Lord of the Isles: International Billionaires VIII: The Scots

by Caro LaFever

  She had no great fondness for classical music.

  The music suddenly boomed, a pounding roar of violins and drums. She jumped and the door behind her swung shut.

  For a moment, her brain swarmed with indecision.

  If he was playing music, it couldn’t be that bad, right? It could be all this worry for him was a waste. Maybe she should just turn around and creep away before she made a fool of herself over Iain McPherson once again.

  The music stopped with an abrupt snap.

  Her spine snapped to attention, too. She wasn’t a quitter, never had been, never would be.

  The guy needed someone to confront him and tell him he should get help. The villagers were too awed by hero worship and too angry about their jobs and homes to focus on Iain McPherson himself. Someone had to get in his face and slap him out of his isolation.

  Before it was too late.

  That thought pushed her out of the small, circular foyer she’d last stood in when she’d been ten. He’d turned on her here, turned from being an exciting teenager into a snarling, arrogant rejector. The memory made her grit her teeth.

  Perhaps he’d changed.

  Thrusting open a stout stone door, she spotted a staircase down a short hall. The granite steps circled around a heavy rock post, leading up into the tower, she’d bet. The castle tours she’d taken as a kid had never been in this part. Her fingers slid across the layers of ancient sandstone as she slowly climbed up and up.

  Silence echoed from above.

  Her heartbeat escalated as she ran through various versions of what she should say to this man. Tension tightened the muscles of her back and the hair on her neck rose, as if sensing the danger in front of her.

  She pushed Patrick into her brain and kept going.

  This must be the oldest part of the castle. She could tell by the narrow slits of windows interspersed in the thick walls. Now, they were decorated with lovely stained glass, but she’d guess they would have once been used to shield warriors as they fought off invaders.

  “Who the hell are ye?”

  Jerking her head up, she spotted…a warrior.

  He stood at the top of the stairway, and the flickering light behind him emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the taut strength of his body. His black shadow fell on her, making her freeze in her tracks, making her think of cold, dark woods with ravaging creatures ready to scare someone stupid enough to enter their forest.

  Her heart thumped in her chest like a wild, uncontrollable drum.

  “Well?” he snarled. “Answer me.”

  He held some kind of bottle in one hand and for a moment, she thought he might hurtle it at her. “I’m Lilly,” she blurted. “Lilly Graham.”

  “Who?” He shifted, menace lining the one word.

  Taking a grip on her ridiculous fear, she climbed one step, then another. This was only a man, not a raging warrior or a ferocious beast. Just a man who needed someone to evaluate whether he needed help or not.

  “Stop right there.” He growled, low and harsh, and the sound slammed into the stone walls, accentuating the threat.

  She straightened her shoulders, thought about Patrick again, and took another step toward him.

  A guttural curse was his response before he jerked back, disappearing around the bend of the stairwell.

  Being an optimist, she took this as progress. Walking up the last of the stairs, she gathered her courage before stepping into the archway.

  Surprise stunned her to a stop.

  The room was distinctly modern, even though the ceiling arching overhead was made of ancient stone and the walls were thick, standing here in solid splendor for hundreds of years.

  He’d sat down in a big leather chair, his long legs sprawled out in front of a dying fire. No other light brightened the round tower room, filled with a hodgepodge of stereo and computer equipment, a matching leather sofa to the chair, and a sturdy wooden trunk with scrolled Celtic sides.

  The surface of the trunk brimmed with empty bottles and dirty plates.

  “Go away,” he muttered, before lifting the half-filled bottle to his lips.

  A bottle of whiskey.

  Surprise coursed through her again. She’d had an inkling of what was wrong with this man, yet it still stunned her to see Iain Arrogant McPherson, the hero of the Royal Marines, the Lord of the Isles, like this.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “So I am.” He eyed her before taking another slug. “Fuck off.”

  Stepping into the room, she looked around. Behind the fireplace, she spotted the edge of an unmade bed piled with clothes. Beyond that yawned an open door leading into a dark cavern that probably was a bathroom.

  “Are ye here to take inventory then?” he barked from his chair. “Take whatever ye want and leave.”

  She swung her head back to meet his gaze. Now that she’d acclimated to the lack of light, she could see his eyes were blood-shot. “You’re not doing yourself any favors by drinking too much.”

  He grunted, his gaze narrowing. “So you’re another one of the villagers pounding on the front door, wanting to tell me what I need to do.”

  “No.” She thought about taking off her windbreaker and trying to reason with him, but it was clear he was in no mood to listen and in no shape to make any decisions. “I’m not a villager.”

  “How did ye get in here?” The straight line of his dark brows furrowed in dazed confusion. “I locked the door.”

  She hummed, not willing to let him know she’d remembered his secret. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  His response was to drain the bottle.

  Lilly sighed. She had enough experience with her drunk friends to know. She was going to have to return when he was sober. Not something she was happy about, yet it appeared she was the only one who could get to him and she wasn’t willing to share his secret with others. “I can see this isn’t a good time to talk.”

  “Ye do like to blether on, don’t ye?” Lurching from the chair, he strode under another stone arch and out of her sight.

  Though, strode wouldn’t be the word. Weaved was more accurate.

  With a reluctant concern, she followed him into a compact kitchen. Another deep-seated fireplace lined one wall, cold and unused. On the other side, a half fridge was planted under a sweep of granite-tiled counters. An island block of cedar wood stood in the middle of the room. All the counters and the island’s surface were covered with more empty bottles and dirty dishes.

  The Lord of the Isles ignored it all, heading straight for a tower of cardboard boxes. Yanking out a full whiskey bottle, he tore off the screw top with an impatient, clumsy motion.

  “This really isn’t helpful.”

  At her soft words, he turned with an abrupt jerk, wobbling for a moment, before righting himself. “Why should I care what ye think?” He took a swig before carelessly wiping the edge of his green-and-blue flannel shirt across his mouth. “Whoever the hell ye are.”

  “Lilly Graham.” She provided the information again, keeping her voice gentle, hoping she could reach him with kindness instead of censure.

  He swayed once more on his bare feet, the hems of his frayed jeans brushing on the stone floor. “Lilly. Graham.”

  “Yes.”

  His bloodshot eyes swerved her way and a sudden, sullen knowing filled them with awareness. “Och, yes. The lovely Lilly. Come back from one of your long holidays to visit your dear da.”

  He was drunk and shouldn’t be listened to, but the shot hit too close for her liking. Her stepfather’s wealth had been used against her before, when she’d first started her career. The undeserved accusations still stung, even though many years had passed. “They aren’t holidays,” she said with stiff snap. “I work.”

  A dark chuckle was his only response. Other than taking another swig.

  “I think you’ve had enough.” Gentle wasn’t going to do it. She’d put a friend or two to bed drunk more times than she could count. Traveling journalists
and photographers tended to either be gypsies who loved to wander or wanderers trying to escape demons. A firm grip and a tough voice were what was needed in this present situation. “It’s time for you to go to bed.”

  “Bed?” He lurched toward her, his face alive with hazy glee. “Now you’re saying something I’m interested in.”

  Sighing, she ignored the lurid hint in his voice and grabbed the bottle from his hands.

  “Hey.” His objection fell flat as he staggered into a wall. “Fuck.”

  “Come on.” Pulling him upright, she lifted his muscled arm and slung it around her shoulders. “Time to go to bed.”

  “Whatever ye say, lass.” He leaned on her, heavy and hard. “Can’t say I’m not surprised by this turn of events.”

  “I’m sure you are.” A wry edge filled her words.

  She managed to shuffle him past the dying fire and into the dark bedroom. A faint light filtered from the small window stuck high into the wall. The king-size bed appeared comfortable, if not for the mound of clothes piled in lumps across the entire surface.

  “Sit.” She pushed him down.

  He chuckled again, but obediently slumped.

  With quick shoves, she cleared the bed. There’d be time enough tomorrow to sort this chaos out. Looking at him, she noted the shaggy hair, so unlike the close-cropped marine cut he’d sported in all the photos his father had passed around during the parties. Now, his dark hair lay in a mat of twisted curls on his forehead and around his ears. “You’re a mess.”

  “Hey, hey.” He lifted his head, the light catching the gleam of cunning in his dazed eyes. “Not something ye should say to a man before climbing into bed with him.”

  He was big and strong, even after months of lying around and drinking, apparently. For some reason, though, he didn’t scare her. Somewhere underneath all this trouble and torment there still lurked Iain McPherson, the honorable hero his father had loved. She had to believe that in spite of experiencing an entirely different side of him. But that had been only once and had been an aberration from everything she’d heard over the years.

  “Time for you to get some sleep.” She tugged on the edge of his shirt. “You’ll be more comfortable if you take your clothes off.”

  He made a deep sound in his throat, a shot of sin and sex that made the hair on her neck rise. Before she could step out from between his legs, his hands clamped onto the back of her thighs. “A grand idea,” he murmured. “Help me take my clothes off, lovely Lilly.”

  Scratch the thought. He’d just have to wake with his jeans and shirt on. She grabbed his hands and wrenched them off her before pushing him once more.

  He splayed on the bed, his long legs hanging off, his arms spreading wide. “Damn,” he groaned. “I knew this dream was too good to be true.”

  Leaning over him, she stared into his face. His eyes were closed, his skin pale. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning and we’ll talk.”

  Groaning, he opened his eyes. She couldn’t tell the color in the fading light, yet she remembered. The blue of the Scotland sky mixed with the depths of the islands’ seas. “No talk,” he said. “Kiss.”

  “Nope.” She pulled away. “I’m afraid you stink.”

  “Stink.” A short cough of a laugh came from his throat. “This isn’t a dream. It’s another nightmare.”

  Compassion clogged her throat. She didn’t like Iain Arrogant McPherson, but he hurt. And her tender heart hurt for him. “I’ll return tomorrow and make you a nice breakfast. Then we can decide what kind of counseling you need.”

  “Whatever ye say, lovely Lilly. You’re all in my imagination anyway.” His eyes slammed shut and he moaned again. “My head.”

  “Spinning, I bet. Still, you’ll feel better tomorrow.” Hiking his legs up, she pulled the down comforter over him. “Sweet dreams, McPherson.”

  A drunken chuckle was his only response.

  “And tomorrow, we’ll tackle your ugly nightmares,” she promised before walking out of the room.

  “Lovely Lilly has turned into a fine peach of a lass.” Iain crooned the jumbled words at the bedroom’s barrel ceiling. “Lovely Lilly is a lovely peach tart.”

  He couldn’t quite wrap his wiggly head around that image, so he closed his eyes.

  The bed immediately began to spin around and around once more. His eyes shot open and he tried to focus on the string of modern black lighting he’d installed ten months ago when he’d decided to camp out in the tower.

  You stink.

  Her flat, American drawl had made the accusation bounce right to his funny bone. Again he found it funny, and he chuckled softly into the silence of his bedroom. The movement made him suddenly nauseated.

  He barely made it to the toilet.

  “Damn.” Flushing, he moved to the double sinks. The blast of cold water felt good on his hands and wrists and he sunk, his elbows hitting the stone edge of the counter.

  He didn’t glance up into the big circular mirror he’d ordered from London. What had he been thinking ten months ago? Had he imagined he’d get over the guilt and find some kind of forgiveness? Enough that he’d be able to look at himself in a mirror?

  He laughed, the sound hoarse and harsh.

  Soon, eventually, at some point, he’d take the damn thing down so there’d be no temptation to meet what was in his eyes.

  Slurping some water into his mouth, he swished. Brushed his teeth. Tottered back into the cold bedroom.

  Maybe he’d dreamt the whole thing. Even now, the memory of peachy Lilly shimmered like a mirage in his brain. The quirky way her upper lip curled when she was amused. The strength of her grip as she guided him to his bed. The brush of her breasts on his chest as she leaned over him.

  Maybe he needed another drink to remember every detail.

  Staggering into the den, he made it as far as his chair before running out of energy. The bottle lying on the floor was empty, but he couldn’t find enough drive inside him to get to the kitchen.

  To hell with it.

  He slumped into the leather and stared at the dead fireplace. The memory of lovely Lilly and peaches whispered away, replaced by the ever-present gloom and darkness.

  It settled in around him, a comforting knowing, a certainty he relied on now as his new reality.

  He frowned. If she had been real, he’d have to figure out how she got in here. He’d made damn sure everything had been blocked off, including the stairway leading from the main hall to the tower.

  Tomorrow, his musty mind rumbled. Tomorrow, you’ll figure it out.

  He didn’t want any reminders of what he should be or what he shouldn’t be doing. He didn’t want any memories of a young, ten-year-old girl with a whimsical grin and sea-green eyes. His father’s memory and the memories of his men were bad enough. Having to deal with the memory of a perky, pesky girl who’d turned into a perky, pesky woman was too much.

  Yet he itched to remember. Against his will.

  Iain leaned his aching head on the chair’s headrest and closed his eyes. To his relief, nothing spun. It allowed him to bring her back, what small details he’d managed to gather in the fog of liquor.

  Her hair had been blonde and springy. Exactly like when she’d been a young girl. The color surprisingly hadn’t changed from the pale gold he’d remembered for years. The tousled curls had clung to the edge of her cheeks and jaw making her look all of ten, still.

  Her body hadn’t been a ten-year-old’s.

  His body stirred, shocking him.

  He’d been here for ten months, and had spent the previous two months before that recovering. Not in all that time had his body murmured about a woman.

  Not until lovely Lilly had stolen into his castle.

  “Fuck that. Fuck her.”

  His swearing echoed in the silence surrounding him. Instead of registering the anger in his brain, however, his body immediately jumped to the crude meaning of the words and his cock went hard.

  “Dammit.” He opened his eyes and g
lared down.

  He did not want to come back to life. He did not want to wake from his fog of depression and whiskey. What he wanted was to be left alone to rot.

  As he deserved.

  Reaching under the chair, he lifted his favorite 9mm pistol. He smoothed trembling fingers across the muzzle, the barrel, the grip.

  Rotting was overrated. He couldn’t seem to drink enough to blot out the memories. And even though he had blurry, bloodshot eyes and the beginnings of a permanently fogged brain, it didn’t stop the nightmares.

  It didn’t stop the curse.

  The trigger felt good against the tip of his finger. Right, somehow, as if it all should end here.

  He’d been in the military since he’d turned seventeen. For half his life. He’d learned to shoot and kill, learned to ignore pain and tamp down pleasure. The Royal Marines had become his life. He’d made his da proud and he’d managed to forget the memory of his sweet, patient mother.

  He’d managed to lose himself.

  And at this point, he didn’t want to find his rotten soul ever again.

  Because then he’d have to deal with the curse and he had no weapons to fight that battle.

  No weapons at all.

  Chapter 3

  “He’s hurting, Dad.” Lilly swirled her spoon in the oatmeal, trying to stop worrying about the man she’d left alone last night.

  “Yes, you’ve said that a time or two this morning.” Her father lifted the steaming kettle off the stove and brought it to the table. Pouring the hot liquid into their two cups, his mouth firmed. “Can’t understand why he let ye in. Not when he’s been so stubborn about keeping everyone out.”

  She wasn’t going to tell about the secret door. A strange feeling of protectiveness had grown in her, ever since she’d stared down at the McPherson’s pale face and heard him confess to having nightmares. That back door was his to share and she wasn’t going to have a bunch of nosy villagers stomping up the stairs and poking their nose in his business. She’d find a way to draw him back into the world of his own free will. “The point is, he needs to get counseling.”