Lord of the Isles: International Billionaires VIII: The Scots

by Caro LaFever

  Her dad nodded his head as he slid into his seat. “Well, Lil, if anyone can convince a person to do something, it’s ye.”

  “I’m going to head back to the castle right after we finish eating.” She stirred the blueberries into her oatmeal, thinking about all the work she had to do. There was a good, brisk cleaning in front of her this morning, and quite a bit of laundry, if she had to guess. But she had a goal now and she was determined to complete it to her satisfaction.

  Iain Arrogant McPherson needed her.

  And Lilly Graham had a debt to pay.

  Her dad squinted through the window at the early-morning sun. “You’re reckoning he’ll still be sleeping off his binge.”

  “Yes.” She took in a hot sip. “By the time he wakes, that whiskey is going to be poured down the drain.”

  His thin, gray eyebrows drew in. “That won’t make the man happy.”

  “No, it won’t.” She shrugged.

  “You’ve no fear of him, eh?”

  “No, I don’t.” The man she’d confronted last night was a wounded animal. Yet she hadn’t sensed any kind of aggression that would put her in danger. The McPherson was only a danger to himself. Just like Patrick, he needed her to intervene and this time, she wasn’t going to fail.

  “I’m not surprised ye aren’t afraid of him. I’ve known the boy since he was a wee lad and there isn’t a spot of bad in him. So I’m not worried about ye going to help him.” Her father humphed and grew silent, his fingers playing with the end of a spoon. “I can’t say I’d not be happy.”

  “What?” She looked up from the last of her breakfast.

  “Mrs. Butler has that wrong, ye know.”

  “No. I don’t know. What are you talking about, Dad?”

  “It’s not as if it would sadden me to have ye around.”

  “Huh?”

  A sharp tap at the cottage’s front door brought the subject to a halt just as it was getting interesting. Her father strode to the door and opened it to a smiling Mrs. Butler. Behind her stood Mr. Hume and Mrs. Ciste, who ran the island’s B&B.

  “Well, well.” Her dad propped a fist on his hip. “Quite the group here. And so early, too.”

  “It’s never too early and never too late,” piped in Mrs. Ciste, her pudgy jowls rolling with her words.

  “Good morning to ye.” Mr. Hume tugged off his hat to show his balding pate. “Are ye going to invite us in, Ed?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Lilly frowned at her father’s surly tone. This wasn’t like him. “Dad.”

  “All right, all right.” He opened the door farther, letting the three folks in. “Remember what I said to ye last night though, Lil. Remember.”

  Her frown deepened.

  It’s no business of yours.

  But it had become her business. Last night had changed that for good. Until he found professional help, Iain McPherson was her business.

  Standing, she began to clear their breakfast. “We have several of your delicious scones, Mrs. Butler. Would you like one?”

  “I wouldn’t mind.” The woman bustled to the table and took a seat. Mrs. Ciste and Mr. Hume followed.

  Her father glared at the three of them.

  “Dad.”

  With another grumbling humph, he went and sat in his favorite chair. She shook her head at him and then went into the kitchen to lay out scones and jam and start another pot of tea.

  “This is the first morning I’ve had my girl here.” Her dad’s tone was still gruff and grumpy. “It’s not as if this issue can’t wait for a bit.”

  “Never put off until tomorrow what ye can do today,” Mrs. Ciste pronounced with stout authority.

  Lilly grinned in the kitchen. That’s right. She’d forgotten Mrs. Ciste’s long list of useful proverbs and parables. Bringing in the plate of food, she poured the tea and sat in the last remaining chair. A silence fell across the table, as the three villagers looked at one another and then at their plates.

  “Go on,” her father grouched. “Tell the girl of your scheme and you’ll be getting a sound rejection.”

  “Scheme?” She glanced at each of them.

  “Iain McPherson.” Mr. Hume laid the name down like he was announcing the arrival of a king.

  Or a lord.

  She squelched the desire to grin again. “Yes?”

  “As I told ye yesterday, he’s been home at the castle now for ten months.” The man ran his hand across his bald head. “And he’s a wee bit withdrawn.”

  He was a wee bit of a drunk, but she’d be taking care of that today.

  “What he needs is something to cheer him up,” Mrs. Ciste announced in her booming voice.

  “Or someone.” Mrs. Butler gave Lilly a sly look.

  Her father huffed in his chair.

  Suddenly, she got it. Got her father’s dire warning and the villagers’ sly hints. “You want me to talk to him.”

  Maybe much more, but she wasn’t interested in that. She supposed she could understand the villagers’ reasoning. There weren’t a lot of young women swarming around Somairie and she was passably attractive. But the man had way too many problems. The last thing he needed was a month-long girlfriend. Still, she could do him a lot of good in the month she was here, and she was determined to get him well on the way to recovery before she took off for her next assignment.

  “Yes, yes.” Mr. Hume beamed. “You’ve got it exactly, lass.”

  “I already have talked to him.”

  The three villagers stared at her in stunned silence.

  “What?” Mrs. Butler finally gasped.

  “So soon?” Mrs. Ciste boomed again.

  “How did ye get into the castle?” The old sailor gave her a puzzled frown.

  She was not going to tell these people about his secret door. Her brain scrambled, trying to find an acceptable answer.

  “He let her in the front door, of course. Why wouldn’t he? She’s such a pretty girl.” Mrs. Butler threw her an eager smile. “That’s wonderful news. He hasn’t let anyone in for months.”

  Lilly sighed with quiet relief.

  “Like it’s meant to be.” The other woman patted her hefty chest right by her heart. “A tale as old as time.”

  “I’m going to the castle again to help him. That’s all.” Ignoring the romance swirling in the room, she focused on laying the groundwork for when she coaxed the Lord of the Isles from his tower. He’d need these people on his side when she was gone. “And he needs help.”

  “How is he?” Mrs. Butler’s face crumpled in instant worry. The concern on the three villagers’ faces lightened her own. The Lord of the Isles might have fallen down on his duties, but it wasn’t too late. There was obviously still genuine affection for him in the village.

  “He’s a bit depressed.” She sipped on her tea, trying to decide how much she should tell them. “I aim to make him better.”

  “Good for ye.” Mr. Hume beamed at her once more. “You’re just what he needs, I reckon.”

  Her father humphed from his chair. When she glanced at him, though, there was a hopeful light in his eyes. She needed to douse that. She wasn’t staying. Not for her dad and certainly not for the McPherson. “Now let’s be clear—”

  “Every man needs a good woman.” Mrs. Ciste's jowls jiggled as she spoke. “And we always knew you’d grow into a good woman, Lilly.”

  “Um. Thanks.” She supposed she could object and make clear her real objectives, but why bother? She’d be gone in a month and the important thing was to make sure these people took care of their lord after she left. “Once I have another chat with him, I’m hoping he’ll seek counseling.”

  “Counseling?” The old sailor frowned. “What’s a man need with counseling when he has a good woman?”

  Ignoring him, she pushed on. “I’m hoping there are veteran groups he can join.”

  “Old Jamie Donaldson and Tavis McGregor meet every Tuesday night at the pub,” Mrs. Ciste offered.

  Meeting a
t a pub was not a good idea for the McPherson. She’d have to figure out where he could go, herself. She had her laptop, and the WiFi at her dad’s cottage wasn’t bad. A couple of hours snooping around and she’d find what the man needed.

  “I should go.” She stood and grabbed her empty plate.

  “Go?” Mrs. Butler’s white eyebrows rose. “We’ve just started planning.”

  “I need to get to the castle early.”

  “Right now, eh?” Mr. Hume said, rubbing a hand along his chin. “With the spot of weather coming in, that’s a fine idea.”

  “Spot of weather?” Turning to the window, Lilly stared at the sunshine. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing to fret about.” Mrs. Ciste narrowed her eyes at the man sitting next to her. “Ye should go to the castle immediately.”

  The old sailor slapped his hat on his head. “I can go with ye and talk to the boy myself. Point out what he’s got right in front of him.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She headed for the kitchen, trying to cut the matchmaking plans and schemes off. “I think it’s best—”

  “Going to the castle alone.” Mrs. Ciste broke through with solid force. “I think that’s a fine idea. As our good Robbie Burns said, to see her was to love her.”

  “What a wonderful thought, Millie,” Mrs. Butler cooed her appreciation.

  In the kitchen, Lilly made a face at the teapot. Let the villagers dream for now. She’d once dreamed and it was a very nice place to be in when you could find your way there. Time enough for reality to hit when she left. At least, hopefully, she’d leave them with a restored Lord of the Isles.

  “We’ve done fine work here. Time to go,” Mrs. Ciste announced. The scrape of several chairs being pushed back mingled with her dad’s loud cough.

  Lilly bit back another grin. She could practically hear her dad say, what work?

  “You’ll be at the Sunday picnic then, Ed, with your daughter?” Mrs. Butler’s voice hovered above the group. “Mrs. Solas has an excellent feast planned on the golf course.”

  “Not much else to do with the place, is there?” Mr. Hume grumbled.

  “Now, now,” Mrs. Ciste said. “Our young lass is going to take care of all of that.”

  The front door swung open and sunlight lit the side window in the kitchen. Lilly rounded the corner, thinking about confronting that last statement. It was one thing to let the villagers dream a bit about love. It was another thing to let them think she’d be able to achieve miracles in a month. “I don’t know—”

  “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” Mrs. Ciste turned in the doorway to give her a determined look. “Your da has told us about your travels.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “And he’s told us about the horrid places you’ve traveled to.”

  “Horrid? I don’t think I’ve ever been—”

  “So we can see what’s before us.”

  “A good woman.” The old sailor beamed at her.

  “A good, tough woman who’ll do what needs to be done.” Mrs. Ciste finished her pronouncement with a firm nod. “Time to go.”

  The two other villagers filed out of the cottage, following the large woman onto the pathway. Her father threw Lilly a wry glance before crossing the room to close the door behind them. “I guess you’ve been told, eh?”

  “Dad.” She threw her hands in the air in frustration. “They’re expecting so much. And that’s not what I’m going to the castle for.”

  “No?” The flicker of hope in his eyes didn’t dim.

  “No.” Marching to the hooks on the wall, she tugged on her windbreaker. “I’m only going to the castle to help a man clean up his place and clean up his act. Then I’m done.”

  “Okay.” His one word was suspiciously mild.

  “That’s all, Dad.”

  “Okay.”

  She grabbed the camera case she’d brought down with her this morning and shook it in front of him. “This is my life.”

  He hummed, a slight smile still on his face.

  “You were the one to tell me this was a scheme. What’s changed your mind?”

  “Nothing’s changed my mind, Lil.” Her dad’s smile grew. “But a man can hope, can’t he?”

  Chapter 4

  The Lord of the Isles had a spectacular ass.

  Not that the fact had anything to do with why she was here.

  Lilly crept farther into the bedroom. He lay on his stomach, the white cotton sheets twisted around his thighs and calves. The one beam of muted sunlight gleamed on the spectacular ass and lovingly stroked across a truly stunning, broad back. His skin looked like polished marble, as if a statue had dropped his pose and slipped into sleep.

  He must have risen during the night at some point. To strip.

  Her imagination had always been vivid, and within one second, it provided her with a colorful picture of Iain McPherson, strutting through the room, stripping off his clothes.

  Speaking of clothes.

  She forced her fascinated gaze away from his body and instead, inspected the mountain of garments she’d pushed to the floor last night. There were jeans and T-shirts, pullovers and underwear, towels and sweatpants. This would take her hours.

  But by the look of him and the low snore coming from his mouth, she had plenty of time before his majesty awoke.

  After sorting the mounds into new mounds of similar colored clothes, she piled the first group into a wicker basket she found in the corner and hiked it on her hip. Giving herself permission to take one last ogle, she ran her gaze over that fine ass one more time.

  And remembered she hadn’t been with a guy for almost a year.

  Not that it was a problem. She liked sex. It had its place and was enjoyable, yet nothing she couldn’t forgo if the situation wasn’t optimal. Or the guy wasn’t the easygoing sort.

  This wasn’t anywhere near an optimal situation.

  The McPherson was as far from easygoing as a man could be.

  So the fine ass in front of her was for show only.

  No touching.

  Marching out of the bedroom, she soon found the small laundry room stuck in a corner hall right outside the den. With the first load of laundry churning in the machine, she walked into the kitchen and sighed. He was going to owe her a big thank you when he awoke.

  She wasn’t holding her breath.

  He’d have a hangover, so he’d be grouchy. He wouldn’t want to discuss his predicament at first. He’d also soon find his stash of liquor was gone, hopefully for good. The tower of cardboard boxes filled with whiskey bottles was the first thing she tackled. After two hours of hard work, the kitchen was clean, the whiskey was gone, and the third load of laundry was in the dryer.

  She surveyed his den. The dirty dishes and empty bottles that had littered the trunk were gone and that was a good start. But the floor needed to be mopped, the rug in front of the fireplace needed to be aired, and the thick layer of dust on the furniture needed to be taken care of, too.

  This room was still a mess.

  Also a puzzle.

  The computer equipment was top-notch. As a photographer, she’d come to know first rate techie stuff when she saw it. His stereo and TV were high-end too, the clean-cut lines and symmetry of the pieces screamed luxury. The rug she stood on was likely Persian and if she had to guess, the long, leather couch in front of her cost thousands of pounds.

  The man knew good quality stuff and had no trouble spending money to get it.

  She’d known Malcolm McPherson had money. How could he not, with the fishing licenses and land? Yet he’d always struck her as an anachronism, someone strutting out of the past, dragging tapestries and golden crowns behind him.

  Now that wealth seemed to have leapt right into modern times with his son.

  Why would a man who had so much and so much to live for dive headfirst into depression? What had happened to him to descend into a bad case of depression?

  Why, he could do anything.
He could create a whole tourist empire here on Somairie. The island had beautiful beaches and stunning scenery. This was a paradise for birdwatchers and fishermen and golfers. Fingal could sport a dozen B&Bs and fill its long main street with more restaurants than any one tourist could visit.

  The possibilities crowded her mind.

  A man with ambition and intelligence could take this place and create a miracle. Clearly, the McPherson was smart. He wouldn’t have risen in the Marines as quickly as he had if he hadn’t been. Wasn’t he some kind of leader of a group or something? She frowned, trying to remember the gossip. But she’d never paid much attention to the worship-fest swirling around the heroic Royal Marine.

  So, whatever.

  He was smart. And modern, too. Look at all this techie stuff.

  What had he done instead, though? He’d walled himself in a castle tower like a male version of Sleeping Beauty. Lilly snorted. Time for someone to snap her fingers underneath his long nose and wake him up. Throwing a glance at the bedroom, she listened.

  Yep. Sleeping Beauty still snored.

  She’d take a duster to this den and do a bit of a sweep. If the great lord hadn’t risen by then, she’d bet the smell of fresh coffee and sizzling sausage would do the trick. Now that she had a good piece of the cleaning done, she was eager to get to her real goal.

  Talking to the McPherson. Talking him into what was best for him, and best for his land and villagers.

  The dusting didn’t take long, and the efficient whisk of the broom she’d found in the kitchen cupboard had cleaned most of the room when she ran into a problem.

  A problem that made her curiosity about him turn into deep concern.

  Underneath his big leather chair were guns.

  Lots of guns.

  “Dammit, McPherson,” she muttered, as she kneeled to peer under the seat. “You shouldn’t have guns when you’re drinking and depressed.”

  This would not do. Not in any way. She’d gotten rid of the whiskey for his own good. There’d be no way she’d let these guns stay here, waiting to be used.