Elias In Love

by Grace Burrowes

  He’d be god-damned if he’d be the Brodie who lost the castle that had protected his family’s fortunes for more than a thousand years.

  * * *

  Dogs were like crying babies. They had cranky barks, worried barks, feed-me barks, and furious barks. Violet couldn’t decipher the message behind the racket Sarge and Murphy were making, and that in itself was cause for worry.

  She closed her blog post file and peered over the porch railing at the Hedstrom place, where a big black pick-up sat in the lane before the farm house. Big black pick-ups were common in rural Maryland, but activity at the Hedstrom farm had become a novelty. The two cats who’d been hanging out there over the winter had gradually migrated to Violet’s summer kitchen, leaving the neighboring property to deer, rabbits, raccoons, possums, and the occasional teenage couple in need of a barn to park behind.

  Two guys got out of the truck, men not boys. One was dark-haired and wore a black kilt, and the other was… dark. All over dark. Dark hair, dark suit, dark backpack hanging casually off one broad shoulder, dark glasses.

  Sharp-dressed, like a god-damned, no good, parasitic, profit-sucking, land-violating developer. Violet shut down her computer, and whistled for the dogs to get back in the house. She ran upstairs, threw on a bra and a clean T-shirt, decided the yoga pants were OK, and slid into her garden clogs.

  The two guys were still standing around in the driveway across the lane, Kilt pointing to the barn, while Suit lifted luggage from the back of the pick-up.

  If these guys were the bellwethers for a land developer, the surveyors would come next, leaving odd little piles of dirt around the property, making sure the soil would percolate water at an adequate rate. Then would come a test well or two, and surveying stakes.

  Anxiety, anger, and fatigue grabbed at Violet as she crossed her yard and traveled on down the lane. In the middle of Kilt’s gesturing toward the ridge across the valley, Suit caught sight of her.

  He was big, with the elegant proportions of a men’s magazine model, and his teeth were bright white against a tan no local would have before high summer. The suit looked hand-tailored, and—surely a sign of the agricultural end times for the Hedstrom property—a gold ring winked on his pinkie.

  Then he smiled, and for that gorgeous, charming smile alone, Violet decided not to trust him.

  * * *

  “Cease bletherin’, Dunstan. My neighbor has come calling.”

  Dunstan Cromarty had up and gone for a lawyer, which transgression Uncle Zeb had paid for. Worse, Cousin Dunstan now lived in the States, in the same valley where Uncle’s property lay.

  Elias’s property now.

  “Damn it, Elias, the woman’s not even introduced herself and you’re flirting.”

  “You can flirt too,” Elias said, as five feet and possibly two inches of soft curves and bright red hair came striding down the drive across the lane. “Women like flirting with old married men like you, because all you can do is flirt.”

  “Jane would beg to differ,” Dunstan said. “I’ve no idea who this is.”

  This was a female, a fine place to start. She moved with the easy grace of a woman at home in her body, wearing nothing more than a lavender T-shirt and black yoga pants. Elias liked a lady who knew how to make the most of her assets, but he loved a lady who didn’t wear too many clothes.

  Less to take off that way.

  Her footwear dimmed his smile. They were a pragmatic choice, and Elias had lately had a bellyful of pragmatism.

  “Hello,” the woman said, walking right up to them. “I’m Violet Hughes. I live across the road.”

  “Dunstan Cromarty,” Elias’s cousin said, sticking out a hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. My wife Jane and I live about two miles up the valley in the old Yoder farmhouse. This is my cousin, Elias Brodie.”

  Elias shook hands, the woman’s grip businesslike and… calloused?

  “Mr. Cromarty, Mr. Brodie, may I ask what your business is here? The guy living on the property hasn’t been around for several months. I haven’t seen any sign of foul play, but his leaving was odd.”

  I will kill Angus Whyte. “Odd, how?” Elias asked.

  “Here one day, gone the next,” Miss Hughes shot back. “Left his cats without a word, and didn’t bother to spay the female either.”

  “That explains why Angus’s letters have gone unanswered,” Dunstan muttered.

  “As my question has,” Miss Hughes retorted.

  Part of Elias wanted to march her right back across the lane, because this was his property, and what he did with it was none of her business, but he’d been raised in Scotland. Taking an interest in the neighbor’s situation was simply prudent, and often well-intentioned.

  “I now own this farm,” Elias said. “Inherited from my uncle, and Dunstan and his missus own a law practice in Damson Valley.”

  A fat marmalade cat strutted out from under a yew bush and stropped itself against Miss Hughes’s ankles.

  “Zeb’s gone?” she asked, as orange cat hairs collected apace on her clothes.

  “Heart attack,” Dunstan said, sparing Elias the necessity. “Quick, and apparently inevitable.”

  Miss Hughes had a lovely mouth—wide, lush, full—made for smiling, though she positively glowered down at the cat.

  “Zebedee Brodie wouldn’t have said anything if he’d suspected a heart problem,” she said, “because he was a stubborn old Scotsman who thought himself indestructible. Dammit to hell. I’m sorry.”

  She picked up the cat and buried her face against its furry nape. A feline rumbling ensued and more orange cat hairs cascaded onto Miss Hughes’s T-shirt.

  Elias shifted to stand upwind of her and her cat hair factory. “Thank you for your condolences. I’ve inherited the property, and was under the impression we had a fellow living here, minding the buildings and dealing with the livestock. You say he ran off?”

  Elias wanted to run clear back to Scotland. Dunstan wasn’t even sweating, and Miss Hughes appeared perfectly comfortable, while the afternoon sun and an empty belly were broiling up a headache at the base of Elias’s skull.

  He could go two years without a bad headache, but they’d come with ferocious frequency since Zeb’s death.

  “Haven’t seen your tenant for nearly three months,” Miss Hughes said, “possibly longer. I gather you’re both Scottish?”

  “Aye,” Dunstan replied. “I’ve been in the States for many years, Elias landed at Dulles earlier today, though he’s visited before. Is that one of the orphaned cats?”

  “Bruno. He’s friendly. Worst watch cat in the valley, and he’s a soon-to-be father.” She held the cat up at eye level, though the beast just kept rumbling. “Though he won’t be making any more contributions to the gene pool. Bruno and I went for a little ride to see Doc Garcia about a month ago.”

  More dependents and another debt to be repaid—just what every impoverished earl dreamed of.

  “Would you know how to gain access to the premises?” Elias asked. The alternative was to muck in with Dunstan and Jane, though Elias had only met Jane an hour ago. She and Dunstan gave off the newlywed vibe, and were in the middle of renovating their farmhouse.

  For a few days, Elias could manage on his own, in what was the only house he owned free and clear. The farmhouse was pretty, in a rural way. Made of gray fieldstone, with a big, white porch on the front and a few oak trees providing shade. They had that filmy green, new foliage look, and Elias spotted a squirrel’s nest amid the branches.

  Zeb would have wanted flowers for this place. Elias only wanted a good price for it.

  “You don’t have a key to the house?” Miss Hughes asked, putting the cat down.

  “We had a caretaker,” Elias said. “He had the key or keys.” Surely the concept of a caretaker wasn’t uniquely British?

  The woman’s gaze went from Elias to Dunstan. Dunstan had the family coloring—dark hair, blue eyes, solid muscular build, and height. Elias was an inch or two taller, had
the same blue eyes, but some perverse genetic imp had added enough red that his hair was Titian, at least in strong sunlight.

  Which this was. Also godawful humidity.

  “Your wife is Jane De Luca, isn’t she?” Miss Hughes asked, peering at Dunstan. “She was in a birdwatching class I took a couple years ago, though she didn’t come very often. I’d heard she’d married a Scot.”

  “Jane and I married over the winter holidays,” Dunstan said, smiling at his boots. “She kept her maiden name for professional purposes, and we’ve merged our law offices.”

  Though like Dunstan, Jane apparently knew bugger-all about the local real estate laws. She knew how to make Dunstan smile though, so Elias forgave her for stealing Dunstan from Scotland once and for all.

  “Congratulations,” Miss Hughes said, returning Dunstan’s smile. “Lovely isn’t it, when a business can be kept in the family?”

  They shared a beaming, smiling moment, while a trickle of sweat formed between Elias’s shoulder blades.

  “About that key?” he said.

  The cat strolled off in the direction of Dunstan’s truck, backed up to a hubcap, and twitched its upright tail. A distinct zang sounded as the cat did what male cats did.

  “He smells my cat Wallace,” Dunstan said.

  “You named your cat for William Wallace?” Elias asked. “A cat, Dunstan, for one of Scotland’s greatest heroes?”

  “My Wallace is independent, never backs down, never submits to authority. The name suits him.”

  “Bruno is a name for a cat. Felix, Waldo, even Geeves, but Wallace? Would you name a canary for Rabbie Burns? A dog for old Conan Doyle?”

  Twenty years ago, this might have been a matter for fists, but Dunstan only fought with words now, and Elias was desperate to get out of the sun and into the company of a roaring air conditioner.

  “I can’t make out your words when you argue with each other,” Miss Hughes said. “It’s kind of cute.”

  This smile she didn’t merely flash at Dunstan, but allowed to settle over Elias for a moment as well. Shy, a hint of mischief, and a surprising warmth. Not the smothering warmth of Maryland as summer approached, but the warmth of a good whisky on a cold night.

  “I have never been called cute before,” Elias said. “Though arguing with family is something of a Scottish tradition. About that key?”

  Bruno had made a thorough sniffing inspection of the visible truck tires. He strutted over as if to sniff next at the last pair of bespoke dress pants Elias might buy, ever, so Elias shifted his suitcase to keep it between himself and the cat.

  “As it happens, you’re in luck,” Miss Hughes said. “In the country, you generally let the neighbors know how to get into the house, and your caretaker was no exception. Fred was a quiet guy, though I think he played the ponies at the track in Charles Town. Come along, your spare key shouldn’t be hard to locate.”

  She marched off—in this stifling, cloying heat, she marched—and Dunstan fell in step beside her. Elias did not trust the cat so he picked up his suitcase and followed, lest every piece of clothing he’d brought with him end up smelling like cat piss.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  Thank heavens, Elias MacSuit wasn’t a developer. He was the new owner and had settled family in the area. Violet’s emotional battle pennants luffed and then drooped against her mental flagpoles.

  Zebedee Brodie would not have left the most beautiful patch of Damson Valley to an indifferent heir.

  “Sod this,” Mr. Brodie muttered, hoisting the suitcase to his shoulder rather than try to wheel it through the long grass. “Did the yard service also run off to join the circus?”

  “I can bring my riding mower over,” Dunstan said as they clomped up the porch stairs.

  “And how much will you charge me for that?” Mr. Brodie replied, setting the suitcase down. The leather looked butter-soft, and the name embossed on the metal logo was French. Violet made a note to google it, though she suspected the price of that one bag would have paid a landscape crew for many hours of work.

  “I’ll bill you a pack of Fraoch,” Dunstan replied. “Jane fancies it, except when she doesn’t.”

  “What’s Fraoch?” Violet asked, stretching up to run her fingers along the top of a window sill. She couldn’t quite reach, but neither man seemed inclined to help.

  “Heather ale,” Mr. Brodie said. “You’ll get filthy doing that.”

  Violet’s fingers encountered a key. She held it under Mr. Brodie’s nose. “I’ll get into your castle, unless you’d like to do the honors?”

  An odd expression flickered across Mr. Brodie’s face, while Dunstan snatched the key out of Violet’s hand.

  “Allow me. I’ve a way with an old lock, according to my wife.”

  Mr. Brodie snorted. “You fall for that? Have you a way with dirty laundry? A sink full of dishes? A vacuum cleaner?”

  “Where uppity cousins are concerned, I have a way with a closed fist,” Dunstan muttered, wiggling the key in the lock.

  “Uppity? I’m uppity, am I now? You’ve gone Yank on me, Dunstan Cromarty, and as head of your family, I’ll be having a word with your missus about corruption of your vocabulary.”

  Dunstan jiggled the key harder and pushed a meaty shoulder against the door. “The humidity gets to these old buildings.”

  Violet would have let him mutter and push and get nowhere for another few moments, but Mr. Brodie was enjoying Dunstan’s failure a little too much.

  “Mr. Cromarty?”

  “A wee push,” he said, ramming his shoulder against the door again.

  “Might need some oil on the mechanism,” Mr. Brodie said, shrugging out of his suit jacket. His shirt stuck to the middle of his back, though it had to be the whitest shirt Violet had ever seen. “Or perhaps you’re turning it the wrong way. Americans drive on the wrong side of the road, put the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car. You cannot trust them to do anything in a predictable fashion.”

  “Mr. Cromarty? ”

  Both men looked at Violet as if she’d just led a heifer up the porch steps.

  “That’s the key to the back door.”

  * * *

  The house was a metaphor for Elias’s circumstances—once fine, still blessed with many good qualities, but at risk for a rapid decline.

  “Your caretaker left in a hurry,” Dunstan said, picking up a newspaper folded on the kitchen counter. “You say the man gambled, Miss Hughes?”

  “That’s according to the guys at the feed store, and their gossip is considered the best in the valley,” Miss Hughes said, wrinkling her nose. “Let’s open some windows, shall we?”

  The kitchen was stifling and stale. A coffee cup and spoon sat in the sink along with a chipped blue plate. A dingy white towel had been crammed through the refrigerator door handle, and the windows were dim with dust. Elias hung his backpack on a chair rather than set it amid the dust.

  “I hope you brought jeans and a work kilt,” Dunstan said. “This place is a disgrace.”

  “It’s the only disgrace I own in fee simple absolute, according to Angus Whyte. Let me do that,” Elias said, as Miss Hughes tried to wrestle with a window sash.

  She gave it one more shove and the window scraped open. Air moved—hot, humid air.

  “I’ll leave you two guys to admire the property,” she said, dusting her hands. “Come on over if you need anything, Mr. Brodie. We’re decent neighbors around here, for the most part. You might see my dogs sniffing around your barn—Sarge and Murphy. They’re friendly but Murphy has been known to get too interested in a bag of fresh garbage. Good luck with the place.”

  She stuck out a hand to Dunstan, then Elias, and with a bang of the screen door, was on her way.

  “I suppose you’d best buy some cat food,” Dunstan said, using the towel to wipe the dust from the kitchen table.

  “I don’t care for cat food,” Elias said. “And I need to watch my pennies these days, or I’d be staying in a
hotel.”

  “Don’t make me thrash sense into you, Elias. You’ll not be staying at a hotel when you’ve family in the valley. The cat food is for Bruno.”

  “Shite.” Bruno, who was at that moment, insinuating himself against Elias’s shins, leaving a fine coating of cat hair over a beautiful pair of charcoal wool trousers.

  “You can stay with me and Jane, though with some hard work, you’ll soon have this place ready to put on the market. Nobody will care what the house looks like.”

  Elias cared what the house looked like. “It’s a fine old home, and should be properly maintained.” He wrestled another window up, while Dunstan did battle with the window over the double sink. “Some soap and water, a bit of yard work, a few flowers on the porch, and it will show well enough.”

  The window over the sink gave with a screech. “If you’re selling to a developer, they’ll probably scrape the house and the barn, rip up the fences, bury the stone walls. You have some nice views here.”

  Elias put the cat out, holding it a distance from his body. “They’ll scrape a stone house and stone barn? Are Americans truly so disrespectful of the past?”

  “Americans are respectful of their coin and pragmatic. An empty barn serves no one, and what do you care? You’ll be back in Scotland using your free golf privileges on Niall Cromarty’s back nine. Let’s find you a bedroom.”

  A stone barn was a work of art, and a stone house was the personal version of a castle, built to withstand centuries of weather, love, and loss.

  “Maybe we can turn the barn into some sort of community center,” Elias said, hoisting his suitcase, though he was more interested in finding a shower than a bed.

  “There won’t be any we about it.” Dunstan wiped his hands on the dusty towel. “You’ll get your money, and the purchaser will do as he pleases. The land comes under the jurisdiction of a zoning board, but it’s not like Scotland where the local council keeps an eye on everything. Bedrooms will be upstairs.”