by Caro LaFever
“I’ll have a party.” This house was a big barn and could handle a load of his friends. He’d invite his agent and all the writers he knew in Edinburgh. Tre would come from London and bring a bevy of fellow correspondents and TV people. “Might as well use this damn place for what it’s designed for. I can house dozens.”
His friend laughed. “It would be nice to see the place before ye sell it.”
“You’ll come?”
“Of course.” Tre chuckled again. “I’ll bring the fair Amanda with me too.”
Amanda Reed.
The woman who’d teased and flirted every time they’d met. One of the few successful female war correspondents, Amanda was a legend among the boys who traveled the world looking for stories. Brash and brazen, she’d take on any assignment a man would and come back with the best story, the best photos.
Amanda Reed was a handful.
She was definitely not a little, inconsequential mouse.
“It’d be good to see her,” Cam said.
“Ye reckon?” His friend’s chuckle turned dirty at the edges. “Might spice up your life a bit, eh?”
She could. She would. She’d made that clear every time they’d been together.
He’d never accepted her invitation because something in his gut told him it wasn’t quite right. Now, now after the mouse’s rejection, it felt exactly right.
“Maybe.” Probably. He hadn’t had sex in almost a year. He’d been too busy burying his mother and trying to win over his son. It struck him with a sudden, sharp relief.
He didn’t really want the mouse.
He just needed sex.
“Maybe, my laddie says.” Tre laughed again.
“Fuck off.” He grimaced as he shut off the engine. “Plan on hearing from me about the dates. Sometime in the next month.”
His friend cheerfully agreed before cutting the line, and Cam wrested himself from the car, dragging his luggage out of the boot.
The house was dead silent, his shoes the only sound as he strode through the front door. If he didn’t know all the ghosts swirling in this place were made in his imagination, he’d swear there were some real ones lurking in the shadows. Pushing away the thought, he dropped his suitcase, a clattering noise that echoed down the great hall, and paced into the library.
To find the mouse. Waiting. For him.
“Mrs. Rivers said you’d called to say you were on your way home.” She was perched on her usual seat, but the computer was off.
Home. A word that had never spelled anything except trouble for him throughout his life. “I’m back, you’re right about that.”
He shrugged out of his well-worn leather jacket and threw it on one of the rickety antique chairs Martine had picked for him so long ago.
“They’re French, Cam,” she’d said, the ever-present disgust running through her voice. “They’re worth a fortune.”
Trying to banish the ugly memories, he zeroed in on the woman sitting placidly behind his unwanted desk. “Ye want to do a spot of work now? Think I’ve got some more of the story to tell?”
“No.” Her average mouth formed the word slowly. “I have something to discuss with you.”
“Do ye?” He couldn’t decide what the subject could be. Not kissing, she’d made herself plain on that topic and he’d done the same. “What?”
“Your son.”
She knew about his son?
A mix of fear and anger tumbled inside. His son should be sheltered. His son was out-of-bounds. “There’s nothing to say about him.”
The mouse frowned at his taut words, but didn’t take the warning. “There’s plenty to say.”
Had Robert been crying again at night and disturbing her? Had she quizzed his housekeeper until the truth was revealed? Cam had made it clear in the short, sharp conversation he’d had with his son: No more crying. He’d thought that subject was closed too. “I’ll have a word with Mrs. Rivers. Ye won’t be awakened again.”
Her frown deepened. “He should be allowed to cry. He’s all alone.”
A tight snarl of grief coiled inside.
His son was alone. The boy had lost his mother before he’d been aware of her. And he’d lost his grandmother less than a year ago. A grandmother who had guarded him like he was a prized jewel. But more than anything, his son was all alone because his father was a failure in the role. “I’ll take care of it. Ye don’t need to fret.”
“Robbie is not an it.”
The name plunked down between them. She knew his son’s name. In fact, she used a nickname he’d never called his son.
How did she know that? How did she even know of Robert’s existence?
He’d been careful to hide any details of his son from the fawning press. Of all his friends, Tre was the only one who knew of Robert and the sickness that kept the boy isolated. Mrs. Rivers had strict instructions to keep the boy on the second floor, and his son was so sick, he rarely left his bedroom. His housekeeper had also assured him this mouse had been told to steer clear of that area.
A howl of protective rage broke from his mouth. “How do ye know his name? And what the hell is this nickname? His name is Robert.”
“He and I have become friends and Robbie is how he introduced himself.” The mouse didn’t cower or run. She knotted her hands in her lap, in her usual way, and he thought he detected a hitch in her breathing, yet she didn’t back down.
“Friends. Friends?” he roared.
She didn’t respond to the noise. Those eyes of hers just kept looking coolly into his.
Cam prowled away, circling into the window bay to scowl out at complete darkness.
She finally rustled behind him. “He’s lonely. He needs other children and more stimulation.”
Fury and frustration ran through his blood. “He can’t be around others. It upsets him and then he gets sick.”
“Really?” Her voice stayed cool and calm. “I haven’t seen anything like that in the past five days.”
“Five days?” Wheeling around, he stared at her in horror. “You’ve been with him all five days? Where the hell was Mrs. Rivers?”
“She sleeps. Quite a lot, according to your son.”
His mother had held the housekeeper in high regard, and when he had arrived at her hospital bedside, having been called from a headline story in the Philippines, his mother had made him promise before she died. Promise to heed Mrs. Rivers in everything regarding his son. “She’s there to take care of him. I don’t mind if she sleeps. Just so she takes care of him.”
“She doesn’t.” Rising from the chair, the mouse walked towards him with a tentative, hesitant step. “You need to take care of your son.”
The constant, continuing resentment and shame rumbled inside. “I take care of him. He’s well-fed, and safe.”
“And lonely.”
Pacing away from her and the accusation, he fixed his gaze on the ugly landscape hanging above the fireplace. “You’ll be happy to know, I’m about to address that issue.”
There was a pause as if she were surprised he acknowledged the problem. “In what way?”
“I’m sending him to boarding school.” The words clutched in his throat, not only because it was an admission of defeat, but also it was a defeat of his dream of connecting with his son. He whipped around to meet her gaze. “This fall.”
The mist of her eyes turned to ice. “He’ll hate that.”
The decisiveness in her voice made him want to yell. “Ye know him so well?”
“Better than you, it appears.”
The accusation, accurate and deadly, pierced him straight through his heart. His boy had never let his father hang out, play, have fun with him. He’d never had five precious days in his son’s company. Not like this woman.
He charged at her, an aching heart, an angry man. “Don’t ye understand?”
She stood her ground, her gaze keen. “No. Tell me.”
“I don’t know him because he doesn’t want me to.” His breathing heave
d. “He hates me.”
Shock flickered across her face. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Yes, he—”
“He adores you.” A soft sound of disbelief came from her throat. “He quotes you all the time.”
“What?” He staggered in stunned surprise.
“He thinks the sun shines from you.” A coat of wryness layered the words, as if she found that impossible to believe.
“He’s mistaken about that, eh?” Cam tried to throw up a protective grin yet didn’t succeed. He was too astonished by what she was saying to put himself back together in his routine way.
Her gaze narrowed. “No.”
Stunned again, he stared at her.
“For Robbie, you are the center of his life.” Her relentless words kept coming, hitting him. “You can’t walk away from him.”
The man before her seemed to list one way, then the other, as if a strong breeze might knock him over.
Could he be this clueless?
Didn’t he realize his draw?
“Boarding school would be horrible for him.” During the last few days, she and Robbie had been together for hours. He’d shown her all his collections, he’d led her through every one of the tunnels in the hedges, and he’d confided most of his secrets. He clearly loved this dusty old mansion. He obviously worshiped his father. And he definitely knew how to keep family secrets.
“I’m not supposed to show anyone the second floor,” he’d whispered. “There’s a locked room. No one’s to go in there.”
She wasn’t going to use a child to get the ring. She’d come to the conclusion the damn ring resided somewhere in the family quarters. Even her grandfather’s imminent death though, wasn’t going to make her take advantage of Robbie’s trust.
“If ye be worried about his sickness, I’ve already checked.” Cameron Steward’s rich voice brought her back to their confrontation. “The school’s got a doctor in-house and his environment will be carefully controlled.”
“He’s not sick.” She had a friend at university who’d suffered from asthma, so Jen knew a bit about the disease. From what she could see, Robbie had indeed grown out of his symptoms. Not once had he coughed, much less wheezed. “He’s perfectly healthy.”
He looked at her as if she were crazy. “He’s got a serious case of asthma. He needs to stay quiet at all times.”
Robbie? Stay quiet? She chuckled.
His father narrowed his odd eyes at her reaction. “He’s not supposed to be exposed to lots of people and germs.”
“A boarding school doesn’t have both of these?” she scoffed. This man was so smart, and yet he’d missed this?
He stepped back, the familiar tawny frown crossing his face. “I’ve talked to the school. They’re used to dealing with this sort of thing.”
She didn’t think most schools would be able to deal with Robbie. He needed someone close, someone who focused on him and kept his lively mind humming. The only person she could think of who could accomplish this, was the person who had the same kind of brain and the same kind of need for stimulation. His father. “Robbie needs you to deal with him. No one else.”
A panicked look flickered over the frown. “Like I said before, the boy hates me.”
“And like I responded, you’re wrong.”
Her stout words shook him. She could tell by the way he fisted his hands by his sides and the way his gaze swept past her to focus on the blackness of the night.
Jen sighed. Perhaps she needed to let him think this through before she pushed any further. Her grandfather had blustered and grumbled when she quietly pointed something out, but often came around to her way of thinking after a spell of thought.
“I’ve said what I needed to say.” Turning, she headed to the door.
A broad paw slammed on the closed door before she could open it and escape.
“So, you’ve been spending time with my son.” His words whispered along the skin of her cheek. “And ye think ye know him best.”
There was an ache in his voice. An ache of regret and rage, and even a bit of envy. Her tender heart, the heart a small boy had captured in a very short time, flipped over and flopped in front of his father. “I know enough to know he wants you, Cam, and no one else.”
His name slipped from her before she could catch it and stuff it down her throat. The name had lain on her lips in the nighttime as she twisted in her bed. The name had lingered in her mind as she stomped across the moor with his son. His name had swirled inside her, as she yearned for him as much or more than Robbie did.
“Cam, is it?” He leaned in, surrounding her with his heated scent. “We can finally dispense with the silly titles?”
“No,” she said to the wooden door. “No.”
“Hmm.”
“I need to leave.” Pressing her hands on the door, she tried to force herself to push her body against his. To push him away. To push herself to go.
“Do ye?” His other hand slipped along her waist, a soft wisp of a touch. “Maybe ye need something else entirely.”
“No,” she said again.
He stilled behind her before slowly easing back. His hands dropped to his sides. The loss of his warmth and his touch was a painful blessing.
“I’ll not keep ye.” His voice came, no longer rich and redolent, but stiff and cold.
Jen wrenched the door open and fled.
Cam paced over to the whiskey and poured himself a double. Swallowing the smooth liquor in one gulp, he poured himself another.
He wasn’t a drùiseach, dammit. He didn’t attempt to seduce every woman he met. Quite the opposite. Usually, they came to him. Plus, most of his life, he’d been too damn busy having fun and chasing a new adventure, to spend any time on a woman at all. He’d had his sexual adventures, too, yet they always paled in comparison to the adrenaline rushes he experienced in his work. Even his writing gave him more thrills than any woman ever had.
Martine had known it too.
“You’re off to get another kick, aren’t you?” She’d flash her black eyes at him as her French accent curdled every word. “You just can’t make yourself sit still.”
No, and what was wrong with that? he’d often wondered. She’d married him for his money, money he earned dashing around the world and telling tall tales. Why the hell would she think he’d change something he loved?
Loved far more than her.
If he’d ever loved her at all.
Any thoughts of his doomed marriage made him want to drink. He slugged down the second shot of malt. Slamming the empty glass on the antique scrolled side table, he prowled out of the library and down the cursed great hall. All of Martine was still plastered on every wall, every chair. In her manic state, she’d decorated this entire hideous monstrosity in less than two months. For those two months, he’d had some peace, he’d had some hope.
But it had gone straight to hell after she’d finished the last room.
Hiking up the grand staircase, he stopped at the second-floor landing. He glanced at the stairs running to the third floor. Did the mouse enjoy her little nest? The nest he’d been allowed to design alone out of all the other rooms. It had been his attempt to make his own stamp on this horrid house. He’d planned on using it as his study and getaway. Simple, solid wood furniture and plain, spartan drapes and bedding.
A place he could hole up in when Martine went mad and started to yell.
A place he could escape from his mother’s constant fretting about the boy.
A place he could hide from his son.
When he’d returned to Scotland six months ago, after spending seven years away, he’d decided it was foolish to hide. He had nothing to hide from anymore. So he’d abandoned his nest to the transcriber. To the mouse.
Swinging away from the nibble of temptation, a temptation to stroll to her door and knock…and beg, he paced along the dark, dusty hallway leading to his bedroom.
Halfway down, he stopped again.
At his son’s bedroom
door.
He hadn’t been in the room since he’d delivered his lecture about crying. He rarely entered, he found the place too depressing. His mother had assured him dark colors would soothe his son. That the windows should always be covered so as not to let in any germs or pollen.
Cam eased the door open.
Robert lay in the middle of his oversized bed, his bright hair tangled on his forehead, his fragile lashes lying on his white cheeks. The boy had lashed out in the night; his bedcovers were twisted around the end of his legs.
An ugly, bitter anguish zigzagged inside Cam. He’d wanted to be a father. Martine’s surprise announcement had meant he had to get married, but getting a son, becoming a father, had been worth being tied down. When he’d held Robert in his hands for the first time, there hadn’t been a better moment in his life.
Sighing, he crossed the room with a light tread. He eased the boy under the covers.
Robert didn’t respond.
Which was probably a good thing. If the boy awakened, he’d be told he wasn’t needed as a father. He’d be told again, for the thousandth time, he should take off on another trip. Then Mrs. Rivers would bustle in and tell him he was upsetting his son and the disease might flare.
The boy was asleep, though, and the housekeeper wasn’t here.
So for a moment, Cam imagined he and his boy were tight, a team. He let the old dream of having his son as his companion, as the joy of his life, come back into his heart. He took a chance and let his hand lift to touch the soft curls on his boy’s head. One finger drifted along the ridge of the small forehead and across the line of his brow.
He’d been incredibly proud. Brilliantly happy.
But then Martine had descended into madness and his mother had come to live with them. His boy had turned into a sickly child. And Cam had eventually run.
His hand slid over one bony shoulder. So thin, so sick. No matter what the mouse said, this child would never join him on a flight across the water in a sailboat. He’d never be able to climb the nearest mountain. He’d never be the son he’d wanted.
The thought made him nauseated. At himself. At his greed.
