Lion of Caledonia: International Billionaires VII: The Scots

by Caro LaFever

  “Um.” Another one? Had Mr. Steward run through a whole slew of transcribers before her? Not that she cared; she wasn’t here to keep a job. Yet, the way the woman looked her over gave her the willies. A cold draft of air drifted along the intricately-designed parquet floor, sending a shiver up her legs. She tried to distract herself by glancing down the hallway the woman led her into.

  The chill in her gut intensified.

  The great hall of this massive mansion should have been glorious. The arched ceiling soared above their heads, held up by elegant marble columns. From where she stood, Jen counted four magnificent stone fireplaces. Panels of oak lined the walls, interspersed with ancient suits of armor and old medieval shields and huge threatening pikes. Dotting the hall were a series of velveteen sofas and elaborately carved chairs and tables. An immense Steinway grand piano stood in solitary splendor at the end of the hall.

  The lot of it gave the impression that it all might crumble into dust if a crisp Scottish wind ran through the room.

  “You’ll be wanting to gather your luggage.” Mrs. Rivers stuck her hands in her pockets, making it clear she wouldn’t be helping.

  Jen obediently glanced around and spotted her one small suitcase nudged into a corner by the double front doors. Her grandfather had been so sure she’d get this job, she’d decided to pack and bring everything she needed for the few days she’d be here. Why go to the hassle and expense to take the train all the way back to London?

  “Go on.” The older woman gave her an imperious look. “I’ve got things to do.”

  Shuffling to her luggage, she gave herself a wry grimace. She’d been so focused on the coming interview when she’d arrived, she’d barely taken in anything. Ushered into the library so quickly, she hadn’t had time to take in details of the house or this woman. The only thing she’d had time to do was hand over her case and step into Mr. Steward’s lair.

  Now, the reality seeped in. This place was strange and so was the housekeeper.

  “Well, come then.” The woman marched off down the long line of dusty Persian rugs. Jen snatched up her luggage and scrambled to keep pace.

  “I’m the housekeeper here.” The silver head bobbed in front of her as the words wafted back. “I’ve put you on the third floor so you’ll be away from the noise.”

  The noise?

  Like the roar of her new employer?

  Clutching her coat and purse, she dragged her case behind. The rollers kept getting stuck on the tassels of the rugs and she wondered if tugging some fringe off one of these antiques might lead to her immediate dismissal.

  But no. Clearly, Mrs. Rivers was not much of a housekeeper. The likelihood of her noticing a missing heirloom, much less a missing tuft, was small.

  Good. Fulfilling her grandfather’s wish appeared to be getting easier and easier.

  A thick ridge of dust lay on the maple wood of the piano. Each of the statues and suits of armor she passed looked like they needed a good wash. From afar, the velveteen sofas appeared impressive. Up close, she decided if she sat on any of them, she’d be consumed in a cloud of dirt.

  “This is the drawing room.” Mrs. Rivers swung two massive oak doors open to another huge room.

  Drawing room? Who in this day and age had a drawing room?

  At the woman’s impatient wave, she dutifully stuck her head in. The walls were covered in a deep-green tapestry, sporting colorful birds and a weave of plants. Floor-length satin curtains draped to the floor, muting the light falling on a mishmash of antique tables and bookcases—all as dusty as their counterparts in the great hall. Above a black marble fireplace hung a huge painting of a man, dressed in 19th-century clothes, surrounded by a bevy of dogs.

  Wanting to be cordial and realizing she hadn’t said a word since she’d left the library, Jen plastered on an inquiring smile. “Who’s the man in the painting?”

  “How would I know?” The housekeeper gave her another dull look before she turned from the room and went down another hallway.

  “Oookay,” she muttered under her breath as she continued to follow behind.They passed through a dining room sporting an enormous, grimy glass chandelier, into another hall featuring a grand limestone staircase covered with a worn, ruby-red runner.

  “You’ll want to stay away from the second floor.” Mrs. Rivers waved a wrinkled hand to the stairs winding to the left. “That’s for family.”

  Family? She frowned. Her research spoke of a dead wife in her new employer’s past, but that had been years ago.

  “You’ll want to stick to the right.” Another wave of the wrinkled hand. “Those stairs lead to the third floor.”

  She glanced at the woman. A pursed mouth, blank eyes, and hands folded firmly in front of her told Jen the tour was over. “I’ll just go up then.”

  “Yours is the first door on the right.” Mrs. Rivers turned and walked off down the dusty hall and into the bowels of the house.

  “I couldn’t feel more welcome,” she said to the empty room before yanking her suitcase up one step after another. By the time she reached the third floor, the luggage felt like a load of lead. She hadn’t counted, but she’d bet there’d been more than a hundred steps.

  “Why did you pack so much, silly fool?”

  Her words echoed down the long, long hallway. At the end of the corridor, a round window spilled the last of the misty mid-March sun onto another dusty rug. A half-dozen doors ran along each side of the rug, cutting neat oak planks into the yellowed wallpaper.

  Why would a man own such a magnificent home and not take care of the place? From what she’d read about Cameron Steward’s life in the past eight years, he’d made himself filthy rich selling his line of thrillers. Why hadn’t he spent any money on upkeep?

  Jen shook off her thoughts and walked to the first door on the right. Pushing it open, she stepped into a surprisingly clean suite. On the left stood a door to a compact bathroom. Straight across was a cozy little nook starring a fat armchair in front of roaring fire. A mini-kitchen ran along the wall beyond the fireplace, and to the right was a cozy-looking bed with a bright-blue comforter and a jumble of pristine white pillows.

  “Not bad.” She could stand to live here for a few days.

  The roaring fire and made-up bed told her the job had been hers before she’d even entered the mansion. There hadn’t been a string of other applicants waiting in the wings that she’d detected. Her concern had been for nothing.

  “See? As usual, you got yourself into a stew for no reason at all.”

  Her fragile confidence bloomed once more.

  Within a couple of minutes, she’d unpacked an assortment of jumpers and pants into the old-fashioned armoire. The kitchen fridge yielded a frozen casserole filled with shredded chicken, potatoes, and mushrooms. The microwave buzzed and she settled into the armchair to eat her dinner.

  The flames of the fire crackled into a slow simmer and her eyelids grew heavy. It had been a long week. First, the summons from her cousin Edward. Away from her position at the nursery. Away from the small cottage she’d decorated to suit her own inclinations. Away from the serene life she’d created.

  Then the meeting with her deathly-ill grandfather in his hospital room. Her acceptance of the task before her. The planning, the packing, the trip to Scotland using the train instead of her trusty Volkswagen hatchback to avoid any detection after she’d left this place.

  She needed to get a good night’s sleep.

  After a quick wash and slipping on her favorite old flannel nightgown, she slid into the cool sheets and sighed with relief.

  She’d done it. She’d gotten the job.

  The rest should be easy. Transcribing would be no problem. She’d merely put on her headphones and type away. Once she got her daily allotment of work completed, she’d have all the time in the world to find the ring.

  Within a few days, her grandfather would be satisfied.

  Within a few days, she’d be back in her pleasant life.

  Withi
n a few days, this would seem like a bad dream.

  Her eyes fluttered shut, the whistling wind and the crackle of the remaining fire the last things she remembered…

  A low cry leached into her dreams, making her twist in her bed.

  The cry came again, louder and more piercing. She flopped on her other side, pulling the pillow closer.

  Another cry, this one too high-pitched and shrill to ignore.

  Her eyes popped open.

  The cry came once more, filled with a fierce mix of anger and fear.

  She lurched up. The fire had died down to ash, and the small window by the bathroom scattered the muted moonlight on the hand-knotted rug covering the floor of the suite.

  Another cry.

  Her heart pounded in response. Part anxiety and part compassion. A hurt flowed through her for this poor person. Who was in such misery they’d cry like that? Where were they?

  She scooted to the edge of the bed and stepped on the cold wooden floor. Shivering, she tiptoed to the door. She rattled the old knob. Opening a small crack, she peeked out.

  The hallway held no ghostly apparitions or haunting phantoms. Silent and shadowed, it gave nothing away.

  Jen waited, waited, waited.

  Only the harsh whip of the wind outside made any noise.

  Only the faint light of the moon streaked over one side of the hall.

  After several minutes, she pulled herself back into her cozy den and closed the door. The old clock standing on the mantle chimed a low clang only once.

  So much for a good night’s sleep. She was wide awake.

  With a snort, she walked to the window and peered out.

  The full moon fought with the misty clouds, managing to light the extensive grounds with only a hazy gloom. The gardens rolled down to the loch where the moonlight flickered over the roiling water. A wicked March wind thrashed the bare tree limbs to and fro.

  Jen took in a deep breath.

  He stood at the edge of the water, his broad back already familiar to her. His hands fisted at his side as if he argued with the wild waves. The way he held himself, tight and taut, made her heart hurt.

  For the second time tonight.

  Chapter 2

  Jen wasn’t an early bird, unless it meant being out in the morning sun in one of her gardens. Transcription didn’t elicit the same sort of excitement.

  Yawning, she stumbled to a halt in front of the closed library doors.

  She’d finally fallen asleep again around three a.m., to the best of her recollections. When her trusty mobile phone beeped an alarm an hour ago, she’d barely been able to drag herself from the cozy bed and into the shower. Even a long, hot blast of water and two cups of tea hadn’t managed to pry her eyes open much past halfway.

  No big deal.

  Once she got her assignment, she’d nod her agreement to any of his instructions, and take the work back to her room. She typed fast; she could afford a small nap before digging into the work.

  She stared at the intricate carving on the double door. Sheaves of wheat swirled around finches and grouse. In the middle of the door, the face of a leering court jester poked out in high relief.

  The sneer on his face made her shudder.

  This whole place, including the residents, made her shudder.

  Find the ring, Jennet, find the ring.

  A good thing to remember. As soon as she found the bloody ring, she’d return to her peaceful, predictable place, never having to confront roaring employers, daft housekeepers or leering doors again.

  A low grumbling answered her hesitant knock. She took that to mean she should go in.

  “You’re late.”

  He stood in the murky light of one of two window bays. He still wore all black, though she thought the jumper was a different one than he’d worn yesterday. His hair still lay messily on his head, as if he’d spent the night running his hands through it. And he still had those predator eyes pinned on her.

  Did the man sleep? She didn’t detect any hazy drowsiness in those eyes, even though he’d been up as late as she had. At least as late. No, instead, they were sharp and alert.

  “Nothing to say?” His voice went from a deep grumble to a muted roar.

  She’d grown up with this kind of man. Best to draw some lines of defense early on. “I’m here to gather the work.”

  The tawny brows rose. Then, he paced to his huge desk and slapped the nearest mound of papers. “Gather the work?” he said. “The work is going to be done here.”

  He meant her to slave away in this cold, intimidating library, not in her snug, little suite. Inwardly, she groaned. Not only because the nap appeared to be receding into the distance, but she sensed this man intended to pace around her as she worked.

  You can do this for a few days.

  “All right.” She forced herself into the room, padding to the desk and looking down at the work. “I’ll go get my laptop and headset and start right in.”

  “Headset?” His brows rose further.

  “Did you handwrite all of it, or is there some audio to go through?” The mound of papers told her he’d done most of it longhand and the sheer breadth of the project made her suck in a breath.

  “There seems to be some confusion.” His hand, a broad male paw, slapped the papers again. “I haven’t started.”

  “What?” Lifting her head, she stared at him from across the desk. She was grateful for the expanse of it, because she was finally close enough to see his eyes clearly. A bolt of stunned awareness went through her, causing her knees to wobble and making her glad there was something to hold on to right in front of her.

  Her hand grabbed the edge of the desk.

  The center of his eye went from the black of his pupil into a dusky brown that matched his brows. What startled her was how the color turned into a rich gold at the edges, reminding her of her grandfather’s prized collection of antique English coins.

  Coins she’d treasured throughout her childhood.

  “I said I haven’t started telling the story yet.” The brown and gold snapped with impatience. “I’ve been ready to start dictating for the last half hour.”

  “But…but…” She stepped back from her predicament. “I’m a transcriber.”

  “Transcribers take dictation too, don’t they?” The impatience in his gaze also flowed from his voice.

  “I don’t.” The words blurted from her mouth before she thought them through and remembered her goal.

  A rumble of disgust came from deep in his throat. “Ye signed the contract yesterday. I don’t have time to find another person for this job.”

  “But—”

  “It’s pretty simple.” He yanked on the tall leather chair. “You’ll type into my computer.”

  Jen ignored his imperious wave, a demand she come around the desk to comply. “I type into my laptop.”

  “I’m not letting my story get into someone else’s computer.”

  He talked about his story as if it were a real person or thing. Her previous transcribing had been mostly medical reports and a smattering of college lectures. None of the voices coming from the audio tapes had ever held the intensity this man’s voice did for his work.

  “Well?” His ferocious frown turned into an annoyed lift of one tawny brow at her continued silence. “Ye reckon we can get started now?”

  The ring, Jennet, the ring.

  Her grandfather’s whispered voice in her memory made the choice for her. The only choice she could make.

  She found herself obediently circling the massive desk and coming within touching distance of her troublesome employer. Thankfully, he stepped back from the chair so she could sit down and tap on the computer’s keys.

  The man grunted in apparent appeasement and strode to the wall of African masks.

  Instead of staring at him, she stared at the computer.

  It was old. Plus, the word processing software he had loaded on the thing appeared to be a version she’d used in her university studi
es more than four years ago.

  Taking a breath in, she let it out slowly.

  She honestly didn’t know if she’d be able to do this. She wouldn’t be able to stop the tape and go through the words to make sure they were correct. She wouldn’t be able to go back through a particular section if she got confused. Keeping up with a dictating dictator, who already exhibited an impatient anger, might make her freeze in dismay or even worse, bring on one of her attacks.

  “Are ye ready to begin?”

  She had no choice.

  “Yes.” Her voice quivered at the end before trailing off. The difference between his rich, rumbling growl and her timid, tiny answer made her flinch inside.

  Where had her hard-won confidence gone?

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him swing his body around in another one of his fluid, animalistic turns. Before she could suck in a breath, he began to pace back and forth from one window bay to another.

  Her hands stilled on the keyboard, ready for…

  A heavy silence fell in the huge room, broken only by the thrashing of the wind outside and the crackle of a low flame in the fireplace.

  The silence continued.

  Jen kept her focus on her breathing.

  “They call me the Dragon of Waverly and I take the title seriously.”

  Jumping in her seat, her fingers fluttered on the keys.

  “I would advise anyone to take the title seriously as well. I didn’t burn a thousand dreams and char a thousand hearts without knowing and relishing what that meant for my future reputation.”

  All she could take in was the way the words rolled off his tongue in a vivid, fierce stream of emotion.

  Silence fell again, and she found herself gazing in dumb fascination at her employer.

  His predator eyes gleamed with frustration. “Did ye get that?”

  What she got was this man was lethal in so many ways she couldn’t count. Lethal in his keen intelligence. Lethal in his physicality. And now, lethal in his talent.

  “Ye didn’t.” Striding to the front of the desk, he leaned over to stare at her empty screen, his hand wrenching though his hair as if ready to pull the mess out. “Did ye?”