by Carrie Elks
‘But you appear to have suffered more than most,’ she pointed out. She seemed unperturbed by Lachlan’s intense stare. ‘According to your bio, you grew up in relative poverty, in spite of your father’s wealth. Why was that?’
‘You’d have to ask my parents,’ Lachlan said. ‘And compared to some kids I was lucky. I always had a roof over my head, food on the table. I wasn’t exactly living in a shack.’
‘Well, I can’t ask your father.’ The journalist gave a little laugh. ‘But maybe I could speak to your mother some time.’
‘That won’t be possible,’ Lachlan replied. His tone left no room for questions.
Lucy swallowed, though her mouth felt dry. Lachlan was as stiff as a board. She shifted in her own seat, trying to get comfortable.
‘Maybe you could tell me some more about your mother then,’ Marina said, rifling through her papers. ‘I managed to find out a little bit about her from a few sources.’
‘You did?’ Was it possible for his voice to sound even shorter? ‘Why?’
Marina brushed her dark hair from her face. ‘It’s my job, Lachlan. If I turned up here without doing my research what sort of journalist would I be?’
Lachlan swallowed, but said nothing.
Marina tapped her pen against her teeth, then put it back down on her pad. ‘Well, if I can’t speak to her, maybe I can ask you. How did she and your father meet? Is it correct that she was an escort?’
Lucy’s mouth dropped open. She sat very still and looked between Marina and Lachlan again. She could see the tightness of his jaw, the narrowness of his eyes.
‘No. She was a nightclub hostess,’ he replied. ‘But I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.’
‘Is that how they met?’ Marina asked again. ‘Did your father pay her for… ah… favours?’
‘I’ve never asked how they met.’
Marina scribbled something on her pad. ‘And what does your mother do now?’
Though Lachlan’s face was impassive, his hands were clasped together so tightly Lucy could see the white of his knuckles. And then he glanced at her, and he looked almost like a child. Vulnerable, hurt, in need of protection.
So completely unlike him it brought Lucy to her feet. ‘Is that the time?’ she said, walking over to where Lachlan and Marina were sitting. ‘It will be dark soon, and we’d love you to take a walk around the estate before you leave, Marina. And I know your photographer was hoping to get some photographs of Lachlan while the light is good.’
‘But I have some more questions —’
‘No problem at all. Just send them over and I’ll get Lachlan to answer them.’ Lucy wasn’t taking no for an answer. ‘Why don’t I get somebody to bring you and the photographer a cup of tea, and then we’ll get on with the pictures?’
The old estate office smelled musty – as though the rain that had soaked through the stone walls for centuries could never quite be chased away. It was located in the gatehouse – a small, turreted cottage built with the same stone as the main lodge – where once upon a time the estate manager would have lived, his whole life squeezed into these tiny rooms. Nowadays Alistair lived in his own cottage in the nearby village, leaving the gatehouse to be the main administrative offices, though of course there was a much more luxurious library in the main house that Lachlan’s father had used whenever he visited.
Lachlan looked up from the spreadsheets he’d been surveying, and across the ancient wooden desk to where Alistair was sitting. ‘You’ve kept good records.’
‘For what they’re worth. We keep the place ticking over, but it really needs investment. To attract the kind of paying guests the lodge needs to keep it going, we should be offering luxury. The Americans expect it.’ Alistair offered Lachlan a small smile.
‘What kind of investment?’ Lachlan was interested. He leaned forward, scanning the sheets again.
‘I don’t know. A lot, I guess?’ Alistair shrugged. ‘We’ve done the basics, the wifi and the roof, and that was far more than your father wanted to pay. But the kind of clients we want to attract would be executives. Investing in an upgrade would help a lot.’
Lachlan nodded, his hand still hovering on the keypad. Talking about business made him feel steadier, as though he was on firmer ground. ‘I’ll need to get my finance guys to run the figures. Do you have any estimates of the type of income we could attract?’
‘At the moment we run a few hunting weekends a year,’ he said. ‘But some of the other estates are fully booked, and host weddings as well. I don’t know how much you know about the MacLeish diaspora, but we have a lot of clansmen all over the world who’d jump at the chance to learn about their heritage, surrounded by luxury.’
‘The diaspora?’ Lachlan questioned.
‘Scottish people who emigrated abroad. Did you know there are more MacLeishes in Canada and America than there are here in Scotland?’
Lachlan tipped his head to the side. ‘No. I had no idea.’
‘There are also thousands of MacLeishes in Australia, New Zealand, Brazil… Honestly, they’re all over the world. And because they’re in a new world, they want to know about their past, their heritage. That’s where we come in. A lot of them already visit us during the MacLeish Gathering, though the majority stay in the village. I’d like to build on that.’
Lachlan tapped his fingers on the old oak desk. ‘I read about the gathering on the website.’
‘Oh, you’ve seen that?’
‘Yeah, that was one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. Who runs it? One of us?’
Alistair looked pleased. ‘I do. I set it up and maintain it; it’s pretty easy really, based on a WordPress site. And we have social networks too. I even set up a Twitter page last year.’
‘There’s a lot of information there,’ Lachlan observed. ‘Your knowledge of MacLeish history is impressive.’
The smile on Alistair’s face widened. He leaned forward, resting his leather-patched elbows on the table. ‘I’ve worked on this estate for more than half my life. My wife tells me I’m obsessed.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘But seriously, it was only when I set up the website that I realised how interested people were. After that we started having gatherings every year. People fly in from all the corners of the earth for the weekend. We have a church service, a tour of the estate, and then the highlight of the weekend is the garden party.’ He lowered his voice again, as though somebody was listening. ‘And I mean it as no disrespect to you at all, Mr MacLeish, but the Americans especially really lap it up.’
Lachlan smiled widely. ‘I bet they do.’
Glancing down once again at the figures, Lachlan turned the possibilities over in his mind. The kind of investment Alistair was proposing was huge, and it would take a massive jump in income to compensate for it. If he was looking at it from a pure investor’s eye he’d turn it down.
But this wasn’t just an investment, was it? It was a legacy, given to him by a man he’d hardly known, in a country he’d hardly visited. He had a lot to think about.
Turning his head, he stared out of the small window that overlooked the lodge itself. The flurry of snowflakes that had accompanied their walk up here earlier had stopped, and a shaft of sunlight had broken through the clouds, shining down on the loch behind the building, the surface reflecting the mountains beyond. It was strange how little he could remember of this place – or of the people who worked here, come to that.
Pushing down on his feet, Lachlan stood, his muscles complaining about being confined to the old office chair for too long. His mind wasn’t feeling much better, either. After yesterday’s confrontation with his brother, and today’s interview with the journalist – not to mention Alistair’s single-handed push to save the MacLeish name – he needed to do something to clear it.
‘I think I’ll take a walk,’ he told Alistair. ‘Just up to the loch.’
Alistair looked up. ‘Of course. You should wrap up warm, though. The sun might be trying to come out, but th
ose rays do nothing to warm the air up until summer gets here. That beautiful view can be deceiving.’
Lachlan nodded and grabbed his coat, looping his scarf around his neck. Lifting his hand in a goodbye, he left the gatehouse and found himself walking back along the gravelled driveway, and then taking a left around the east wing of the lodge.
‘You seem to be working hard.’
Lucy looked up to see Alistair standing in the doorway of the library.
‘I just had a few emails to send,’ she told him, stretching out her arms. ‘Have you finished your meeting with Lachlan?’
‘Yes, we’re all done for now.’ Alistair nodded. ‘I’m going to head back to my cottage for the evening. Is there anything else you need?’
‘Where’s Lachlan?’ she asked. ‘Is he around somewhere?’
‘He headed out for a walk,’ Alistair told her. ‘He said something about seeing the loch.’
‘In this weather?’ She glanced at the half-frosted window, overlooking the grounds. The snow had stopped as soon as it started, but the frosty air remained. Even inside there was a chill she couldn’t quite shake off.
‘He wrapped up warm, don’t you worry.’ Alistair gave her a smile. ‘And from what I can tell, fairer weather is on its way, finally. You might miss it, though, which is a shame. Maybe you can come back in the summer.’
‘Maybe.’ She smiled back at him. ‘It’s certainly very charming.’
‘Well, good evening, Miss Shakespeare. I believe the cook has dinner in the oven for you. I hope you have a restful night.’
After Alistair left, she stared at her laptop for a while longer, scrolling through her emails and answering the urgent ones. But her heart wasn’t in it. She kept thinking of Lachlan, of him walking out in the cold, frosty air. Was he still thinking about the interview? They hadn’t had much chance to talk since Marina left, but she couldn’t help but think about the expression on his face when the journalist had asked her intrusive questions.
Lucy felt a pull, like a boat being tugged into the shore. It was inevitable that she would find her coat and scarf, and slide her legs into her polished brown leather boots, shaking her hair to free it as she walked out of the front door and down the steps. Before she knew it her feet were crunching against the blades of grass, as she walked in the direction of the valley.
After a few minutes she found herself approaching the loch, marvelling at the blue water as it reached the frozen shore. In the distance she could see snow-topped mountains, their white peaks reflected in the mirror-like surface. On the other side were a series of rocks, brown crags – or carraigs – that gave the estate its name.
From the corner of her eye she noticed a movement. A flash of brown against the green background. Slowly she turned her head to see a proud stag standing in the distance, his antlers still, yet menacing. She couldn’t help but think of that Landseer painting again.
‘Don’t move.’ Lachlan’s voice came from her left. ‘I saw some does earlier, but I didn’t expect to see the stag, too.’
Lachlan was standing as straight and tall as the stag. His vulnerability from earlier had gone, replaced by a ruggedness that mirrored his surroundings. A gust of wind lifted up his dark hair, revealing his smooth brow, unfurrowed by lines.
‘He’s beautiful,’ she whispered, afraid to disturb the scene ahead of them. ‘So elegant and grand.’
‘If my father were here, he’d shoot him.’
‘Then it’s a good job your father isn’t here,’ she said, smiling.
The stag slowly turned to look at them, his disdain for all things human clear on his face. Then he shook his head, leaning onto his back legs before he pushed himself into a run, cantering around the side of the lake and into the woods beyond.
There was something so beautiful about the scene before them, that it took her breath away. There was no sign of civilisation, no sign of humans at all, just nature at her wildest, rising up in craggy mountains and dipping down into wooded glades. They could have been in any moment in history, and the view would have been the same.
‘I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything so lovely,’ she whispered.
‘This is the view I remember,’ Lachlan said, his voice as quiet as hers. ‘When I was a kid I’d come out here and pretend I was just an animal like the deer and the fish. That I didn’t have any worries, that I didn’t have to fight and scramble my way through life. I haven’t thought about it for years, but now I’m here, it’s all coming back.’
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He was staring right at her, his eyes gentle. And just like that he took her breath away again, more than the stag, more than the view. When Lachlan MacLeish was around, everything else faded into insignificance.
‘It’s views like this that make me think that one day I’ll give up the rat race and spend my time travelling,’ she said. ‘I spend so much of my time looking at the same four walls, it’s easy to forget how beautiful the world can be.’
‘I hear you,’ Lachlan agreed. ‘Grant once did an analysis of how I spent my year. Apparently I was fifty-one per cent in the office, twenty-four per cent on airplanes and twenty-one per cent at home. That only left four per cent of the time that I was actually out in the open air. And most of that was spent running.’
‘Do you run every day?’ she asked him, remembering their conversation while he was in Central Park. The way he’d barely had to catch his breath while they spoke.
‘Whenever I can,’ he said, smiling at the thought.
‘Do you like it?’ she asked him. ‘Or is it just one of those things you do to stay healthy, like drinking water and eating your five a day?’
‘It’s not so much that I like it, more that I’d go crazy without it. Sometimes I can only jump on the treadmill in my office for half an hour, but even that’s better than nothing. It’s the one time I can clear my mind, and just be present in the moment.’
‘Except when you’re talking to me.’
He laughed, and it lit up his face. ‘Touché.’ He turned until he was looking right at her, only a few feet between them. ‘How about you?’ he asked, that soft look back in his eyes. ‘Do you run?’
‘Only if my house is on fire.’ She shrugged. ‘I have a gym membership that’s not been used for the last eighteen months. Apparently you have to actually go for it to make a difference.’
‘Who knew?’
‘Seriously, though, I should go more often. I’m just always so busy. If I’m not at the office, I’m catching up with work at home. There’s not a lot of time to get on the treadmill.’
Lachlan frowned at her answer, as though it made him sad. ‘What do you do to relax?’
‘Go out with friends, talk with my sisters. Oh, and I have timeshare on a cat. That’s a good way to be mindful.’
‘You have a cat?’ he asked.
‘Don’t look so surprised.’ She smiled at his expression. ‘And no, I don’t really own her. She’s just this little tabby that belongs to my downstairs neighbours. She seems to have become attached to me – every time I come home she’s waiting, and slinks into my apartment with me. Then she curls up next to me while I finish my work.’
‘Lucky cat.’
Their eyes met and her heart thudded against her chest. ‘She stops me from being a boring old workaholic, I guess.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I might have a thing for boring old workaholics.’
‘What kind of thing?’
He grinned. ‘Are you really asking me about my thing? I thought we were professionals. Now here you are, interrogating me about —’
‘Stop it.’ She was grinning too.
He reached out, his arm closing the distance between them, running his gloved finger across her cheek. It was the smallest of touches, yet it felt so intimate, so sensual, that it set her whole body on fire.
‘There’s never a dull moment with you,’ he murmured.
Right back at you, Mr MacLeish.
Though a barri
er of leather separated her skin from his, Lachlan could practically feel the chill on her face as he stroked his finger along her jaw. Her cheeks were bright pink, her eyes shining, her lips a deep red from the cold. It had been a mistake to get so close. With only a few inches between them, his whole body was begging him to close the gap. He wanted to taste the cold on her lips, to heat them with his own. He wanted to slide his tongue inside that soft, velvety mouth, to feel her breath battling with his.
He’d thought of her as a cool blonde before. But out here in the wild, she was so much more than that. It was as though she’d thawed along with the dusting of snow on the ground, exposing her real self. Not the perfectly groomed, perfectly professional Lucy she projected in meetings, but a softer, gentler side that was only for him.
