Lion of Caledonia: International Billionaires VII: The Scots

by Caro LaFever

  Her look gave him nothing.

  No irritation or annoyance. No responding humor or amusement. Not a touch of anything at all.

  His smile disappeared.

  As if satisfied she’d banished his humor, the mouse turned her focus back to the computer. The movement made the blonde fluff of her short hair swish on her brow.

  Even the color of her hair wasn’t interesting. It was blonde, a kind of boring blonde. He supposed one could claim it matched her very white skin. One could also say her skin was the kind most English women prized—fair and porcelain. He hadn’t spotted a freckle or a mole on that face of hers. He supposed one could claim she had pretty skin.

  He’d say her skin was rather drab. Along with her hair and her clothes.

  So why did he keep staring at her? Why did he have an urge a time or two or three to walk over and mess her hair, something he’d done long ago to get a girl’s attention? Why the hell did he want her to really look at him?

  He grunted at himself in disgust.

  Her hands immediately vibrated on the keyboard as if they were tied to his voice and responded to his every sound.

  The thought troubled him.

  Turning away from her with abrupt determination, he focused on the billowing clouds riding the horizon. He pinned his gaze on the roiling waves of the loch he owned. He pushed every thought out of his head other than the one that mattered.

  Just like that, as it always did, the story came roaring into his head and heart, and his soul settled into what he was meant to do.

  The click of her fingers on the keys mingled with his spoken words as another hour flew by.

  A thrill of triumph ran through him. The story was his best so far. Surprisingly. He had to admit, even over his male pride, he’d been afraid six months ago. Six months ago, when duty had called and he’d had to come back to this obscene estate his wife had chosen and his mother had loved. Back to being caged by family obligations. Back to being alone.

  He’d been afraid of losing Tre. Afraid that without Tre, he wouldn’t be able to write.

  “Don’t be a dobber,” Tremaine Lamont had stated in his thick Scots accent when Cam had expressed a bit of his unease. “You’ll be fine on your own. I’m just the typist.”

  It had taken him six months to find another story and find enough courage to advertise for a transcriber. But the first three hadn’t lasted more than a week among them, and none of the words he’d spoken to them had been right, anyway.

  Not until now.

  Not until the mouse.

  Unlike Tre, she never interrupted or gave suggestions. She merely typed and then left. Yet something about her quiet, her stillness, something about her presence brought the story out of him in a way that had never happened with Tre.

  The thought struck him as disloyal, so he tucked it into the bottom of his mind.

  He still missed Tre.

  Or maybe, if he were completely truthful, he missed the life he’d had with his best friend and partner. The traveling to the Middle East or the depths of Africa. The adrenaline rush as they escaped danger. The excitement of running into another godforsaken town in a war zone and finding the next story. He with his trusty tape recorder and Tre with his ever-present camera.

  They’d been a team.

  Then, six months ago, they hadn’t been.

  “No, no,” Tre had said, his head shaking. “Not for me. Ye know that.”

  Not for him, the staying in one place, and living a normal, boring life. Not for Tre, and although he’d been stuck here for months, not for Cam, either. He’d been so sure of that fact, and so sure of his failure after months of trying, that before Jennet Douglas had appeared, he’d begun the search for a school.

  A boarding school.

  Sure, he’d struggled with the guilt, yet finally, he’d come to the conclusion nothing he was doing made a difference in the boy’s life. Why not admit it and cut all ties other than the required?

  The lure of going back to Tre, to his real life, was too hard to ignore.

  But now? Now he didn’t know.

  Because this little mouse seemed to have the ability to pull something out of him and his story he’d never experienced before. That thought made him close his mouth and glare at the ugly garden he owned and despised.

  “Are we done?” Her accent was crystal clear, utterly aristocratic, it pulled a reluctant smile out of him. His father would have loved the mouse.

  “Aye, we’re done.”

  Instead of clicking off the computer and leaving without another word, she sat, staring at him with those eyes.

  Those eyes.

  Her eyes were deep set and rounded, with a thick layer of lashes. The color wasn’t blue as he’d first pegged them. He’d been around her enough now to describe them as a dark grey, like the mists rising off his loch in the morning, right before the sun rose in the sky.

  Her eyes were the only interesting thing about her.

  Something moved in those eyes. Something that made him uncomfortable. “What?”

  She took a quick breath and after their first meeting, he knew this meant she was flustered about something. “I have a question.”

  “All right.” After he’d told his story for several hours, he generally felt drained and needed to get out of this house and walk for miles. Still, the deviation from her usual pattern made his brain come to life again with curiosity. “Go ahead. What’s your question?”

  “There’s crying. Every night,” she blurted.

  A hard fist of anxiety landed right in the middle of his solar plexus. Along with it, came the overwhelming sense of frustration that never left him. “It’s nothing.”

  The delicate line of her fair brows creased her forehead. “I’m telling you I hear it clearly. There’s no question—”

  “It’s the wind.” She didn’t need to know about the boy. Both his mother and Mrs. Rivers had repeated over and over: any stimulation was bad. Too many people interacting with him meant more germs and more worry. “Scotland has strong winds.”

  Her mouth twisted.

  There wasn’t anything interesting about her mouth either. She never wore enticing lipstick. She didn’t have alluring, lush lips that beckoned a man’s kiss. Rather, her mouth was very average. Maybe even on the thin side.

  Cam couldn’t drag his gaze away from her twisted mouth. He also couldn’t drag his guilt out from the center of his gut.

  “England has wind too,” she said. “That’s not the wind I’m hearing.”

  He forced himself to lean on the wall by the bookshelf with lazy nonchalance. Throwing a mocking smile on, he plucked another story out of his head. “Well, then, ye might have heard Fairfeld’s legendary ghost walking about, doing his usual thing.”

  Those delicate brows rose. “What?”

  “You’ve not heard of our ghost?” He tut-tutted as confidence in his storytelling submerged his guilt. “I’ve been remiss.”

  “There’s no ghost.” But something in her expression told him he’d caught her attention.

  “They say he’s the youngest son of the last laird who lived here.” Cam nudged himself out of his loitering pose and paced to the desk, warming to the imaginary story. “It’s said he cries for his lost love, the bonnie Sarah.”

  “You’re lying.” Her average mouth firmed.

  He lied all the time. He’d lied from early childhood on. Lying about where he and his lads had been overnight. Lying about getting his university degree, when all along he’d been shadowing Old Ben McGee, the best war correspondent in the past twenty years. Lying to Martine about having to go back to the war zone.

  Lying, lying, lying.

  It had made him his fortune, though, so who was he to question the skill?

  Cam leaned over the desk and stared into her misty eyes. “Who’s to say if the ghost exists or not?”

  “I am.” She eased farther into her chair. “There’s no such thing as a ghost.”

  He sighed, a disappointed sou
nd. “Ye are a Sassenach, and it’s well known they have no imagination.”

  A wry curve flicked her mouth at the common slur.

  And that one tiny movement made his heart pump like a madman in his chest. He’d spent his life tracking the wild movements of tribes and terrorists and traitors. He’d reveled in the massive movements of rebellion and war. Only the most outrageous and outlandish made his heart beat with excitement and life.

  Just one tiny movement from a mouse…

  He yanked himself back and paced away.

  “I still say it’s not your ghost,” she tossed the words at him as he made his escape. “It’s a human being.”

  Yes, yes it was.

  His son.

  Jen frowned down at her gloved hands and sighed.

  The sigh, unlikely as it seemed, being as she sat in the middle of a garden, was not happy.

  Two weeks.

  Two bloody weeks of sneaking around the giant mansion lying behind her, searching a hundred bookcases and armoires, opening a thousand drawers, peering into a million cubbyholes.

  Finding nothing.

  She stabbed the moist earth with the old trowel she’d picked up in the shed. Though really, she couldn’t say she’d found nothing. She’d found a ton of odd, eccentric things.

  In one portion of a cabinet, she’d found an extensive hoard of marbles. In an armoire, she’d found dozens of round glass jars filled with dried leaves and grasses. Yesterday morning, she’d stumbled onto a vast collection of shells all placed methodically in boxes by size and shape.

  She couldn’t imagine her employer as a man who’d save shells.

  Mrs. Rivers?

  Jen snorted.

  Mrs. Rivers, the nonexistent housekeeper. The only clue she still existed was the fridge filled with new food every other day. Even if Mrs. Rivers did do more than stock food, she surely wouldn’t be saving twigs and grass and shells.

  So who?

  The memory of the crying ran through her mind. The crying hadn’t sounded female; she’d crossed off Mrs. Rivers as a likely suspect. The crying didn’t resemble her employer’s voice at all. Adding in the way he’d responded a week ago when she’d questioned him, the sound didn’t come from him.

  He’d puckered his mouth and then put on a show. Quite a lively storytelling show, yet not one she believed. Add in the fact that since that moment the crying had stopped, and it pointed to someone besides Cameron Steward.

  Perhaps he’d found his silly, make-believe ghost and yelled at it to shoosh, in that rich, redolent accent of his.

  With a rough sound of disgusted disbelief, Jen pushed herself straight and inspected the one accomplishment she’d achieved in the last few days. It was still early in April, and Scotland’s winter lingered in the mist of the loch and the coldness of the mornings, yet the flower beds lying before her were coming to life.

  Someone had loved this garden at one point in time.

  But that time had been many seasons ago.

  She’d first noticed the little white heads of the snowdrops trying to push themselves into the sun past the dreck and weeds. Then a few days later, on her daily walk, she’d seen the tulips and daffodils struggling for life. By the time the lilies and crocuses were begging for attention, she’d lost the fight to stay aloof.

  This garden needed her.

  Not as much as her grandfather did, however.

  At the guilty thought, she snuck her hand in the wool coat she always borrowed and pulled out her mobile phone. The damning voicemail sat, crouching on her screen.

  Cousin Edward. At his most commanding.

  Where was she? Had she found the ring yet? When was she coming home?

  Sighing, she stuck the phone back in her pocket. Her grandfather had been released from the hospital, her cousin had boomed down the line, but time was still of the essence.

  Her grandfather was old. Very old.

  Her grandfather was sick. Very sick.

  He needed that ring.

  A ring that had been in the Fellowes family for generations. Until her grandfather foolishly gave it away in a fit of love he’d regretted for the rest of his life.

  “She left quite suddenly,” he’d said, in an unusually quiet voice as she’d sat by his hospital bedside. “I never saw her or the ring again.”

  Jen had a hard time imagining her forceful, decisive grandfather doing anything foolish, much less for love’s sake. Yet the sheen of tears in the old man’s eyes had tugged any questioning about the love story and her mission right out of her control.

  She needed to give this to her grandfather. A man who’d given her back a place to belong. Not a home exactly, but at least, a place.

  “I thought I’d never see it again,” he’d continued, his gnarled hand moving across the cotton bed sheet in a restless motion.

  Except he had.

  Cameron Steward’s next bestseller had made the front page of her grandfather’s favorite newspaper’s book review.

  The Blood Ring screamed the title.

  “That’s my ring,” her grandfather had barked at all her cousins.

  And then, all the cousins had called Jennet.

  Her hand tightened on the trowel. She shouldn’t be indulging herself out here in the garden. Even though she’d searched the entire first floor and found nothing, that was no excuse. No excuse for procrastinating on what she had to do. Which was to start creeping around on the second floor. The family quarters.

  She had to.

  She had to find the damn ring so she could leave. She needed to leave. Not only because her grandfather could die at any time, but because she’d become seriously addicted to Cameron Steward in a startlingly short period of time.

  The realization thumped in her stomach once more.

  The first time it had hit her had been one day last week when he’d turned and winked at her. The wink had been in response to her quiet sigh as he’d wrapped up an incredible chapter in the exact perfect way.

  The wink had made her heart flip and flutter.

  The thump in her stomach had come right after.

  The second time she’d realized she was sliding into addiction had been when he’d leaned over her shoulder to read the words he’d just dictated. Again, she’d felt his heat and inhaled his scent. This time, though, she hadn’t wanted to escape him. This time, she wanted to lean into him and take him in.

  Take him in.

  Jerking around, she stomped toward the rickety garden shed.

  She couldn’t claim to be an expert on sex or sexual desire. Still, she wasn’t a complete idiot, either. She knew what this was running through her blood. Her boyfriend at university had claimed she was a bit of a cold fish. She’d known better.

  She burned underneath.

  Most of her life she’d burned.

  Yet no one knew and no one ever would. She’d fashioned a good, solid life with the quiet persona she preferred and she wasn’t going to give that up. Not for Cameron Steward, especially.

  The man she had to steal from.

  Yanking the shed door open, she stepped inside to the scent of rust and mold. This had once been filled with the best tools a person could buy. However, most of them had long ago fallen victim to the damp Scottish weather. All of the junk made her sad for the waste. Someone had loved, but now what was left was in ruin.

  Placing the trowel on a slanted wooden shelf, she ripped off the old gloves and made a promise to herself and to her grandfather. No more indulging in her favorite pastime. No more wasting time mourning the death of a garden that wasn’t hers to worry about. No more procrastination.

  Find the ring. Leave.

  A flash of movement outside seized her attention. She swung back to see…nothing.

  The ghost?

  Her mouth firmed. There was no such thing as ghosts. She sucked in a breath and marched out of the shed.

  Not a living thing anywhere, except for one robin perched on the old stone wall, staring at her suspiciously. Jen craned her
neck one way, then the other. Nothing. She stomped around the shed, determined to find this nonexistent person. For two weeks, she’d felt as if she were being watched, and she’d had enough.

  The hawthorn hedge’s leaves trembled, like someone was climbing through the thick growth.

  Doubting her sanity, she walked over and kneeled down. A snug, tight tunnel wove through the overgrown hedge. A quick glint of murky sunlight gleamed off a shoe buckle before it disappeared.

  She knew this was stupid, even as she planted her hands on the wet, cold soil and began to crawl. The best thing to do was go back to the house and start exploring the second floor, not crawl into a bunch of hedges. But something stubborn inside pushed her forward. Whoever this person was, they’d been spying on her and it was time it stopped.

  The tunnel wove through the hedge and she became more and more impressed. Whoever had planned this, had spent quite a bit of time making this escape route.

  She stuck her head out of the hedge on the other side, ready to congratulate as well as interrogate.

  No one. She must have chosen the wrong passage at some point.

  “Sod it,” she grumbled to herself.

  Getting to her feet, she brushed off the worst of the twigs and leaves. She looked up to see the spread of the wild moor before her. Not a movement of any living thing caught her attention.

  Whoever was spying on her was smart.

  “Sod you,” she muttered to the empty landscape.

  There was no way she was going to crawl back through the wet hedge. She’d just have to find an alternative route to the house. To do that, the best thing she could do was climb to the top of the moor and see what her alternatives were.

  The air was crisp and cool, bringing with it a hint of smoky peat and musky heather. The sun glanced off the parade of customary clouds rolling through the sky. Once again, she was glad she’d packed her sturdy walking shoes. The moor was filled with stone outcrops mixed with little rivulets of water running down toward the loch.

  The wind wrapped around her, and she stuck her hands in the coat’s pockets as she drew abreast of the top.

  “Looking for ghosts, Ms. Douglas?”

  At the sound of the familiar voice, Jen spun around.

  Cameron Steward stood on the other side of the moor in a small indent, which was why she hadn’t seen him until it was too late.