Laird of the Highlands: International Billionaires IX: The Scots

by Caro LaFever

  “He can’t offer us enough money to get us to agree,” Greg Carnegie charged into the conversation once more.

  “Agree to what?”

  “Doc. This isn’t your fight.”

  “We need those castle tours,” Rose added. “That’s the lifeblood of the village.”

  “Ah.” The stranger, who seemed to have inserted himself into the community within minutes, paused, his expression growing pensive. “Now we come to the heart of the problem.”

  “Yes.” Rose’s gaze was frank. “And what are you going to do about it?”

  “Me?” With an exaggerated gasp that made one villager laugh, Hugh Brooks pointed at his chest. “Why, I have nothing to do with it.”

  “That’s right,” the dangerous voice said from above. “Ye don’t.”

  “Except I’m always here to help you, old chap.” With bounding steps, he finally did what his friend had demanded and climbed the stairs to come to his side. “Reid, is it?”

  “Yes, sir.” The weasel sidled behind his employer.

  Ceri stepped back into the crowd, but kept her gaze on the two men. They were such a contrast. Lorne Ross all tied up in his London finest, Hugh Brooks as casual as you please.

  “I don’t think you need this guy around, Skiff.” The stranger waved at the solicitor. “His type only makes matters more complicated.”

  “Well.” Reid’s chest expanded in outrage. “I’m here to protect Mr. Ross’s position.”

  “I told him to leave.”

  “You told the woman to leave, too, and she’s clearly still here.” Hugh Brooks smiled down at Ceri. “So I think we need to have a new plan.”

  For a moment, Lorne Ross looked at her, his eyes blank again, yet now she detected something of the real man behind the void. Something alive with frustration and energy and vitality.

  Or maybe she was being a fool.

  “I think,” his friend continued, “we both need to get to know everyone here and find out what will make everyone happy.”

  She would not be happy until Lorne Ross left. Suddenly, her hopes rose. If this was his partner and friend, wouldn’t he see Will’s son belonged in London, not here? Instead of thinking of this Hugh Brooks fellow as a hindrance and ruining everything, maybe she should be looking at him as a godsend.

  Ceri beamed her best smile his way.

  Hugh beamed right back.

  And something ugly skittered into Lorne Ross’s blank eyes.

  Chapter 8

  “Come on, Skiff.” Doc’s voice rang from his bedroom down the hall. “Time to get going.”

  He’d put him in the only other inhabitable room in the tower—a room called the King’s room, since, according to legend, good King David had once stayed there. Hugh had laughed when presented with the ornately carved mahogany bed and its matching armoire and nightstands.

  Lorne kept his concentration on his code.

  His friend appeared in the open doorway of the bedroom. “No getting around it. I can’t do this for you.”

  “What?” But he knew what Doc was referring to.

  “You’re the laird, not me.” His partner went right at the problem as he usually did. “I was able to get all of them to leave in fairly good spirits. Still, they expect you in town to discuss what needs to be done.”

  He clicked off the code, knowing his friend wasn’t going to let this go. “I’m not going to let strangers walk through my castle.”

  Hugh sauntered to the bed and sat down. “According to several villagers I met downstairs, the castle is Ceri’s.”

  He grunted.

  “Yes, that is the correct male response to what I can only describe as the pinnacle of female beauty.” A soft laugh came from the bed. “Lust.”

  Turning, he stared at his friend. “I’m not lusting after the woman.”

  “The woman.” His friend eyed him back. “She is that for you, isn’t she?”

  Most of the time, he and his partner were on the same page. Unlike other people who surprised him or managed to misunderstand everything he said, Hugh Brooks got him. Yet this time, much to his annoyance, he didn’t understand what his friend meant. “What are ye talking about?”

  “Let’s see.” Doc tapped his chin. “The woman owns your castle.”

  “No.”

  “She lives in a cottage not more than a short walk from your bedroom.”

  The observation was simple and straightforward. Lorne couldn’t fathom why it made his skin heat.

  “Interesting,” Hugh said. “No comment this time.”

  He shot to a stand and paced to the cedar armoire. “I need to unpack my new clothes.”

  After the crowd of villagers had left, with Hugh waving and smiling them on their way, there’d been boxes to unload. His friend’s Range Rover had been filled with box after box. Lorne had frowned and told him he didn’t need all this. Hugh had laughed and told him he’d see. That had made no sense, so he’d ignored his friend and started bringing everything in.

  The boxes lined one wall of the bedroom and were stacked waist high.

  “No, no. We’re not done exploring this topic quite yet.”

  He walked to the first tower of boxes and ripped it open.

  “All right.” Hugh’s voice was mild. “You unpack while we talk about your woman.”

  Your woman?

  He couldn’t fathom those two words together. At Oxford, after a year of fruitlessly searching for a girl who got him, he’d given up for good. There’d be no woman for Lorne Ross until he’d made his fortune and had more to offer. And he’d been fine with that. He’d had so many other things that were far more important. The business, his code, his games. Though he now had more to offer a woman, to think the Llewellyn woman, with her over-the-top beauty and scheming mind, would be a fit for him was ludicrous.

  He swung around to stare at his friend. “She’s going to leave.”

  “Doesn’t look like it to me.” Doc lounged on the bed, his eyes twinkling. “She marched right through the garden to her cottage as if she owned the place.”

  “She’ll leave. I’ll make her.” He swung back to the box—it was filled with jeans. A half-dozen pair, at least. “I told ye I needed a pair of jeans.”

  “You told me you needed jeans. Plural. And boots. Plural. And jumpers. Plural.”

  Doc had a sense of humor. He’d known that from the moment he’d met him, and hadn’t cared. Most of the time, the humor hadn’t gotten in the way of their partnership. Hugh laughed and joked, Lorne ignored and worked. Yet right now, he had the compulsion to go to the bed and throttle his friend.

  Shaking the impulse off, he instead, took out the jeans and carefully piled them in the bottom of the armoire.

  “You’re going to have to get another closet, Skiff. Or perhaps you can take some of these clothes to the cottage.”

  He blinked.

  Grabbing the next box, he ripped it open. Four sets of boots, going from hiking to casual wear, filled the container. He took them out and put them below the chest, right by the clawed wooden feet. Focusing on nothing else, he arranged them in a neat row.

  “Let’s get back to the topic, shall we?”

  He stood and went to the next box.

  “She’s got a claim on your property. Wouldn’t it be better to work with her, rather than against her?”

  Another box got ripped open, revealing an assortment of wool and tweed jumpers.

  “Skiff?”

  Something savage rose inside at the thought of working with Ceri Llewellyn. He jerked around and glowered at his friend. “She seduced my father, ye wanker. There’s no sodding way I’m going to work with her. Or lust after her, either.”

  “Interesting.” Hugh cocked his head. “Swearing. My partner swearing about a woman.”

  “You’re a nutter.” He turned to the box and grabbed the jumpers.

  His partner went quiet for a while, allowing him to concentrate on folding each jumper in exactly the right way.

  “I
don’t think she seduced your father,” Hugh finally said.

  The soft words yanked him back to the unwanted conversation. He smoothed his palm across the last of the tweeds before swinging around to stare at his friend. “How the bloody hell do ye know?”

  “Swearing again.” Doc’s mouth quirked. “I don’t think I’ve heard you swear so much since that first venture capitalist turned us down.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “An interesting term. Especially when a man is talking about a woman like Ceri.”

  Pacing back to the tower, Lorne realized with a start his heart was pounding in a rapid, rackety tattoo. As he ripped the next box open, he was astonished to see his hands were shaking and his palms were sweaty. Even worse, he found his formidable brain awash in fury and frustration. He knew the best thing to do when he was in this kind of state was either to lie down on a bed and relax, or dive deeply into his code and let everything else wash away.

  His friend lay on his bed.

  His friend wasn’t going to let him escape into his code.

  The reality of his situation made his heart pound faster.

  Trying to distract himself, he yanked out something made of black silk. “What the hell is this?”

  Doc laughed, his wicked laugh, meaning he’d played some kind of joke and Lorne was supposed to laugh as well.

  The last thing he felt like doing was laughing.

  He shook the thing until it unraveled. “Silk pants? Where the hell am I supposed to wear these?”

  “The bedroom.”

  He wore nothing in his bedroom except boxers. Throwing the silk on the floor, he reached into the box and grabbed what looked like a matching silk robe. He threw that down, too.

  “I’m hurt you’re being so careless with something I took a long time picking out for you.”

  “Sod off.”

  Hugh chuckled. “Actually, I took a long time choosing it for her. Your woman.”

  A wretched fury churned inside. He didn’t want to analyze why that was. He only knew that it was. Doc’s words kept ringing in his ears, making him frenzied.

  Lust.

  Your woman.

  I don’t think she seduced your father.

  Diving into the box again, he found a bunch of thin, silk strings. Bright red, pure white, black as night. “I have no idea what these are.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  He shot a scowl at the bed.

  “They’re thongs. For you.” His friend gave him a smirk. “Women like those kinds of things.”

  The thought of putting on one these thin strings and parading around in front of a woman…

  In front of Ceri Llewellyn…

  His frazzled brain supplied the image in vivid detail. Stunningly vivid detail. “Fuck.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m hoping will happen to you, old chap.” Doc gave him a mischievous wink. “Finally.”

  “No bloody way.” He threw the strings back into the box. “Not with her.”

  “I think with her is exactly right.”

  “No.” He needed to leave. Not the castle and not Scotland. Just leave this conversation and this topic. Pacing to his computer, he tapped on the keyboard.

  “Avoidance. Denial.” Hugh hummed. “All right then. I’ll go after her.”

  The same emotion he’d felt while standing on the balcony and watching Doc smile at the Llewellyn woman, kiss her hand, beam at her—that ugly emotion he’d banished into the subterranean part of his brain—rose again.

  He wouldn’t label the emotion. He wouldn’t. He wanted to ignore it, yet it was too fierce and fragile to let go of. “Stay the hell away from her.”

  A short, sharp silence fell.

  His friend chuckled, a soft chuff of sound. “I thought so.”

  Lorne punched the computer off. “Let’s go to town and talk with the villagers.”

  “I wouldn’t advise that, sir.” Reid appeared in the doorway, a supercilious frown on his face. “I think it’s best to keep things on a legal footing.”

  “Meaning more money for you.” Doc’s voice drifted from the bed.

  “I told ye to leave,” Lorne barked. “Hours ago.”

  There were too many damn people in this place. With a fervent slash of craving, he wished for his comfortable, familiar life in London. His quiet office that was guarded by two loyal PAs. His huge, modern penthouse done in black and white, with no colors to distract him. The private gym where his steel treadmill stood, ready to provide him with his daily run without throwing any commotions or complications in his way.

  His hands fisted in stunned surprise. “I haven’t run.”

  “What?” Hugh gaped at him from the bed, his face creasing with shock. “You always run. Every day.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Run?” Reid looked puzzled. And also distressed. “What do you mean, Mr. Ross?”

  “I always run. That’s what’s wrong with me.” Walking to the armoire, he pulled out his running clothes. “I’ll run.”

  He’d been too preoccupied and surprised at what he’d found here. That was all. It had only been three days he’d been off his schedule. Three days of dealing with the woman and the villagers. Getting his computer set up and ignoring Reid’s whining. He wasn’t going to blame himself for not running. But it made perfect sense now. He lived by his schedule. His schedule gave him peace of mind. Without it, he grew agitated. He’d learned that at a very young age.

  “I’m sure this isn’t what’s wrong with you. Still, I’m too fagged to argue anymore. It was a long ride up here.”

  Lorne gave his friend another grunt, not willing to fight anymore either.

  “Where are you going to run, though, Skiff?” Doc pursed his lips at him. “There’s no handy treadmill to escape to.”

  He hadn’t run anywhere else than in the quiet of his gym in years. At Oxford, he’d had to endure running the streets of the college, trying to keep his focus from straying to the random barking dog or the couple kissing on the path in front of him. Yet he knew this land. There were endless quiet pathways within the forest, and a dozen handy lanes that rarely saw traffic.

  “I want ye both to leave me alone.” He pulled out his trainers. “I need to get dressed.”

  “I thought we were going to town and talk.” Doc’s voice was mellow, indicating he understood what Lorne needed at the moment. His words pricked, though, letting him know he wasn’t off the hook for long.

  “Later.”

  “Sir.” The solicitor took his ever-present handkerchief from his pocket and patted his brow. “I think it would be best if we left for London and let the courts do their work.”

  “No.” He stood by the armoire and waited.

  “Come on, Reid.” Hugh rose from the bed with a gusty sigh. “I know my partner, and when he says he has to run, that’s the only thing he’ll focus on. Best to let him have his way.”

  “But I think—”

  Hugh pushed the man out the double doors and slammed both of them behind him.

  In less than five minutes, Lorne was dressed and standing on the front steps of his castle. Looking at the cloudless, late-afternoon sky, he decided to take the path through the easy part of the woodlands. There’d be shade and no people.

  He took off at a brisk pace, across the garden, past the silent cottage, into the darkness of his da’s forest. He concentrated on his breathing, letting the fury and frustration drift away under the pounding of his feet on the hard ground.

  The path weaved around oak and pine, the rowan and birch. Sunlight flickered on him as he settled into the run, his legs moving in a steady rhythm, his arms swinging effortlessly at his side.

  He’d been an awkward child. A gawky teenager.

  His father had despaired at his lack of coordination, his mother had worried about him falling and hurting himself. He hadn’t been allowed on the roof anymore, or been given permission to play ball with other boys in the village square.

  Slowly, they’d c
aged him in.

  With love, he understood that now.

  He came out into the first meadow, the place where he’d shot his first and only pheasant, and disgraced himself. Before he let himself dwell on that memory, he ran back into the forest, on another trail leading upward.

  When he’d found running as an escape, in his late teens, he’d been worried about stumbling over some obstacle or making a fool of himself in front of others. He’d suffered until he’d bought his first treadmill and could run alone at home. So it surprised him how much he enjoyed the sun and open air. He didn’t mind swerving to skip a gnarled tree trunk, or stretching his gait to leap across a puddle of water.

  His breathing escalated. The sweat streamed down his body. A body he appreciated now. A body that worked the way he wanted.

  A body that could run outside. On his land.

  He ran for over an hour, encountering no one, to his relief. He ran until his emotions had gone quiet, his brain calm.

  Lorne ran until the familiar peace came.

  Dropping his stride as he got to the end of the forest, he stopped cold at the first noise he’d heard other than the trill of a Scottish crossbill.

  Singing.

  Someone was singing. A female someone.

  Edging down the path, he crept to the one last tree obstructing his view and peered around.

  The woman was singing.

  She stood behind the old well that hadn’t been used in years. The circular well was positioned about ten feet from the cottage. His mum had loved to plant flowers around the circular stone and, as a kid, he’d joined her in patting the dark earth into place around the little stems. At the time, the cottage had been empty. His da had bordered it up to stop trespassers. Lorne had once pleaded for it to be opened so he could use it as a teenage hangout for himself and the few friends he’d had. But his da had been worried he might hurt himself with the fire or the old wood timbers and he’d said no.

  Her voice rose, a pure, clear soprano that made his heart shiver in delight.

  Which surprised him.

  Music wasn’t something he paid attention to. It seemed to drive people into a frenzy of some kind of emotion or another. He’d never been interested in any of that.