Highlander's Sweet Promises

by Tarah Scott

  But hunky was gone.

  Vanished as if he’d never been.

  Her indignation swinging into something that felt annoyingly like disappointment, she scanned the cluttered room, even dropped to one knee to peer beneath the massive four-poster bed. But the effort only served to prove how well dust bunnies flourished in dark, protected places.

  The hottie Scottie with his yummy accent and dark scowls was nowhere to be seen.

  Equally strange, the room was warm and stuffy.

  Not a trace remained of the bone-numbing chill of only moments before.

  Common sense told her this couldn’t be happening, but a cascade of shivers spilled down her back all the same - until she spied the closed office door at the rear of the little room.

  Relief washed over her, swift and sweet.

  She wasn’t losing her grasp on reality.

  The lout had only slipped into Mr. Dimbleby’s office and as far as she was concerned, he could merry well stay there.

  For one tempting moment, she considered marching up to the door and yanking it open, but she dismissed the notion as quickly.

  The handsome devil wasn’t worth the energy.

  Especially since he’d reminded her of how long it’d been since a man had made her melt and tingle, or had caressed and savored her curves before sliding deep inside her in a fine, slow electra glide.

  How long it’d been since she’d yearned.

  Instead, she’d remember him as the perfect ending to a less than stellar day and head back to her bed-and-breakfast. If she hurried, she’d have time to shower and change before she had to escort her ghost-busters to Berkeley Square for their gala farewell dinner and séance.

  But a short while later, her fortunes took an even wilder turn as she stood in the lounge area of The Buxton Arms and read the scrawled message the front desk clerk had handed her when she’d picked up her key.

  Please call Mr. Percival Combe, Solicitor. Urgent.

  Mara’s brows drew together. The message gave a London listing, but who was Percival Combe? And what could a solicitor possibly want with her?

  Yet the message couldn’t have been for someone else. How many Mara McDougalls of Exclusive Excursions could be staying at the small inn?

  Only one, and well she knew it.

  Puzzled, she climbed the steep, carpet-covered stairs to her third-floor room. Not surprisingly, the phone rang the moment she opened the door. And as she sank onto the edge of the bed and reached for the receiver, her every instinct warned that something significant was about to happen.

  “Mara McDougall,” she answered, shutting her eyes.

  “Ahhh, Miss McDougall,” came a very distinguished reply. “Percival Combe here, with Combe and Hollingsworth. I’m so glad to have caught you.”

  Mara’s eyes snapped back open. “There must be some mistake,” she said, not at all sure she cared to be caught. “If this is about my current tour….”

  She tailed off, her palms dampening. No way did she wish to discuss her England: The Uncanny and The Inexplicable tour with a London solicitor.

  “This has nothing to do with your business,” he was saying, sounding all business indeed. “At least not directly. And you are the young woman I’ve been seeking. Your father was kind enough to give me your itinerary.”

  Mara’s stomach began to feel queasy. If a solicitor had gone to the trouble of contacting her father – in Philadelphia – then something must be seriously wrong.

  “Miss McDougall, would it be convenient for you to dine with me at the Wig and Pen Club this evening? I have something quite important to discuss with you.”

  Mara’s heart skittered with apprehension. “What sort of something?”

  “I’d rather not say over the phone, but you can be assured it is nothing bad. Quite the contrary, in fact.” He paused to draw a breath. “A driver can be at your hotel at half past six, and he’ll also return you safely after we’ve had dinner and discussed the matter.”

  “Ah...” She hesitated, curiosity getting the better of her. An evening at the exclusive dining establishment on the Strand sure beat attending a dinner séance with fifteen would-be psychics.

  Besides, they’d be too busy looking for spooks to care if she was there or not. Even so, she’d have to do some quick thinking. She couldn’t just take off without ensuring their evening ran smoothly.

  She couldn’t afford disgruntled clients.

  Not even wacky ones.

  Mr. Combe cleared his throat. “I hope you will not mind, but I’ve arranged for a friend of mine from the British Tourist Authority to accompany your ... eh ... charges to the dinner and séance in Berkeley Square this evening.”

  Heat shot up the back of Mara’s neck. “You’ve thought of everything,” she said, her pulse pounding with embarrassment.

  He knew about her tour. He might even think she was like her clients, believing in ghosts, faeries, and who knew what else was said to haunt the British Isles.

  Dear heavens.

  Mara took a deep breath, pushed back her bangs. “See here, sir, I’m not sure I like-”

  “Miss McDougall, it is crucial that I speak with you. Therefore it was necessary to be certain you could get away.” He waited a beat. “I’m also aware this was to be your last evening in England.”

  Was to be her last evening?

  Mara blinked, her heart thundering. He’d said that as if she’d be staying on.

  As if she wouldn’t be flying back to Newark the next morning.

  At once, a good deal of her mortification evaporated, replaced by a surge of fluttery excitement. If whatever he had to say would allow her to spend a few extra days in London, she was all for it.

  “Can you be ready at half past six?” Percival Combe prompted.

  Mara almost laughed out loud.

  Visions of Harrods and Covent Garden and long strolls through Hyde Park danced through her head. Mercy, she’d sell her soul for a few extra hours in London.

  “Miss McDougall?”

  She tightened her fingers on the receiver, her decision made. “I’ll be ready, yes.”

  I’ll be ready with bells on.

  Chapter Two

  “I what?”

  Mara stared at Percival Combe with disbelief. Her fork slipped from her fingers and clattered onto her plate, her clumsiness sending two spring peas sailing through the air. “A whole castle?”

  She swallowed at the solicitor’s nod, her face flaming as shocked silence swept the hallowed Wig and Pen Club and fellow diners swiveled their heads to stare. Not that she cared. Such news was well worth a few raised eyebrows.

  If she could believe it.

  With her luck, she’d probably misunderstood.

  Sheesh, she hadn’t even managed to find someone willing to invest in Exclusive Excursions when she’d hoped to find a partner not so long ago.

  Who would leave her a castle?

  Not even halfway convinced anyone would, she curled her fingers around her chair’s armrests and leaned forward. “Would you repeat that, please?” She hoped she didn’t have suspicion written all over her.

  Percival Combe smiled. “With pleasure,” he obliged, sounding as if such astounding disclosures were the merest commonplace. “My late client has bequeathed her holding, Ravenscraig Castle, to you.”

  Looking at him, Mara chewed her lip. Something bothered her and not just the improbability of becoming an overnight heiress. “This is extraordinarily hard to believe.” She looked across the table at him, wishing her doubt weren’t so palpable. “Where I come from, people just don’t go around inheriting castles.”

  “No, I don’t suppose they do.”

  “That’s right, and if anyone ever did, I can’t imagine a more unlikely candidate.” Skepticism beating all through her, she searched his face for a sign she’d fallen prey to someone’s warped sense of humor.

  But there was nothing.

  Far from it, he appeared the epitome of sincerity. Kindly-faced, grayi
ng, and with startling blue eyes, the sixty-something solicitor looked anything but the bearer of falsehoods.

  Even so, she had to know. “Are you sure this isn’t a joke?”

  “You have my solemn word,” he assured her. “Lady Warfield was most determined to see Ravenscraig go to you.”

  Mara’s brows lifted. “Lady Fiona Warfield?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh dear,” Mara gasped, and struggled for something better to say.

  She knew Lady Warfield.

  The eccentric old woman owned … no, apparently had owned Wychwood Hall in the Cotswolds and had graciously allowed Mara to escort tours through her home. She’d sometimes even accompanied the groups, claiming a fondness for Americans.

  She’d always been especially nice to Mara.

  “I’m sorry to hear she passed away,” she said, remembering the woman’s spritely walk and sparkling eyes. “I didn’t know. Wychwood wasn’t on my current itinerary. How-- I mean ….”

  “She slipped away in her sleep a month ago yesterday,” the solicitor said, understanding her unspoken question. “Quite peacefully, I was told.”

  Mara nodded her thanks. “She was a remarkable lady. A bit unconventional, but I liked that.” She swallowed against the sudden heat in her throat. “We got on well, but I can’t imagine why she’d remember me in her will.”

  “She had her reasons.” The solicitor took a sip of wine. “You might be surprised to learn she believed she knew you quite well.”

  Mara brows knitted. “I don’t see how.”

  “Ah, but you said yourself that she was unconventional.” He set down his glass, smiling. “Is it so surprising to learn that she saw the same trait in you?”

  That, at least, made sense.

  Mara knew what he meant.

  She did follow her own path in life, even taking pride in doing so. She was herself, and having not been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, she worked hard to achieve her goals. She was also aware that the things that mattered most to her often didn’t strike an accord with others.

  “Lady Warfield admired your spirit.” Percival Combe’s voice held a note of reminiscing. He leaned forward, pinning her with an intent blue gaze. “Even when she didn’t accompany you on your tours of Wychwood, she sometimes observed you from afar. She appreciated how you dealt with her staff.”

  “I see.” Mara didn’t, really.

  She’d only treated Wychwood’s employees and volunteers as she did everyone else.

  But perhaps that was it.

  Glancing aside, she noted more than the well-laid tables with their flickering candles and gleaming silver, the brilliance of crystal. Her inner eye caught the airs and undercurrents so often prevalent in posh places. The constant posturings of the hoity-toity as each one vied to outdo the others’ nonchalance.

  Though she’d definitely been at home in such circles, Lady Warfield would have taken wry amusement in the long-nosed looks still aimed at Mara’s table.

  Like as not, she’d have raised her own brow and lifted a glass at those-who-stare, letting them know she’d seen and disapproved of their snobbery.

  “Is that why she did this?” Mara fixed her most direct gaze on the solicitor. “Because we shared a few worldviews?”

  “Among other things.” Percival Combe angled his head, his expression as serious as her own.

  “What kind of other things?”

  “Nothing unpleasant, I assure you.”

  Mara doubted it. “Maybe I’d prefer to judge that myself.”

  She knew what was coming.

  The catch.

  There had to be one. Nothing came without strings. She smelled a stipulation as surely as she’d known her mushy vegetables would taste like boiled cardboard even before she’d tried them.

  “So what do I have to do?” She sat back to wait for the blow. “What’s the real reason I’m a beneficiary?”

  Percival Combe sighed. “Lady Warfield liked you. There was, however, more to her decision. It was your name, Miss McDougall. Quite simply your name.”

  “My name?”

  “Were you aware Lady Warfield was a Scotswoman?” he asked, again peering intently at her.

  Mara’s eyes widened. “I had no idea.” She shook her head, genuinely bewildered. “She never once mentioned Scotland and she spoke with such an English accent.”

  “A cultivated accent,” the solicitor said, watching her over the rim of his wine glass. “She came from Oban in the West Highlands, though not many knew. She was born a MacDou-”

  “MacDougall?” Mara nearly choked on her astonishment.

  Percival Combe set down his glass and nodded.

  Mara’s face grew hot. Now she knew why the name Ravenscraig had bothered her.

  It was the ancestral home of her clan.

  Leastways the seat of the lesser chieftain her branch of the MacDougalls hailed from.

  Her father even kept a faded photo of the castle framed above his desk. A photo carefully clipped from a Scottish magazine, not one he’d snapped himself, much to Hugh McDougall’s regret. No one in her family had ever been able to afford to make the trip, and in recent years her father’s health had proved too poor to risk the transatlantic flight.

  The closest they’d come was buying a house, albeit humble, at One Cairn Avenue. And even with such a Scottish-sounding name, the street was in a blue-collar corner of Philadelphia, not Scotland.

  “Sadly,” the solicitor was saying, “Lady Warfield’s husband, Lord Basil, did not share her great love for her homeland. Out of devotion to him, she allowed him to anglicize her. A decision she regretted in later years.”

  Mara shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t harbor any great affection for tartan and pipes either, preferring London with all its fascinations to peat bogs and sheep.

  Her nerves began to tighten. “Surely she didn’t think we were related?” she asked, her voice sounding a shade higher than usual. “My father spends all his time researching our ancestry. He would swoon over a direct blood tie to the MacDougalls of Ravenscraig, but our line goes back to John the Immigrant, an impoverished crofter who left Scotland in the mid-eighteen hundreds.”

  “Lady Warfield knew that,” the solicitor admitted, looking slightly chagrined. “We did a background investigation on you, hoping to discover a connection, however remote. Yet when our efforts failed, she still wanted you to have Ravenscraig.”

  “But why?” Mara puzzled. “There had to be a deeper reason.”

  The solicitor let out a sigh. “If you were as familiar with Scotland as your father appears to be, you would know family is everything to a Scot.” His expression went earnest again. “The clan system is generous, accepting a wide variety of name spellings. Each clan has members scattered across the globe, yet the bond remains powerful.”

  “I know,” Mara agreed, for a moment seeing her father bent over his papers and books, a plaid across his knees and zeal in his eye. “The Scottish Diaspora in their millions, each one proud to the bone and ever yearning for their home glen.”

  Percival Combe inclined his head. “Such a pull is strong, Miss McDougall. Even now, centuries after their day, the clans evoke deep emotions. To Lady Warfield, you were family. A MacDougall.”

  Mara touched her fingers to her temples, her mind still flailing. “Surely she knew someone more appropriate?”

  “You were her choice.” The solicitor leaned toward her, his blue gaze capturing her, roping her in. “She was the last surviving descendant of the clan’s original chieftain and she died childless. Under other circumstances, she might have selected a suitable heir from her family’s clan society. But through her marriage to Lord Basil, she’d alienated herself from the lot of them.”

  He sat back. “And that, my dear, is where you come in.”

  “You mean what I must do to make this happen.”

  “A stipulation, yes.” He cleared his throat. “You must fulfill a goal she wasn’t able to accomplish.”

 
Mara’s heart plummeted.

  She let out a windy sigh. Of course, it’d been too good to be true.

  “Please don’t tell me I have to spend the night in a haunted dungeon or try out medieval torture equipment. I’ve had all the spooks and weirdness I can handle lately.”

  The solicitor shook his head, warmth lighting his face. “Nothing quite so adventurous. In fact, Lady Warfield was confident you were the best-suited person for the task.”

  “How so?”

  “She felt your organizational talents would help you coordinate her wish to erect a MacDougall memorial on the castle grounds.”

  Mara sat up straighter, a surge of hope strengthening her. This wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. If the castle came along with funds, such a task didn’t sound difficult at all.

  There had to be more.

  Certain of it, she tilted her head. “So what else must I do?”

  “You must reunite the clan.” The solicitor watched her. “That, and make certain as many MacDougalls as possible attend the memorial’s unveiling ceremony.”

  Mara reached for her wine glass and drained it. Her benefactress had chosen unwisely. She was the last person who’d know how to bring a family together, much less mend a clan-sized rift.

  An only child, she knew solely about small families.

  Small, dysfunctional families, since her mother had run off when she was two, and with his nose always buried in genealogy records, her father hadn’t exactly invited interaction with the handful of relatives they did have.

  Mara sat back in her chair. “And if I fail?”

  The solicitor drew a deep breath. “If, after the monument’s completion and a fair attempt to establish good relations between the clan members and yourself as new chatelaine of Ravenscraig, the hard feelings toward my late client haven’t been resolved, you must leave.”

  “I see,” Mara said, surprised by the depth of her disappointment. “What would happen to the castle then?”

  “Simply put, you would retain half of the fortune Lady Warfield is leaving you and Ravenscraig would go to Scotland’s National Trust, the same as Wychwood went to the British National Trust.”