Laird of the Highlands: International Billionaires IX: The Scots

by Caro LaFever

  But that son and his pots of money were now lurking on her land.

  Forcing herself, she went over what she knew of him. The little that Will had told her. She knew he was smart; he’d graduated from Oxford with honors. She knew he was good at business; he’d started his own right out of university. She knew he was twenty-seven; although he appeared younger, far younger than her thirty, well-worn years.

  Now, she also knew he could be cruel. Unlike his father.

  Gold-digger.

  The spade nearly snapped when she jammed it into the granite wall by mistake.

  She was tediously familiar with that term. Had been since she’d married Gareth at eighteen. It was true her husband had a lot of money, and it was also true she’d married him for it. Yet, gold-digger implied she’d wanted the money for herself. Which wasn’t true at all.

  The spade shot into the ground once more with another forceful jab.

  The townsfolk of Brekelly, Wales, however, had not been eager to parse the details of her marriage. The only thing they’d seen and talked about was the prettiest girl in the town marrying the richest man in the surrounding area. The husband also happened to be more than thirty years older than the bride. Everything else was pointless.

  Her dying mam was pointless.

  Her young brother’s chance of landing in foster care pointless, too.

  Lorne Ross had some knowledge of her background, clearly. He probably had some security team snoop around Brekelly and ask some questions. But the fact his little weasel of a solicitor had offered quite a sum of money told her everything she needed to know.

  He didn’t know her at all.

  She was safe if she kept her cool.

  Straightening from her crouch, she surveyed her work. In a month or two, when the surge of tourists arrived, these flowers would be at their peak. The reputation of Castle Ross and its surrounding gardens would be assured for another season, even if the old laird had died, leaving his estate to a common woman.

  That tag, when she’d heard it, had hurt a bit.

  The last thing she needed right now was the wonderful, new laird showing his face and gaining admirers. The last thing she could afford to do was alert anyone in Pictloch about his presence.

  She needed to keep this quiet and keep being patient until he left.

  Ceri grabbed the empty tray and walked to the shed. By the time she’d planted the other flowers and then pruned back half of the old rose bushes curling around the new wooden trellises she and Will had installed last year, she was dead tired.

  She was also somewhat amused.

  Neither of the London peacocks had poked their heads from the castle.

  Was she that scary? Or perhaps the man was counting his pennies and deciding exactly how much he planned on offering her, although he was doomed to be disappointed.

  Chuckling, she cleaned her tools and stowed them away. Stepping out of the tool shed, she threw a wistful glance at her glass-enclosed herb garden before going down the path to her cottage.

  First, her duty.

  She had another solid week of work before she’d have a chance to focus on her passion. But once the castle opened and the money flowed in, she could spend more time with her concoctions and her plans.

  After a shower and a change of clothes, she felt revived enough to fix herself a couple of eggs on toast. She fingered her mobile a few times, thinking about calling Will’s solicitor. Except Mr. Gordon lived in Pictloch and she didn’t want to take the chance of letting anyone know the new laird was in residence.

  Only for a day or so at the most, though.

  He’d offer. She’d refuse. He’d leave. Her life would return to normal.

  There really was nothing to worry about. Will had made sure the transfer of his estate to her was airtight. And there wasn’t enough money in the world to make her give the castle and the responsibility to his disinterested son. Eventually, Mr. London and his solicitor would figure it out and leave.

  She merely had to be patient.

  Walking to the window, she looked at the castle. The sunlight had dimmed, a cluster of clouds covering the sky. The castle tower, however, blazed with light. Ceri frowned. That was far more light than usual, far more light than she’d placed in the stairwell and upper chambers, so the tourists wouldn’t get lost in the gloom.

  Her frown deepened.

  How had he got so much light in there? She hadn’t noticed any deliverymen, but she had been in the back of the garden for most of the day. The front of the castle lay out of her sight.

  What was he doing?

  To her castle!

  Her hand tightened on the teacup, yet Will’s voice came from her memory, soothing her worry.

  “Lorne’s a good lad,” he’d said once when they’d hiked across to Ben Ross. “He’s settled in London and that’s where he belongs. Still, he understands the history of this place and respects it.”

  The man might be a bugger and a drewgi, but she trusted Will’s judgment, and she wasn’t going to worry herself sick. Whatever he was doing in the castle, he wasn’t going to destroy his own family’s heritage. She only had to wait until he was gone, and then she could put to rights whatever he was doing now.

  She simply needed to be patient.

  Turning away, she decided to go to bed early, since it appeared she wasn’t going to get Lorne Ross’s offer today. Perhaps if she worked hard tomorrow, she’d have some time to play with her herbs. Her bed looked amazingly welcoming as she slipped off her clothes and sank into the covers.

  Thud! Thud! Thud!

  Ceri shot up from her warm nest.

  Thud! Thud! Thud!

  Someone was at her front door. She had a good bet on who that was. But why had he waited all day? Why had he come at—she glared at the bedside clock—at 9:35 p.m.?

  The bugger.

  He probably thought to surprise her or shock her.

  Or catch her naked.

  She’d caught that look of his. She’d seen the tightening of his hands and the slight droop of his mouth. Along with the label of gold-digger, she’d acquired other names like siren, and seductress, and sorceress at the tender age of eighteen. With those names had come her weapons. Weapons she’d used to play the part she’d been cast in and protect her heart and soul at the same time.

  Being perceived as sexy and savvy gave a girl armor.

  She’d learned the tricks. So quickly and thoroughly, even her mother had been fooled.

  “You were such a loving child,” her mam had whispered on her deathbed. “What happened to that girl?”

  That girl had died. As harshly and horridly as Dilys Olwen herself.

  But for five years, Ceri hadn't been forced to play with her weapons or use her tricks to protect herself. For five years, she’d been able to be normal. Only when Lorne Ross had eyed her with that familiar disdain had the old role been resurrected. Instinct had taken over. The armor had formed around her and she’d used one of her tricks with him. Unlike Gareth, she hadn’t been able to tell if her eye thing had made him hot. Yet, something about her had.

  But now she’d thought about, had time to calm down, she wasn’t going to play that role again.

  She didn’t have to. Will had saved her.

  Whipping off the covers, she yanked on her oldest pair of jeans that bagged on her behind, and a heavy wool shirt she’d kept when she’d gone through Will’s things after his death.

  Thud! Thud! Thud!

  Her irritation billowed as she stomped down the hallway in her bare feet. Throwing open the door, she tightened her jaw at what she saw, even though she’d guessed it was them. “What do you want?”

  His weasel stood in front of him. Protecting him?

  Was she really that scary?

  Ceri narrowed her eyes. If she needed to, she had her weaponry in reserve and could be very scary indeed.

  “Hello, Mrs. Llewellyn.” The solicitor tried a smile.

  “My name is not Llewellyn.” The tough tone o
f her words made his smile freeze. “It’s Olwen.”

  Lorne Ross was tall enough to see over his weasel’s head. His gaze never left her face. His mouth was closed. Both men still wore their dandified, utterly unsuitable suits.

  She merely needed to be patient, because these men didn’t fit. Didn’t fit into the castle or the culture. “Was there something you wanted?”

  “May we come in and discuss something with you?” The solicitor’s smile returned, though it was a tight-lipped smirk now.

  She wanted to slam the door in their faces, but her brain halted her action. The best way to have them leave was to get them to understand. She wasn’t budging. She wasn’t selling. Leaving the door open, she marched to the simple kitchen table. “Say your piece and leave.”

  The weasel—what was his name?—glanced at her before shuffling into the cottage and carefully easing into the nearest chair.

  His client strode to the far wall of the kitchen, as far from the table as he could get. He folded his arms and leaned on the whitewashed stone wall. His gaze never wavered from hers. “Get on with it, Reid.”

  Reid. That was the weasel’s name. Ceri decided not to sit down, either. She didn’t want the tall man peering down at her as if she were beneath him.

  A look of pained resignation crossed Reid’s face before he pulled out a sheaf of official-looking papers and coughed. “I’ve been consulting with my client all day.”

  She waited for the offer with grim delight.

  “He’s not interested in offering you any money.” The solicitor grimaced in clear disagreement. “We’re here to offer you some advice instead.”

  Shock crushed any delight, replacing it with rage. “I don’t need any advice.”

  Reid shuffled the papers on the table. “There are some things here that could spell trouble for you.”

  “Really?” Crossing her arms in front of her, she ignored the trembling inside. “And what would those be?”

  “Mr. Ross has had some investigation done on your background, Mrs. Llewellyn.”

  “Ms. Olwen.” She gritted her teeth at him.

  Reid quickly looked back at the papers. “It appears you’ve done this before.”

  The old, painful role slipped right over her in a smothering, tight clench. All the armor she’d carefully cultivated during the years with Gareth came crashing around her. She dropped her hands to her hips, pulled out her weapons, and smiled. “Done what, precisely?”

  Both men went taut. The weasel finally glanced away and then back at her as if compelled. His eyes widened behind his glasses. Lorne Ross remained still, his gaze never leaving her face.

  “Um.” Reid coughed. “Found an older man for your profit.”

  She’d known exactly what they were implying, yet the words stung like poisoned needles. To shield her from any more pricks, she threw on another layer of her role. Leaning on the stone wall, she arched her body and did her eye thing. The thing that Gareth had always fallen for when she wanted to distract him. “Is that what I did?”

  In predictable fashion, the weasel’s gaze dropped to her breasts. Now she’d wished she’d picked something other than an old shirt in order to confuse these men even more. But it appeared whatever she wore, if she flaunted it, her body always did the trick.

  The man’s eyes glazed.

  “Reid.” His voice was gentle, exactly as before. Gentle and very dangerous.

  “Yes, sir.” The older man’s gaze never left her.

  Ceri smiled at him. The weasel. Not the dangerous one.

  A tentative smile edged along his mouth—

  “Reid.”

  The solicitor jumped in his chair, showing he’d detected the danger. “Yes, sir.”

  His client straightened from the wall and walked with a measured pace to the table. “State the terms.”

  “Right.” He shuffled the papers and coughed again. “You’re to be off the property within seventy-two hours.”

  She let go of the arch of her body as her breath gasped out.

  “You’ll be allowed to take any personal belongings.” The little man waved his hand at the mishmash of dearly loved items she’d collected since she’d arrived here. “However, nothing of value and nothing of the family.”

  Ceri closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. She imagined Will right at her side and for a bittersweet moment, she wished he was. She wished he could let his son know she hadn’t stolen anything from the father, she’d only given. Given her brain and her strength. Given her dreams and her hopes.

  “You’ll sign the papers I’ve drawn up.” The crackle of those papers pierced her illusions.

  She opened her eyes.

  To meet Lorne Ross’s penetrating inspection.

  “What do those papers say?” she said, keeping her voice calm.

  “That you have no rights to Ross land.” The weasel looked at her, his smile now smug. “That you tricked an old man and you’re sorry.”

  “Sorry?” She didn’t drop her gaze. She didn’t move her body. She didn’t smile. Her heart battered in her chest, yet she held her line, held her determined grip on what Will had given her. Not just the castle and his lands, but his trust. “I’m not sorry at all.”

  “Is that so, Mrs. Llewellyn?” His son’s words whispered over her like soft spikes. “Ye will be, though. Ye will be.”

  Chapter 3

  Ceri had never been very fond of Chief Inspector Phillip Bruce. The man was a pompous windbag. She’d thought that the first time she’d served him when she’d been the new waitress at The Rose and Thistle pub. Her opinion hadn’t changed, although her circumstances had. He could no longer pinch her arse when she came to his table. Will had made sure the man knew to keep his hands to himself.

  But she had no choice now. Her time was running out.

  “Well, well.” The chief tapped his finger on his chin in apparent contemplation of her explanation and her demand. “He’s finally come home then, has he?”

  This was not Lorne Ross’s home. Not anymore. She wanted to yell the words, but made herself smile instead. “Yes. And I want him expelled from the castle.”

  Phillip Bruce grunted before easing back in his chair and gazing out the one small window overlooking the station’s tiny parking lot.

  She kept her hands on her big purse she’d strategically placed on her lap when she’d settled into the wooden chair across from his desk. The leather bag bulged with a water bottle, a book, and her coat. She didn’t want this man to get distracted by anything about her. “I want him off my land.”

  The conversation two nights ago had ended with her telling them to leave. They had. The weasel had given her a smile, though, a smile that told her they had more artillery. Lorne Ross had shifted his focus to his castle and had walked out of her home like she didn’t even exist.

  They were still there in the castle. With their blazing lights.

  You’re to be off the property within seventy-two hours.

  She couldn’t be patient any longer. Risking the chance of gossip spreading about the new laird was a hazard she’d have to face. Because Mr. London and his weasel were plotting against her. Her gut told her so. She needed to make the first strike before she lost control of the situation.

  “Hmm.” Chief Bruce stroked his meaty jowls. “That won’t be easy.”

  “What do you mean?” Her hands tightened to white, all her apprehensions about coming to the police flooding back. “I own the property.”

  “True, the old laird did leave it to ye, didn’t he?” He gave her a smirk as if he were imagining why Will had done it. “But we’re talking about the new laird now. There has to be some respect.”

  “He can have the title.” She waved a hand in the air. “I don’t care about that.”

  “Well, ye couldn’t really wear the title yourself, could ye?” His smirk turned close to a leer. “Ye don’t have the necessary equipment, eh?”

  He made her feel sleazy. The familiar feeling, one she hadn’t felt
in years, made her anger rip through the remnants of her patience. “I’m telling you to do your job and throw him out.”

  Leaning over his desk, his bushy eyebrows rising, he glared at her. “Telling me? My job is to keep the peace. Are ye telling me ye aim to break the peace, young lady?”

  The Chief Inspector wasn’t going to help her, just as she’d expected. Yet she’d hoped she was wrong. She’d hoped this man would follow the law as he should. She’d imagined the satisfaction of a large contingent of policemen marching into her castle and dragging a whining weasel and Mr. London out of there. Throwing those city clothes on the lawn before making the two men pack them into the absurd limousine she’d seen at the end of the castle’s parking lot.

  But he wasn’t going to do it for her. She could tell by the slight sneer in his voice and the avid look in his eyes.

  A sick brew of panic swarmed in her stomach.

  “I think not.” He settled into his high-backed leather chair, apparently taking her silence for acquiescence. The smirk crossed his face again. “My advice to ye, Ceri—”

  “I don’t need your advice.” She stood, her legs unsteady, her hands grasping the purse to her chest. “I’ll figure out something.”

  He humphed. “My advice to ye is to charm the son like ye did with the father.”

  The punch of his words slammed right to the heart of her.

  “After all, it’s something ye do quite well, eh?”

  His last slur made her want to vomit. Only the Chief Inspector had ever made her cringe. Everyone else in Pictloch had treated her with courtesy and respect. Whether it was Will’s influence or just traditional Scots friendliness, she hadn’t known. But she’d treasured the acceptance.

  The appearance of the new laird, though, would change everything. She knew it in her gut. Pictloch would have to choose and they wouldn’t choose her.

  Instead, they’d gossip.

  Instead, they’d judge.

  This was almost exactly like her past. Exactly like what she’d experienced in Wales. The realization made her want to scream and wail. Or pound someone. Someone named Lorne Ross. The man who’d come and turned her new world of shiny opportunity into the old world she’d escaped from five years ago.