by Caro LaFever
His da had loved the paintings his ancestors had collected through the years. The David Allan and Alexander Nasmyth landscapes. The Joshua Reynolds portrait. As a child, he’d been subjected to endless fatherly lectures about the history of each piece, the importance to the family. His mother had chosen to discuss the use of color and structure in the paintings, trying to show him the beauty. He’d never been able to grasp either of the lessons to any great degree, much to his parents’ disappointment.
“You could take most of the antiques, as well.” Reid tapped the papers in his hands, clapping in apparent excitement.
The antiques had been his mum’s obsession. She’d spent hours polishing the Victorian mahogany settee, and had spent several months restoring a pearwood chest of drawers she’d found in the basement. A Georgian leftover from some ancestor or another. He’d never understood the draw. Furniture was made to sit on and sleep on. Not obsess over.
But that was his mum, and he’d loved her.
And that was his da. And he’d loved him, too.
Therefore, the paintings and antiques were important.
“If the castle doesn’t have any antiques or treasures, then the tours will peter out.” The solicitor’s voice rose with fervor. “The woman won’t be able to make any money, which means she won’t be able to pay the estate taxes.”
Lorne kept his gaze on the man.
“Don’t you see, sir?” Reid looked at him, puzzled. And yes, distressed. “You can have the property for a song. She’ll give it to you for pennies. That would be a suitable punishment for what she did to your father, and I understand that’s your true aim.”
Logical. The plan was sound. However, something deep inside rebelled. The same something that had made him reject Doc’s suggestion about finding women. “No.”
The solicitor exhaled, a loud, long sigh. “Why not?”
“I won’t pay for something that’s already mine. Not even pennies.” Walking to one of the several fluorescent wall sconces he’d had installed two days ago, he flipped it off. “She will leave.”
“Mr. Ross—”
“Ye will leave, too.” He’d had enough of the man’s irritating chatter. Reaching over, he flipped off another light. “I’m going to sleep.”
Reid glanced at the window, blazing with afternoon sun. “Now?”
“Yes.” He shrugged off his suit coat. Since he’d been at Oxford, he’d used this midday ritual to gain more sleep and center himself. An hour every afternoon to quiet his brain had left him more time at night to code. “Go away.”
“I suppose you’ll have your way, even though I do believe there are easier ways to get this done.” The solicitor clutched the papers to his chest, still not moving towards the open double doors. “After all, possession,” he waved one white hand at the computers, “is nine-tenths of the law. And it looks like you plan to stay for a while.”
Lorne moved to the old cedar armoire his father had deemed solid enough to handle a child’s energetic and careless use. But he’d never been sloppy about his things, never negligent. He supposed some would say the four months he’d let slip away before coming here could be considered an indifferent act. Yet, that was not the case. The castle and the estate had been simply compartmentalized into the box of things he needed to attend to when he got back to London.
The box was now open and he was attending to the contents.
He stripped off his shirt.
His solicitor coughed and shuffled toward the doors. “I’ll leave, then.”
Lorne shook out his linen shirt and hung it by the other six shirts he’d brought here. Aligning the hanger precisely two inches from another, he studied the wardrobe of pinstripe suits and crisp ties.
He’d miscalculated when he’d packed.
That irritated him, too.
He slipped his phone from his pocket and tapped one key.
“Skiff.” Doc’s voice bounced in his ear after only one ring. “You’re alive.”
His eyes closed at the nickname, a name he’d earned for being frosty when they’d first met. He hadn’t been that, of course, he’d merely been himself. “I’m here.”
“In your castle?” His friend laughed. “The great laird ruling his domain?”
“I need different clothes.” Toeing off his Hugo Boss loafers, he leaned down, plucked them up and placed them carefully into the armoire. “Jeans.”
A silence fell, filled only by Doc’s breathing. “What?” he finally said.
“Jeans. Boots.” He unzipped his pants and let them drop to the floor. “Jumpers.”
“You haven’t worn jeans since we were in school.”
That was true. Jeans were for relaxing, and Lorne hadn’t had time to relax in the last five years. However, he didn’t know why that was relevant, so he ignored the comment. “Can ye send those items to me?”
“I hate to break it to you, old chap.” Hugh’s voice went from shocked to amused. “But there are places where you can buy clothes in Scotland.”
“Is that so?” He scooped up his wool pants and slid them over another hanger. “That would mean I’d have to choose them myself though, and I can’t do that.”
He had once chosen his own clothes. Chosen whatever seemed appropriate to wear. His seven college friends had consistently told him he was wrong. He’d wear jeans to a fancy party or a tie to a Friday pub crawl. He didn’t like to be wrong. So he ended up letting them tell him what to wear. Doc had continued the tradition as their business grew.
His friend grumbled. “I don’t have time to go shopping for you. We’ve got a new deal blowing apart in the States.”
Lorne ignored him, heading to the window to drop the heavy brocade curtains. The room went dark. He pulled off the elastic band holding his hair in place.
“Did you hear me?”
“Aye.” He turned to the bed. As a child, the bed had intimidated him. The crimson and cream canopy had hovered above him like a ghost. The wide expanse of the mattress had made him feel small and lost. The elaborately carved bed posts had felt like four spikes, boxing him in.
He lay down on the cool damask coverlet, closing his eyes to the bed and the memories.
“You heard me, but you don’t care.”
A frown creased his brow at his friend’s words. Why should he care when this was the part of the business Hugh took care of? He’d never asked his friend to care about the computer code for the half-a-dozen games he’d developed. That wasn’t his friend’s job. Confusion made his voice go hard. “You’ll take care of it.”
Doc grumbled again.
Lorne tried to understand, yet the whole thing made no sense. “I know ye will,” he offered.
“Yeah, yeah.” The words were resigned. “I suppose I will.”
“So you’ll send the clothes.” It wasn’t a question.
His partner laughed. “There’s my man. Always focused. Always on point.”
Lorne waited.
“How long do you plan on being there? I thought this was going to be a short trip?”
He hadn’t told his friend about the issues. He’d merely stated he was going to Scotland and would be back. But now it was clear more needed to be shared because he’d have to stay here for a while. He had to make sure his hold on the estate was clear before he returned to London. “There’s a woman.”
Another silence fell. Not even Hugh’s breathing came through the line.
“She’s leaving today. I told her to.”
“What?” His friend’s voice rasped on the one word. “You have a woman.”
“No.” His frown deepened to a scowl.
“Tell me, Skiff, please tell me you finally have a woman.”
“She’s leaving.”
“Knowing you, that doesn’t surprise me.” A beep buzzed in the background. “I have another call. Probably the deal in the States.”
“I need clothes,” Lorne stated the obvious just to make sure.
“Okay, Skiff. I’ll take care of it. Talk t
o you soon.” The call clipped off.
He laid the phone on the bed and turned off his brain. But right before his conscience went dark, the woman slid inside.
The billowing black curls.
The alabaster skin.
The lush lips.
Lorne snapped his mind shut.
Chapter 5
Ceri scrambled over the low stone wall marking the edge of Ross land. Since her errands into town had nothing to do with groceries or shopping, she’d elected to walk the two miles back and forth. It gave her time to think, and she always needed to get exercise to stave off her body’s inclination to put on the pounds.
The sun shone bright for once, gilding the tops of the mountains with white gold and burning off the last of the mist floating between the trees. This path was one of her favorites, winding across the moor with its light dusting of marsh violets and red currants, then dipping into the forest itself.
She took in a deep breath of clean pine. The quiet swish of the wind and the whistling call of a bird steadied her.
As a child, she’d been of the town. Her mam had no use for the Welsh countryside, preferring the safety of Brekelly and the convenience of fast food and packaged goods. It hadn’t been until her marriage and her isolation on the hill looking over the town that Ceri had found her passion.
The garden. Her herbs.
It had been the one area of his home Gareth had no interest in. He cared about the inlaid wood of the foyer’s floor and the draperies in the dining room. He cared about the glass chandelier being cleaned every week and how his staff dressed. But he hadn’t cared about the garden other than that it produced enough fresh flowers to decorate when he entertained.
So the garden had become hers. Hers to plan and plant. She’d dived into learning about every piece of information regarding bushes and trees and herbs. Her brain had grown tired of worrying about what to wear somewhere in the first year of their marriage, and since Gareth had vetoed any university classes, she’d been more than eager to grasp onto this new interest.
The interest had become her passion.
She marched down the rock-and-dirt path, past the roaring stream leading to the loch. Keeping her thoughts quiet, she let herself take in the beauty of the home she’d come to love and cherish.
Just as much as Will had.
That’s what she needed to remember. She cared about the highland cattle and sheep herds Will had carefully cultivated into a thriving income. She cared about the castle and keeping its history alive. And more than anything, she cared about the gardens and herbs and the future she and Will had planned.
She’d been forced out of her first garden when Gareth had died, leaving his entire estate to a distant cousin.
She wouldn’t be forced out this time.
Coming up the last hill, she stopped to look at Castle Ross. It stood on a rocky ridge overlooking the stream and the dark forest. The white stone walls glistened in the sun, the four-squared tower turret, with its slate roof, pushed the pride of the Ross heritage into the blue sky.
A wave of another kind of passion rose inside.
This was her place.
Will had given it to her, trusted her.
Not his son.
A truck lumbered toward the castle, along the lane leading from the local road. Narrowing her eyes, she caught the name painted on the side.
“Oh, hell, no.” Her hands fisted. “No you don’t, you bugger.”
She stomped down the hill, picking up her pace as the truck came to a stop and two men emerged. Walking to the back, they began to unload…
A satellite dish. Just as she expected.
Malu cachu.
Exactly right. Bullshit.
Elis had tried to convince both she and Will the cottage at least needed Wi-Fi.
“Ye could build a website for the castle, Sis,” he’d pointed out. “Ye could have the tours booking online instead of handling all those phone calls.”
“I like talking to the booking agents,” she said. “I like chatting with them about the coming season.”
“There’s a ton of TV programs you could get too.” Her brother had turned his focus to Will. “Football and rugby as well.”
Will had laughed and told him he’d rather spend time in the forest. Ceri had told him the last thing she needed was to sit on her rump and get fat. Elis had given up in disgust after a dozen conversations. If she wasn’t going to have a satellite dish installed for her beloved brother, she sure as hell wasn’t going to let it be installed for the wanker who was trying to take away her castle.
“Stop.” She ran the last few steps to the truck. “Stop right now.”
The two men turned in unison, their eyes widening.
She didn’t know if it was because her hair must be falling out of her ponytail, or because she’d raced over to them like a banshee. All she cared was they stop.
“There’ll be no installing that.” She pointed at the large metal dish. “Not here. Not ever.”
One of the men, the tall one with a bushy brown mustache, pulled out a work order. “This is Castle Ross, right?”
Folding her arms in front of her, she scowled at him. “Yes, but I didn’t order this.”
“It says here a Mr. Lorne Ross ordered it.” His mustache twitched. “Is there a person here by that name?”
“Not for long,” she muttered.
“We’ve come all the way from Inverness.” The other man, a short, grumpy-looking sort, grimaced. “We’ve got a paid order to install this on the tower.”
Ceri glanced up at her precious tower and gave it a scowl, too. Or actually, she gave the man daring to live there the scowl. “Nope. Not happening.”
The front door blew open and the weasel emerged, his face shining with pleasure. He glanced her way, then ignored her. “You’re here. Mr. Ross told me to keep an eye out for you.”
“So there is a Lorne Ross here.” The mustache lifted as the man smiled with satisfaction.
“Yes, yes.” The portly man shuffled back, waving his white hands. “Come in.”
The two workmen gave her one more look, this time a dismissive one, and moved forward, lugging the ugly dish between them.
What would happen when the first tourist bus drove into the parking lot? The visitors would gaze at the beautiful, ancient Castle Ross only to see an ultra-modern, metal thing hanging from the tower?
Not on her life. Not ever.
She stalked forward, ignoring the men, all three of them. None of them was the true nemesis and none of them deserved her attention.
“Mrs. Llewellyn.” The weasel tried to block her way, but she stormed right past him, heading for the circular stone stairway leading to the tower.
“Mrs. Llewellyn!”
She continued to ignore him as she paced up the stairs. Her whole body steamed with anger and her brain could only think of one thing.
Confronting Lorne Stupid Ross.
Telling him what he was doing was endangering the castle’s reputation.
Yelling at him for putting Pictloch’s future in jeopardy.
Was he that oblivious? Could he be that ignorant?
She went right for the highest bedroom. Her gut told her that’s where she’d find the man. Will had told her it had been Lorne’s room when he’d been a child. The news had surprised her because the room held a classic example of Adam-style interior design. The oak wood ceiling and paneled walls were carved in the French boiserie technique, a mode made famous almost three hundred years ago. Why would a parent put a kid into a room like that? Especially a kid who’d grow into a man who didn’t have a clue about the importance of his heritage?
Racing to the carved double doors, she threw them open with a crash.
The room was pitch black.
Had she been wrong?
A tall, white wraith rose from the bed. In the darkness, the only thing she saw was the frame of the creature’s shoulders, the faint outline of the head. The distant clamor of Will’s old sto
ries about a ghost clattered in her mind.
“What are ye doing?”
Not a ghost. It was him. That soft, dangerous voice. The gentle ruthlessness in his tone.
Sleeping naked? In the middle of the day? Lorne Ross was more than odd. More than eccentric.
He was plain weird.
Ceri didn’t care that he was naked. She’d seen naked. In fact, this worked to her advantage. Striding over to the light switch, she flicked it on.
Nothing happened.
What had he done? Will had the wiring looked at last autumn, right after they’d closed the castle for the season. There’d been some small repairs, but much to both of their relief, the cost had been minimal.
“What are ye doing?” If anything, his voice grew softer, lighter.
She tried to ignore the shiver running down her spine. “What have you done with the lights?”
“I replaced them.” He didn’t move from the bed and yet, he seemed to invade her space even from far across the large room.
“Sir!” The weasel appeared at the doorway, his face filled with mortification. “I couldn’t stop her.”
“I can see that.”
“Where are the lights, dammit?” She moved her hand along the wood, the memory of the new blazing lights shining from these windows coming back to her. “You had no right to put in new lights.”
“Don’t turn on the lights.”
His words were marginally harder and she dismissed them right as her fingers touched the circular tube of some kind of light. She was sure of it. “Ah!” she cried as the brazen flash of fluorescent lit the room.
“Mr. Ross.” His solicitor’s expression went from mortification to distress. “I’ll call your security.”
“How did she get in?”
Ceri swung around to glare at the man still sitting on the bed.
The glare froze on her face.
His hair slid to his shoulders, a fire of gold-and-red curls. The color was even more pronounced because of the whiteness of his skin. She’d been right, he was whip-thin. Still, he wasn’t scrawny. His biceps were taut and bunched, his pectorals hard and flat, partially covered with a thatch of red hair. Long, naked legs stretched out on the bed ending with rather large, bare feet.
