Lion of Caledonia: International Billionaires VII: The Scots

by Caro LaFever

  “Why didn’t you marry the bloke you dated at university?” James had rebuked.

  “Why would you want to be a gardener?” her grandfather had barked.

  Picking up the timeworn shovel, Jen hiked to the shed. She’d take a quick break and have a bite, then tackle the hedges.

  A flash of swirled blue caught her eye. Swinging around, she saw nothing.

  Again.

  “Sod you, whoever you are,” she muttered under her breath.

  All through these last few days, the feeling of being watched had never left her. Yes, there’d been Mrs. Rivers, yet there’d been someone else, too. She was almost sure of it. The surveillance wasn’t only indoors. It was also outside.

  And it wasn’t any damn ghost.

  Wrenching the shed door open, she stomped inside and plunked the shovel down against the wall. She ripped the garden gloves off and slapped them on the wooden shelf hanging drunkenly along another wall. Her irritation roiled.

  Who could it be?

  If she had an internet connection here, she could do more research on Cameron Steward. Did he have another wife? Was there an old, cranky parent doddering about on the second floor?

  Mr. Steward. You’re needed.

  The crying had stopped.

  Who was it?

  Much to her disgust, there’d been no internet on her laptop. You’d think a man as rich as her temporary employer would find a way to get some bandwidth. Wouldn’t a writer need to do research? But, no. No connection meant no way of probing who actually lived in the family quarters, beyond her employer.

  Marching out of the shed, she slammed the door closed and turned toward the house.

  “Hi.” A young boy stood right in the middle of the path through the garden. “Why are ye angry?”

  She jerked to a stop.

  He wore a blue cape with some kind of gold lacing on the edges. It dropped well past his knees. On his head was a strange sort of a hat—a tartan tam had been pulled and molded into a sharp point like an old-fashioned tricorn. A burst of crimson plumes sprang from the top.

  “Are ye angry at me?” Two familiar-looking eyes narrowed behind round rimless glasses. “Ye shouldn’t be. I’ve decided I like ye.”

  “You’re the one who’s been spying on me.” She stuck her hands in her pockets, relieved she’d found the culprit, yet still irritated. “That’s not polite.”

  “I wasn’t spying.” The kid swept one edge of his cape over his shoulder, as if he were some medieval courtier. “I was investigating.”

  She couldn’t help the amusement swelling inside. “I suppose it depends on your position in the situation.”

  “What?” His tawny brows frowned, bringing another zing of familiarity to her. “What do ye mean?”

  “I mean, if you are the one being watched, you might say it’s spying.”

  “Hmm.” He tilted his head in contemplation and curiosity.

  The same signature noise her employer made and the same angle of the head. She knew. With a certainty. This was Cameron Steward’s kin. “What’s your name?”

  “Robbie.” The information was cheerfully given, with a sudden, bright smile. “And you’re Jen.”

  “Ms. Douglas to you.” Sparring with a kid shouldn’t be this fun, but he was smart.

  “Naw.” The boy laughed as he danced down the pathway. “I don’t have to call ye that. Only my da does.”

  Cameron Steward had a son. A smart, charming son.

  Rather like his father.

  She followed him down the path and into the house. “How old are you?”

  “I’m seven,” he said, as he marched past the line of coats and into the wide hall beyond. “And I’m a pirate.”

  “Are you?” Jen hung her wool coat on a peg before following the boy, a grin on her face.

  “Yes.” Robbie stopped in the center of the hall and glanced back at her. “Do ye want to play pirates with me?”

  “I was going to go up and have a bite to eat.”

  Dejection flitted through his eyes.

  “Would you like to come with?”

  Her invitation wiped the loneliness from his expression to be replaced with eager delight. “I’m hungry, too.”

  “Good.” She turned toward the staircase. For the first time after arriving in this monstrous house, she felt like she’d found a friend. “Come with me.”

  By the time she had Robbie settled in the one cozy armchair with a plate of crisps and a ham and pickle sandwich, Jen had learned more about this house and her employer than in the past several weeks combined. Also quite a bit about the absent housekeeper.

  “She falls asleep all the time.” He crunched a crisp. “She’s supposed to be taking care of me, but she never does.”

  Jen made a noncommittal noise as she took a seat on the upright chair lying across the small end table from him. Mrs. Rivers might not be following this boy, because she’d been given the task of following the transcriber instead.

  “Not that I need to be taken care of.” Another crisp disappeared into the chattering mouth. “I’ve been taking care of myself forever.”

  The nonchalant claim made her blood rise. “Do you go to school?”

  “I don’t need school.” The kid snorted. “I can learn anything I want to on my own.”

  “You should be in school, though.” She bit into her sandwich before she said anything more intrusive. This wasn’t her child and it wasn’t her right to state the obvious.

  “My da keeps hiring tutors because I’m too sick to go to regular school.”

  She swallowed her food as she looked the child over. He didn’t appear sick. His skin glowed with health. Those familiar odd eyes were clear. And while he was on the thin side, he didn’t look emaciated. “You’re sick?”

  “I used to be.” Robbie picked his sandwich up and stared at the pickles with suspicion. “When I was little.”

  “What were you sick with?”

  “Asthma. But I don’t have it anymore.” He took a hesitant bite of the sandwich and chewed.

  “Are you sure?” She took another bite of her own sandwich, while keeping her gaze on the confident child. He sat in a familiar negligent lounge, with his cape still wrapped around his body and his funny hat listing to one side of his head.

  “Yes. I never cough anymore and I haven’t had to use my inhaler for a long time.” He set the sandwich on his plate and took off the top slice of bread. Carefully, he separated the pickles from the ham.

  “I’m sorry.” She’d never had much interaction with children as an adult. All her cousins had kids, yet they were mainly kept with nannies, and since she rarely ventured to any family gatherings anymore, she hadn’t seen them in several years. “You don’t like pickles. I should have asked.”

  “It’s okay.” He placed the slice of bread back on the sandwich with a precise pat. “I tried it. It’s important to try everything.”

  The phrase was said as if quoting another. She’d make a solid bet on who he was quoting. It sounded exactly like something Cameron Steward would say. “Where is your tutor?”

  A big grin lit his face. “I chased the last one away by clanking some chains outside his bedroom door.”

  “What?” She leaned in, entranced in spite of herself.

  “Right after midnight.” He giggled. “I heard my da tell him about some old ghost who wandered the halls with his dungeon chains still on him, so I thought that would do the trick.”

  Another ghost story. The combination of this boy and his father was a scary one. Literally. “You shouldn’t—”

  “He left the next morning.” Robbie crunched on his last crisp, a look of satisfaction crossing his face. “He was stupid anyway.”

  “But you need to be taught.”

  “I learn everything I need to know by studying by myself.” He considered her, his eyes keen. “I collect all sorts of things and I read.”

  Jen thought about the huge library she sat in every day, and the collections. “Th
e marbles and the shells. They’re yours.”

  “You found them?” A flare of excitement lit his eyes. The exact same light had lit his father’s eyes a few days ago. “I can show ye all of them again and tell ye about them.”

  The library and this child’s enthusiasm would go a long way in teaching him many things. Still, this vibrant boy needed far more stimulation than living in this dusty, old house with an aging housekeeper and his restless father.

  “Perhaps later.” She sat her cup of tea down and eased back in her chair. “Is your father looking for another tutor?”

  “No.” He gave her another grin, this one filled with victory. “I’m thinking he’s finally given up.”

  “Robbie.” She sighed. “You’ll need to get another tutor at some point. Or go to the local school. You could make friends there.”

  “I have friends.” The kid munched on the last of his sandwich.

  “Who?” She had taken several long walks when the garden work had made her muscles ache with the need to stretch. Walking for hours one way around the loch and then hours the other way, she hadn’t come upon one house on either side. “Where do they live?”

  “They live right here.” Pushing his plate away, he sucked down the rest of his milk.

  She frowned in confusion. Were there more family members lurking on the second floor? “Where?”

  “Outside.” His expression filled with mischief. A teasing mischief.

  The boy had so much of his father in him, she couldn’t help but fall. Which made the slide into falling for his father all the worse. “Robbie—”

  “I have a robin friend, and also a hawk who lets me feed him sometimes.” He settled further into his chair, his hands clasped comfortably in front of him, those keen eyes growing sleepy. “And I have tons of rabbit friends and there are mice too.”

  This child should be a part of a band of fellow boys. He should be running around teasing girls and driving his teacher to distraction. The injustice of his isolation made the burn inside her bubble. “You should have other children as friends.”

  Robbie shrugged, yet she caught the wisp of yearning in the movement. “I’m too sick.”

  “You just told me you aren’t sick.”

  “Yes, but Da thinks I am, and I can’t talk him out of it.”

  “Have you tried?” She set her empty plate on the table lying between them.

  “A few times,” he mumbled, glancing away at the simmering fire. “He doesn’t like being with me much.”

  His wistful, sad tone enflamed the burn of her temper. Jen didn’t think of herself as having a temper. She supposed she did, somewhere buried deep inside, but she hadn’t used it in so long, she didn’t know what to do with it.

  Until now.

  Someone needed to talk to Cameron Steward. Someone who was in a hot temper.

  The kid peered at her before shooting a jaunty, reassuring grin her way. “Don’t worry. I’m okay with it. He’s busy.”

  “Not too busy for his son.”

  “It’s not like I want to be with him anyway.” The grin fell off his face. “I don’t need him.”

  The claim was said with bravado, yet she saw underneath. As a child, she’d learned to see underneath everyone’s words so she could prepare herself. This time what she saw underneath this child’s words prepared her for battle. “Perhaps he needs you.”

  He chuckled with clear disbelief. “My da doesn’t need anyone. He says a real man stands on his own.”

  What poppycock. Yet, her grandfather and her male cousins would likely agree.

  Jen grimaced.

  “Ye don’t believe that?” Cocking his head, interest lit in Robbie’s eyes.

  “No, I don’t.” She gazed straight at him, broaching a subject she’d thought about and wanted to nail down. “I think men need others and I think men even cry.”

  A wash of heated red filled his cheeks reminding her again of his father when she’d rejected anymore of his kisses. And just like his father, he struck back. “That’s not true. My da told me.”

  “He told you what?”

  “Men don’t cry.”

  “When did he tell you that, Robbie?” She held her breath.

  His hands slipped off his stomach and dug into his coat, hiding them from her gaze. “A while ago.”

  She’d bet a fortune it was only a few days ago. The fact her questions had caused this boy to be chastised for something every kid did at one time or another, made her angry at herself. As well as his father. “Sometimes I cry when I’m lonely.”

  His eyes latched onto hers, though he didn’t confess anything.

  Jen stepped farther out, wanting to make sure he understood. “At night, when I wake up and I feel lonely, sometimes I want to be with someone else.”

  “Do ye?” A wary look flickered across his face.

  “That’s when I go and find someone who’ll make me a pot of tea and talk to me until I’m not lonely anymore. Perhaps even cuddle with me in bed.”

  “Oh.” The kid closed his eyes, but she could see the wheels turning in his small head. “Do ye think this would make ye friends with that other person?”

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  Those odd eyes popped open. “I guess maybe I might have another friend, then.”

  Yes. He definitely did.

  And his new friend was going to have a heated chat with his father.

  Chapter 6

  Edinburgh used to be his favorite city.

  When he’d been a lad, growing up in the stately New Town with his professor father and his eager-to-please mother, he’d spent hours running the streets of Old Town with his boys. Scampering about in the labyrinth of cobbled lanes, narrow closes, and down into the dark, underground chambers where the poor once had lived, he and his friends had explored every nook and cranny of the town.

  Cam had loved every single inch of the city.

  Now, though, after traveling to Istanbul and Hong Kong and a hundred other cities, Edinburgh had soured. The city brought back memories, both good and bad, and delivered a large heaping platter of guilt every time he walked its streets.

  Other cities didn’t do that.

  He didn’t go to Edinburgh now unless he had to.

  “Well, you’re done with the meeting then, and on your way home.” Tre’s voice faded in and out as Cam drove through the Scottish countryside holding his phone to his ear. “Did your agent bring the new contract?”

  “Yes.” The drizzle that had fallen for the entire five days he’d been in the city had now turned into a sheet of rain. Combined with the dusk, it made it hard to see the road in front of him. “It looked good and I signed.”

  “Another million or two in your pocket.” His friend sounded pleased. “Good for ye.”

  Tre had never been jealous of his success and had never once made a claim of ownership to any of the writing. He’d merely scribbled down some of Cam’s stories, he said, stories that had been initially told out loud to pass the time. Pass the time as they waited for a real story to blast into a war-torn town. He hadn’t realized what his friend was doing until Tre had a good five hundred pages of typed notes.

  The notes had become books.

  Very lucrative books.

  Cam hadn’t cared about the money. He’d cared about the stories. The ones he made up and the ones he discovered with Tre. But Martine had cared about the money. She’d cared so much she’d spent quite a bit of time finding out about Cameron Steward, and figuring out a way to catch him.

  “Did ye talk to the school, too?” His friend’s voice broke through his bitter memories. “You’ll want to move on that before the summer begins.”

  A punch of guilt mixed with relief knocked him inside. When he’d brought the subject up to Tre, his partner had been eager to have him back. Back to roaming the wars and disasters, sleeping in a new bed every night, finding a thrilling tale around every corner to bring to the world.

  “I talked with them.”

  Tre
went silent.

  Had he given away a hint of the guilt he felt? He jerked the car wheel around, steering the roundabout while wrestling with his wretched indecision.

  “You’re having second thoughts, aren’t ye, dobber?” His friend’s voice came over the line, somber and serious. “And right ye should.”

  His best friend had been eager to have him back, but dubious about whether it was the right thing to do in the long run. His partner had always had an overdeveloped sense of responsibility.

  “No second thoughts. The boy hates me.”

  Another long silence stretched down the line.

  “Cam.” His best friend sighed. “It’s only been six months.”

  “Six months is long enough.” The wretched indecision turned and twisted into hard pain. “He won’t have anything to do with me.”

  “Well, I won’t be fighting with ye.” Tre’s voice still held a wealth of doubt. “He’s your son.”

  “Correct.” He turned into the long lane leading to his prison. The house loomed out of the gloom, only one faint glow of a lamp on the third floor shedding any light onto his path. “I hate this place. He hates me. This isn’t going to work.”

  His friend gave him another sigh.

  He was going to be stuck here at least through the summer. But once fall came, he’d have the boy settled in his new school and his story, the story the mouse was typing, would be complete. Then he could take off and be with his friend and partner.

  Tre could return to being his transcriber.

  Instead of the mouse.

  She had drifted in his thoughts and memories and body throughout the last few days, even though he’d done everything he could think of to get rid of her. Her average mouth opening to his, bringing him blaze and heat and hot. Her average hands running through his hair, touching off a fire, a madness inside. Her cursedly deep, mysterious eyes, staring into his as she rejected him.

  I don’t want to kiss you again.

  He was alarmingly close to getting attached. He had never done attachment well. Certainly not to places. Certainly not to women.

  “I have an idea,” he blurted.

  “Do ye?” Tre’s voice warmed as it always did when his partner had what he called another one of his harebrained ideas. “Tell me.”