeeper gave an expansive sigh. “When her ladyship learned that her son had wed, she ordered this entire section of rooms outfitted for him and his bride. No expense was to be spared. New beds, new sofas and chairs, new rugs for the floors.” The older woman clapped a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. What was I thinking? You were that bride. And her ladyship had high hopes that she could entice you and her son to live here with her, as she had lived with her husband’s family, as had all the generations before her. And here I am, running on and on, and haven’t even taken the time to offer you my condolences. I’m so sorry for your loss. Such a handsome young man, with his whole life ahead of him and all that bright promise of a grand future, and now he’s gone much too soon. I know how your poor heart must be breaking. I’m sure it’s been a horrid year for you, Mrs. Kerr.”
Bree could feel a vicious headache beginning at the base of her skull and radiating up to her temples. It was a struggle to keep her composure. “Thank you for your kind words, Gwynn. And for the tour. I believe I’ve seen enough for today.”
“Of course.” The older woman preceded her down the stairs before leading the way to a formal parlor, where a fire blazed on the hearth. Above the mantel, an ancient, brooding Highlander peered down from his lofty perch.
“You must be weary from your travels, Mrs. Kerr. Sit by the fire and I’ll fetch some tea and sandwiches.”
“Thank you. That would be lovely.”
When she was alone, Bree sank down into an overstuffed chair. She’d thought she was prepared to meet people who’d known Barclay. But had they really known him? Just walking the halls of the home where Barclay had spent his childhood had a hundred questions flooding her mind. Every room, every wall, seemed to mock her.
Had he truly been happy here as a child? If so, why had he refused to return, even after their marriage? She’d all but begged to meet his mother, and to see the place where he’d spent his childhood, but Barclay had adamantly refused, saying he wasn’t ready yet. But someday, he’d promised. There was plenty of time for a visit. All the time in the world.
How young and foolish she’d been. How trusting.
“Here we are now, Mrs. Kerr.”
“Bree,” she said gently as the housekeeper set a silver tray on the table beside her and began pouring tea.
Accepting a linen napkin, she nibbled a chicken sandwich.
“Oh, this is heavenly.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Bree smiled and sipped her tea. “Will you join me, Gwynn?”
“ ’Twouldn’t be proper. I’ll take my tea later, with Duncan.”
“At least sit a moment with me.”
After a brief hesitation, the older woman settled herself in the opposite chair, though it was obv
ious that she wasn’t comfortable breaking with tradition. She perched nervously on the edge of her seat, watching her young guest with a look of speculation.
After a brief silence, she took a breath. “I must warn you, ma’am, about staying in the cottage.”
“Warn me?”
“There are . . . things that could alarm you.”
“Such as . . . ?”
“The power is apt to go on or off at strange times. Dishes fall from shelves. Doors open and close.”
When Bree held her silence, the old woman went on. “Nobody’s ever managed to stay the night at the cottage.”
“You mean I’ll be the first?”
Gwynn Logan gave a sigh. “I mean that all who’ve tried have been driven away before morning.”
“Driven away? By what?”
“Not what, ma’am. Who. He’s a . . .” The older woman glanced toward the fireplace, then away. It was obvious that she was struggling to choose her words carefully. “Those who’ve seen him swear he’s a fierce, vengeful creature bent on destroying anyone who dares to cross his threshold.”
“Are you talking about a ghost?”
The old woman swallowed. “I am. A very angry ghost, by all accounts.”
Bree took a moment to ponder this bit of news before nodding. “Very well. If such a creature exists—and I don’t for a moment believe it does—then he shall have to deal with having a houseguest, won’t he?”
“It’s not something to be dismissed lightly. You could spare yourself the trouble by staying here, Mrs. Kerr.”
Bree touched the napkin to her lips. The food and hot tea had restored, if not her energy, at least her determination.
She had come to this place for a number of reasons, the most important of which was to set her own rules and follow her own agenda, no matter what others thought.
“Thank you, Gwynn, for the lovely food, and for your concern. I believe I’ll just rest here a few minutes and then I’ll walk over to the cottage, before the light fades.”
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