by Caro LaFever
Now, however, the worry returned to his gut.
“You mucked this up, Skiff.”
“For good?”
“Naw. Not by a long shot. If she kissed you back—”
“She did. She moaned, too.”
“That’s brilliant.” Doc’s voice warmed. “This means she was hurt by what you said and not put off by your advances.”
“Hurt?” His hand tightened into a fist. “I hurt her?”
“Women tend to get hurt when you take them for granted.”
He hadn’t taken her for granted. Not for one second of any of the times they’d met. Whenever the woman came into his vicinity, it was as if he had an antenna set in the depths of him that went on high alert. “I haven’t taken her for granted,” he said, indignation ringing in his voice.
“You did when you assumed she’d fall into your bed because you kissed her, old chap.”
His frown went to a scowl. “That’s what ye do.”
“What?”
“Ye kiss a woman and then ye go to bed.”
Hugh’s laugh rolled down the line.
Lorne’s irritation turned to exasperation. “Okay. If I’m wrong, tell me.”
“You’re wrong, so wrong.” Another chuckle came. “You need to woo her.”
“Woo.”
“It’s an old-fashioned word that means pursue—”
“I’ve been making plans to do that. For days.”
“Have you. What are the plans?”
“I’ve been watching her. Her habits.”
“I suppose that’s a start. It’s good to know a woman’s habits in order to please her.”
“Please her.” That stopped his train of thought. “By kissing her?”
“Not at first,” Hugh counseled. “First you should give her a gift.”
A sudden slap of realization came to him. “I already did that.”
“You did? You do surprise me sometimes, Skiff.”
“I gave her the roof.”
A stunned silence held on the phone for a moment. “You gave her a roof.”
“Yes.” He got it now. He got the progression. He gave the woman something and she’d been happy and then she’d let him kiss her. He merely had to do the same series of steps again. The only thing he didn’t understand now was how to go from the kiss to the sex.
Doc’s peal of laughter didn’t break his focus. He only needed to find out this one last step. “So I’ll give her something else.”
“Like another roof.”
“No.” He took his stare off the glass house and glared at the phone for a second before putting it back to his ear. “She doesn’t need that. But she’ll need something. I only have to find out what that is.”
“Okay, old chap. I see you’ve got this all in hand.”
“No, not completely.” He took in a breath and focused hard. “Once I get to the kiss again, I need to know how to take that to the sex.”
Another silence came through the line. Then another peal of laughter. “This is so bloody entertaining, I think I’m going to live on this for months.”
His hand tightened on the phone in frustration and he paced to his computer to gain some confidence. “Tell me.”
“There’s no one way to get there. You have to improvise.”
This wasn’t good news. Lorne had never been good at playing it by ear. He always prepared his remarks for the yearly conference and went over them until he could say them in his sleep. He never approached a meeting with investors without knowing every inch of the financial plan and every iota of what any objections would come at him. He didn’t attend any parties anymore, so he avoided having to make meaningless conversation.
“I don’t like surprises,” he muttered.
“Relationships are all about surprises.”
His jaw tightened. “I don’t want to have a relationship with the woman.”
“No?” A frost settled on the word.
“I want to have sex with her.”
“Skiff.”
“Yes?” He returned to the window in order to keep an eye on the glass house.
“It might be time to have the last of the chat we were having right before I left.”
That chat had made him angry for the rest of the day. He’d had a headache that didn’t dissipate until he’d risen in the middle of the night to code. “No.”
“Here’s the thing.” His friend’s voice was quiet and grave.
It was so uncharacteristic, it shook Lorne’s determination not to continue the conversation. “Okay. What?”
“You’re not the type who’s going to just have sex.”
Outrage filled him. He might be different, he acknowledged that fact. And he might not have the vast experience Hugh had with women, that was also true. But he had the necessary equipment and he had found a woman who wanted him. He’d seen it in her eyes and she’d kissed him back. “She wants me.”
“Yes, I believe she does.”
Relief flooded inside him. “Then it’s simple. I get her something. She kisses me. We have sex.”
“Then what?”
Doc’s question stopped him. He hadn’t thought about that. It was a logical, legitimate question he should have considered.
His head began to hurt.
“And then what, Lorne?”
“I don’t know,” he blurted.
“Yeah, that’s what I figured. And there’s your problem with Ceri.”
Problem with Ceri.
Solve Ceri.
His headache thumped into pounding chaos.
“I have hope for you though, Skiff. I believe in fate and this is yours.”
Fate?
“You’re talking rubbish again,” he gritted.
“Am I?” Hugh sighed. “Maybe. I guess we’ll see.”
“All I’m asking is for ye to tell me—”
“You’re on your own with this one. I wish you luck.”
His friend snapped off his mobile before Lorne could get another word in. He thought about calling him back, except his head hurt too much and his gut roiled.
He’d lay down, take a nap, and figure all this out when his head didn’t hurt.
Solving the problem with Ceri couldn’t be too difficult.
Chapter 14
Ceri stood in her glass house, watching the sun dip behind the castle’s wall, leaving a lingering light trailing across the outside garden.
Finally. Finally, she’d been able to spend a whole day on her passion.
She had one more day to make sure the herb plants and trees were well watered and fertilized. A few more days to enjoy the growth of her dreams. Then she’d have to go back to making sure the cleaning crew had what they needed leading to the tours starting in two days.
For now, though, she had this time.
The leaves of her five tea trees rustled as she passed, their snow-white flower faces bobbing in her wake. One last time, she inspected the dozens of pots holding her precious products. She breathed in the soft smells of the plants, the richness of the varied soils for her different herbs. She took in the quiet of dusk and her heart settled.
This was hers.
Before she left for the night, she inspected the clary sage she’d planted last autumn. The plants were only now starting to flower. As with the rosemary, she would need to be patient and wait until fall or even next spring before she’d be able to use any of these for her lotions.
But she had the heather of Will’s moors and the lavender of his meadows. She had Freya Ross’s rose garden. She had enough to begin. She’d start this fall, after the tours were done. The castle kitchen was large and perfect for what she needed.
Distilling, cooking, straining.
Clicking off the LED lights, she put her herbs to bed for the night.
By this time next year, she hoped to have launched at least three of her products. They’d be called Ceri’s Creams. Oatmeal and tea tree balm. Heather and sage lotion.
And then the one she’d des
igned for her mam.
When Dilys had been diagnosed with ALS, Ceri had learned to massage lotion into her mother’s cramped muscles and aching joints. The act of love had morphed into a fascination for how much certain elements in each lotion could make such a difference to her mam’s life. She couldn’t say this was when her dream had been born, yet something had taken deep root.
Slipping out of the garden house, she locked it firmly behind her before making her way back to the cottage.
Her first product would be a rose and Shea butter lotion. Her mam had loved the richness of the butter and Ceri aimed to make this an ode to both her and Will’s wife. The thought of Will and his wife brought back the memory of their son.
She tried to push him from her mind, but he stuck like the thistles she encountered on her walks when she strayed too far off the path.
But that’s what ye do.
Those words had gone right past her armor, right into the center of her soul. The realization had made her angry, so angry.
She’d let her armor down. She’d let herself enjoy him. She’d been very, very foolish.
The anger had lingered like a bad cold in her head during the last several days. While she’d managed the last items of the landscaping. As she’d confirmed the final details of the schedule with the cleaning crew. When she’d lain in her bed at night, unable to sleep, thinking about her wretched hurt and her depressing need for his body, if not Lorne Ross himself.
Foolish. And so unlike her. She’d thought the toughness she’d developed when she’d been married would protect her from anything. Any man.
Grimacing, Ceri turned back to focus on her passion and her plans.
The sinking sun hit the top of the glass house, making everything glitter inside for a moment. Making it seem like a fairy tale kingdom all her own.
This was hers. Not his.
She wouldn’t let him fool her again. Fool her into thinking he did care about the castle. Fool her into thinking he did have a heart. Fool her into thinking she wanted more from him than for him to go away.
Before she could stop herself, Lorne Ross flashed into her memory.
With him came the other memory.
The memory that haunted her every night.
Her girlish dreams she’d laid to rest long ago in the Welsh hills. Dreams of kissing a man she desired. Kissing a man because she wanted to, not because she had to.
Kissing.
He flamed to life inside her.
His intense blue eyes staring at her. The way his fingers had tightened on her hips in desperation. The way his mouth moved on hers, with startling inexperience and shocking need. The sound of his groan deep in his throat when he’d come.
She’d been foolishly thrilled at all of him. His boyish charm on the rock and his apparent desire in his bedroom.
Then he’d ruined it.
Ruined her once more. Ruined her girlish whims as surely as Gareth had years ago.
But that’s what ye do.
That’s what a woman like her did. A woman who seduced men and used her body as a weapon. She’d been kicked in the gut by his words. By the reminder.
Shrugging off the pain as she marched to her cottage, Ceri lectured herself for the hundredth time since she’d last seen her enemy.
Enemy. Enemy. Enemy.
If she had to, she’d have the word written on a big banner to hang above her bed. Another banner to hang across the cottage’s fireplace. And perhaps one more for her to hang in the middle of her glass house.
No. Not there.
She shook her head. She didn’t want him in her place, near her passion.
He meant nothing, and in two short days, the cleaning crew and the tours would take care of him for good.
Letting herself into her home, she put on the kettle and went back to her bedroom. Changing into the comforting cotton bathrobe and pulling out her ponytail, she sat on the bed and took a deep breath before brushing her hair in quick strokes.
She shouldn’t feel a spot of guilt for driving him away. Not one.
He didn’t deserve this castle or this estate. Will wanted her to have it.
Lorne Ross wasn’t someone who belonged here. At all.
Unease drifted inside her, making her slightly sick.
The kettle whistled for attention in the kitchen. Stomping into the room, she grabbed a cup, made the tea and sat down at the kitchen table to sift through the paperwork detailing her plans and dreams. Will had loved the graphic design she’d made for the labels on the lotions. He’d been in full support of building the garden house. He’d believed in her.
Ceri Olwen. Will had believed in her.
It didn’t matter what his son thought of her.
Not in the slightest.
Not one iota.
The hurt drifted into her gut and settled right beside her hopes and dreams. Trying to distract herself, she fixed a bite to eat and slogged through the lonely meal. Which made no sense to her. She often ate alone now that her friend was gone. She didn’t mind. For some reason, though, it bothered her tonight. Some telly might do the trick.
Ceri stood and glanced through the window.
Will would call the calm, soft light, gloaming. The way the light lingered in the air as if unwilling to let the last of the day go. Yet the dark fingers of darkness had begun to crawl across the castle, making it loom like a ghost in the shadows.
A splash of sudden light stunned her. Not from the castle where she’d expected it, but from somewhere much closer to her heart.
Someone was inside her glass house. Someone had broken into her place.
All bittersweet thoughts and vague dissatisfactions went blank. All she could think of was her herbs. Her tender, delicate plants.
She raced out of the cottage, the front door banging behind. Flying down the pathway in her bare feet, she grabbed a stick lying on the ground next to the garden wall. Whoever it was, he or she was going to have a sore head and an arrest warrant after she was done with them.
Smacking through the half-open glass door, she came to a sudden stop.
“You,” she screeched, the stick rising above her head.
“Aye,” he said, his gentle voice floating across her plants in dangerous menace. “Me.”
She wore that damned cotton gown again.
The one she half hung out of, forcing his mind into coiled chaos. Her breasts bobbed as she moved, pressing on the cloth. The gown wasn’t fully buttoned, leaving her long, luscious legs on full display. Her hair swirled in dark tangles around her head, loose and wild, and her beautiful skin was flushed with fury.
Lorne tried to keep his focus on what he’d come here for.
To investigate. To understand.
To figure out what he needed to give her so she’d give him what he wanted.
His mind wavered, clinging to reality.
“Get out.” She kept what appeared to be a branch from one of the crab apple trees high above her head. Her pose made her look like a mythological goddess intent on giving him a good whack if he moved near.
So he didn’t.
He retreated from her, walking down one of the two aisles. On the first day back at the castle, he’d found his da’s key chain right where he’d always kept it—hung on a single nail in the pantry. When he’d decided to investigate this new glass structure, the shiny new key on the chain had been his first, and correct, choice. The lights he’d flicked on when he entered were practical for this operation. He preferred fluorescent, but LED lights could work far better in this environment because of the variation in temperatures. He approved of her choice.
The pragmatic thoughts steadied him.
“Where are you going?” she yelled from the doorway.
On each side of him were long wooden tables, hip high. On top of all of the boards were rows of plastic pots filled with dirt. Each held a plant of some kind. Some of them dense and leafy like small evergreens. Others sported tiny purple flowers. There was a line of odd looking trees
at the end of each of the aisles, their white flowers making them look like little Christmas trees.
“You need to leave.”
The vibration of her presence behind him ran up his spine. Lorne took in a breath, trying to keep his mind clear. His nostrils and mouth filled with the deep, dark smell of nature and earth. Of minty woods and smoky dirt.
Of peat.
He stopped and took in another breath. “You use peat in the soil?”
A snort came from behind him. “What does it matter? Are you planning on taking up gardening?”
“Maybe.” He glanced around and not behind. He wasn’t settled enough yet to glance at her.
Another snort.
She was right behind him.
Taking a long stride down and around the last table, he began his way back toward the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of her white bathrobe as she rounded the corner too, coming after him. He turned his head to stare at the other side of the garden house, not at her. The last of the day’s light sparkled on the panes of clear glass, blinding him for a moment.
“Don’t lie to me,” she said. “You have no interest in this place.”
The exotic lilt of her voice made goose bumps rise on the skin of his arms. Her accusation and his reaction to her irritated him enough he stopped and chanced a glare back.
She stopped as soon as he did and met his gaze with a fierce one of her own. “What? You don’t.”
“Is that so.” He waved one hand at the plants. “You planted all this, correct?”
“Yes.” Crossing her arms, she tapped her foot with obvious impatience at the question.
“Then I’m interested.”
Her lush lips dropped open in complete surprise.
The combination of her breasts pressed up under her arms and those lips made him turn to focus on the plants once more.
He strode forward.
The floor was an odd mix of stone and rock, uneven, with grooves on the sides where he supposed water would run off. Some of the slabs looked very much like the walls of his castle.
He stopped again. “Where did ye get this floor?”
“Huh?” She rustled behind him.
“The floor.” This time he was smart and didn’t turn to look at her.
