Scotland to the Max

by Grace Burrowes

  “Newly married,” Violet said. “And very busy collecting art to rent to corporations and billionaires who lack the time or taste to find their own. Liam also has classes to teach. Who else?”

  “Niall could look in on the project. A former pro golfer has rubbed shoulders with big money and bigger egos.”

  Violet kissed Elias’s ear, which tickled. “Niall’s in the middle of high season for golf tourism and busy expanding his golf course, and also his family.”

  Another newlywed Cromarty, blast the luck. “He’s married to an attorney. Perhaps Julie wouldn’t mind riding into battle in the boardroom.”

  “See ‘expanding family’ above,” Violet said. “And I don’t think contract law is her area of expertise. What about Magnus?”

  “Already spending much of his time in airplanes trying to juggle businesses in Scotland and Montana.”

  “You could appoint yourself, Elias.”

  Elias and Violet were waiting to start a family until their farm-store business was better established. Violet had a thriving farm life blog, two hundred and fifty acres under cultivation and a world of practical knowledge. Elias had added his eight hundred acres, a PhD in economics, and an imagination that delighted in hard work and big dreams.

  “Myself is the most newlywed of all. Are you really so anxious to get rid of me, Violet?”

  She scooted around so she straddled his lap and looked him directly in the eye. “I’d go with you. That’s how marriage works.” She punctuated her lecture with a tight hug, and Elias admitted to himself that this was at the bottom of his vexation with Uncle Donald.

  Too many years cleaning up after the late earl, too many years trying to show not-for-profit corporations how to turn one dollar into three, or how to clean house so their boards of directors would be more than expensive ornaments. Too many years feeling like every problem on every hand could be solved only by Elias Brodie stating the obvious while wearing a bespoke suit, and sipping exotic spring water from a crystal glass despite his arse aching after too many hours in a supposedly ergonomic boardroom chair.

  “I hate to fly,” Elias said. “I hate to drag you away from the farm when we’ve finally reached the summer lull.”

  The summer lull was a few precious weeks between the second cutting of hay and the harvest. The weeding slowed down, the crops matured, the animals were neither breeding nor giving birth, and severe weather didn’t relentlessly threaten fences, crops, or buildings.

  Elias and Violet had no lull, because expanding a business required every available hour. If they weren’t shopping for new equipment, they were laying out next spring’s community gardens; fitting out Elias’s fieldstone barn to convert into a farm store; handling the chores that went with keeping up Violet’s sheep, chickens, and crops; haggling with the bank; twiddling with the website; or meeting with Elias’s lawyer relatives, Jane DeLuca and Dunstan Cromarty.

  Violet smoothed Elias’s hair back, one of the most soothing of her many gestures of casual affection. “Dunstan might enjoy a chance to strut around and intimidate Maitland.”

  Max Maitland respected Dunstan—and Jane. “Jane’s on the nest. We can’t ask it of them.”

  “That leaves Declan MacPherson, if you consider in-laws of in-laws family.”

  In Scotland, that counted as a family connection. “It’s high season for landscapers, and Declan has his own farm. I’d hoped Maitland would hire Declan for the landscape work at the castle.”

  “So you’d have a spy on the grounds,” Violet said, repeating the caress. “But isn’t landscaping one of the last aspects of property development to happen?”

  Elias dropped his forehead to Violet’s shoulder. “I can’t think when you do that. Don’t stop.” She was right, though. Declan MacPherson might sit in on some planning meetings or submit a few estimates, but his real work wouldn’t begin until next summer, or next spring at the earliest—if Maitland even chose MacPherson for the landscape work.

  “What about Jeannie?” Violet asked. “She’s familiar with the project, knows the crews on-site, has a good head for figures, already has a toe in the door of the hospitality industry, and does not suffer fools.”

  Elias raised his head to peer at Violet. “I asked her first. She turned me down, plead motherhood and a need for regular hours. Jeannie among us all has too much on her plate, and I should never have asked her to look into Uncle Zebedee’s renovation plans.” Though thank heavens she had. Jeannie had found fully executed contracts, invoices, bills of lading… a renovation ready to launch, but for the necessary coin.

  In exchange for a ninety-nine-year lease, Maitland, a Damson Valley lawyer-turned-property-developer, had taken on the challenge of bringing the castle into the twenty-first century, and—may God have mercy on his soul—turning it into a profitable venture.

  “Jeannie strikes me as one of those people who can get an amazing amount done,” Violet said, “all without appearing ruffled, and still have time to read.”

  “Romance novels,” Elias said, rising with Violet wrapped around him. “I’d think she’s had enough of romance with that damned Harry MacDon—”

  Violet kissed her husband as he settled with her on the couch. “This is romance. This right here. Talk of problems to solve, family matters, and what we’ll have for dinner tonight. This.”

  Violet scooted closer, and Elias forgot all about romance novels in favor of the real thing.

  “We’ll come back to the problems at the castle,” Violet said, leading Elias to the stairs fifteen minutes later. “In an hour or so.”

  “Two hours,” Elias said. “Or possibly tomorrow.”

  Chapter Five

  Jeannie was paying her bill at the Strathdee pub when she realized she hadn’t yet sent Max Maitland directions to the Baron’s Hall.

  “You distracted me,” she informed Henry, who was flirting with Fern Logan, the tavern owner.

  “Don’t they all?” Fern passed over Jeannie’s change. “He seems like a good little lad.”

  “At this age, they can only be good, or so my aunts insist.”

  “Do you see much of his father?”

  Fern had finished graduate school and taken over the tavern from her parents, who’d taken over from their parents, on back as far as anybody could recall. There had been Logans in the valley as long as there had been Brodies, which was far back indeed. Fern thus wasn’t being nosy, exactly, to raise that question.

  More sisterly, or cousinly. “Harry is a rigger. He goes where there’s work.”

  “Harry is an idiot, but a good-looking idiot.” Fern’s abrupt need to polish the bar’s spotless surface suggested Harry had turned her head on some occasion. Or turned up her skirts. He’d professed a weakness for redheads, the rotter.

  “He’s in the Eastern Mediterranean,” Jeannie said. “Lots of natural-gas exploration going on there.” Harry liked the risk, liked the excitement, the sense that his industry hovered close to major political and economic power. He also liked the money, though that money hadn’t been much in evidence during their marriage.

  “Hard road, being married to a rigger.” Fern flipped a thick, coppery braid over her shoulder. “He might have done you a favor, taking off like that.”

  Jeannie set Henry on the bar and kept a hand on his belly to steady him. He was growing heavy, which was good.

  “When I met Harry, he swore he was done with being a rigger, ready to become a weaver in the Outer Hebrides.”

  Fern took a sip of water from a beer glass. She had pretty hands, freckled along the backs, and a lovely jade thumb ring on her right hand.

  No ring on her left hand, though she was a very attractive woman. “They all say that. Three weeks later, they’re back on the rig, and so few of them manage to save anything.”

  She and Jeannie shared a moment of purely female exasperation, while Henry tried to wiggle away down the bar.

  Fern set about refilling the garnish tray with maraschino cherries, colored toothpicks, li
me wedges, and drink umbrellas. “All the activity up at the castle has been great for business.”

  “But you worry,” Jeannie said, “about when the castle opens for business. Will anybody want to come for a meal at the Earl’s Pint when they can do the fancy up the hill?”’

  “Incomers of any kind are a mixed blessing. The whole project is financed with American money, and you know—”

  The door swung open behind Jeannie, and Henry started bouncing on his diapered bum and waving his arms. “Buh! Duh-duh-duh-buh!”

  “That’s an American walk, I bet you a bridie,” Fern murmured before pasting on her signature bartending smile. “Good day, sir. Can I pull you a pint?”

  Max Maitland stepped up beside Jeannie. His fragrance hit her first—lush greenery and spices—followed by the warmth he gave off.

  “That depends,” he said. “What’s Henry having?”

  The time of his busy little life. “Henry just dined on chips,” Jeannie said, “with a few nibbles of haddock and watered-down apple juice.”

  “Fish and chips it is. To go, please. I’ll pass on the nectar of the gods.”

  “Won’t take but a moment,” Fern said, disappearing into the kitchen.

  Henry continued to coo, kick, and wave until Max lifted him from the bar into his arms. “The bouncer will toss you out on your handsome ear, Henry. Settle down.”

  Henry was glad to see Max, which was troubling. Jeannie was glad to see him too, though, which was silly when they’d parted less than two hours ago.

  “I take it you stopped in for lunch on your way home,” Max said as Henry took a swipe at his nose.

  “Henry hadn’t eaten. A preemptory lunch break was in order. We ran into Darrell MacPherson—he’s head of the local council—and nothing would do but I catch him up on what every member of the family has been up to. Darrell’s’s kin to Declan, who owns the landscape business.”

  Max gently unwrapped Henry’s fingers from his nose. “I’m glad you’re still here. Can I talk you into touring the Baron’s Hall with me?”

  Jeannie loved the Hall. She wasn’t all that particular about how renovations at the castle proceeded—if marching armies, religious violence, a thousand winters, and a few earthquakes couldn’t bring down the castle, neither would renovations, not if Max was in charge.

  But the Hall was gracious, personable, filled with family memorabilia, and the closest thing Elias had had to a home when his parents had passed on. The Hall mattered.

  Jeannie chose a purple drink umbrella and twirled it for Henry’s amusement. “I should be getting back to Perth.” Because dirty laundry was so often stolen by the fairies.

  “If you must go, I won’t keep you, but I’d like the company, and the ally.”

  Oh dear. “Trouble already?”

  Before Max answered, Fern set a white paper bag on the counter, redolent of fried potatoes and lightly battered haddock. Max passed the baby to Jeannie, got out his wallet, and paid for the meal.

  “I take it you’re here to work on the castle?” Fern wore her friendly smile, but Jeannie heard the challenge in the question. Strangers were always cause for caution, especially strangers clearly not of Scottish extraction.

  “Fergus MacFarland has dubbed me the Yank with the Bank,” Max said. “Not exactly flattering, but yes, I’m here to work on the castle. I’ll be staying at the Baron’s Hall for the duration, and I’d like to talk to you about delivering a load of sandwiches with all the trimmings over to the Hall on Monday.”

  “What constitutes a load of sandwiches, and who are you?”

  Max stuck out his hand. “Max Maitland, and you would be?”

  “Your new best friend, Fern Logan.” She withdrew a pencil from behind her ear. “Will you want some desserts with those sandwiches?”

  Max shot Jeannie a look.

  “Of course he wants desserts. Shortbread, tablet, brownies, the works. Fruit salad and some sliced veggies with dip, plenty of paper plates and napkins.”

  “Can we have a bowl of fruit instead of salad?” Max asked, setting his backpack at his feet. “The hungries can ambush a laborer midafternoon, and an orange or a banana can hit the spot.”

  Fern kept scribbling. “What sort of bevvies?”

  “Beverages,” Jeannie translated.

  Fern looked from Max to Jeannie. “Fizzy juice? We have them all.”

  “Soft drinks,” Jeannie said. “That will do, along with some water.”

  “For how many?”

  Max took up twirling the umbrella Henry was trying to swipe from the bar. “The full crew should be on-site Monday, which is about sixty people, so let’s say… ninety, because they’re working construction.”

  Fern was quiet for a moment, her pencil moving on the paper. “Guess who won’t be at Sunday services tomorrow?” She passed Max the paper with a figure at the bottom underlined. He passed over a credit card.

  “You can keep that card on file,” he said. “If you have a private dining room, I’d like to use it for corporate functions occasionally.”

  “For a price,” Fern replied, “you can use all my worldly goods except my fiddle and my mountain bike.”

  Five minutes later, Jeannie had stashed Henry in the back seat of the Audi and was driving Mr. Maitland to the Baron’s Hall.

  “So was that a smart move or a dumb move?” he asked.

  “Both,” Jeannie replied. “Americans are always throwing their money around, but Fern needs the business, and her opinion of any incomer matters significantly. What are all the crews supposed to do with their bag lunches on Monday?”

  “Before I left the States, I told Fergus I’d provide lunch at an all-hands meeting Monday. My other option was to have the grocery store deli cater, but Fern is the more significant potential ally. I don’t suppose you can be here Monday to introduce me?”

  “Why me?”

  “Because your dear old uncle Donald shows no sign of being around to perform that courtesy, and I’ll meet with less resistance if even one of the earl’s relations is on hand when I show up.”

  Jeannie turned down the lane that led to the Hall, stone walls fencing off cows on one side, sheep on the other.

  “You expect to meet with resistance?”

  He opened the white bag, inhaled, and withdrew a fat wedge of fried potato. “Want a fry?”

  Jeannie leaned over and took a bite. “We call them chips.”

  Max ate the other half. “I call them delicious.”

  The moment was unremarkable, but also intimate in a friendly sense. Normal between two people who both liked chips—fries—and might even like each other.

  “Mrs. Hamilton will be horrified that you settled for fish and chips when she was here to make you a proper meal.”

  “I will explain I was currying favor with the local publican. Good God, does this ever call for a cold beer.” He held up another fry, and Jeannie took another bite. She’d eaten most of her lunch but skipped breakfast. She’d only had time to feed Henry before leaving the house, and her appetite for damp toast and infant banana pudding seldom exceeded one bite of each.

  An aroma wafted forward from the back seat.

  “Henry’s digestion is healthy,” Max said, rolling the takeout bag closed and cracking his window.

  Jeannie turned down the alley of lime trees that led to the Hall proper. “Elias likes cars and engines. At moments like this, he usually makes a remark about intake and exhaust. The stink wasn’t half so bad before Henry started on solid food.”

  Henry made a remark that sounded like a baby getting ready to fuss loudly.

  “Henry, my boy,” Max muttered, “we could use you to fumigate the castle dungeons.”

  “More guy talk, Mr. Matiland?” Max’s comment made Jeannie smile. The chance meeting with Max Maitland made her smile. The shared snitches of chips—fries—made her smile, but under no circumstances could she tarry here until Monday. She didn’t have a change… well, she did have clothes stashed at the Hall. A few
. And some baby supplies.

  But she also had a job hunt to pursue and Millicent to placate. Yesterday’s flat tire had strained the scant goodwill Jeannie had with her former mother-in-law, and the weekend’s racketing about had disturbed what little routine Henry followed.

  Jeannie pulled around the Hall’s circular driveway and stopped at the foot of the front steps, though family usually used the lot behind the kitchen.

  “I want you to get the full Scottish baronial effect,” she said. “The entrance hall is impressive.”

  She extricated her stinky, fussy son from the car seat, and Max shouldered his backpack. He also retrieved the bright blue diaper bag. He should have looked ridiculous lugging a diaper bag, but to Jeannie, he looked… entirely relaxed, a little tired, and oddly dear.

  She let him open the enormous arched wooden door and stood silently while Max did a slow pirouette in the entrance hall.

  “That is a lot of weaponry.”

  “A lot of history, Mr. Maitland.”

  Targes, halberds, blunderbusses, and dirks were arranged in fan patterns. Fowling pieces, great swords… The walls on three sides of the entrance hall were festooned with the tools of war and hunting. Two stag heads peered down on the front door with regal impassivity, and a stuffed hare was poised to leap the steps into the atrium.

  The Duke of Atholl had a more impressive display, but only just.

  Max got out his phone and tapped for a moment. “This will all have to go.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This,” he said, waving a hand to indicate centuries of family history. “Maybe we can find a museum to take it, but you don’t welcome business leaders from all over the world to an elite hospitality venue by flashing your Braveheart set pieces at them.”

  “Braveheart set pieces?” Jeannie had allowed a small pathetic wish to sprout—a wish to get to know Max Maitland better, certainly nothing more—but she mentally yanked it out by the roots and tossed it into the diaper pail.

  “If any of it’s authentic,” Max said, taking the stairs into the atrium, “then we’ll find a place for it, but Brodie Castle isn’t a Disney theme park.”