Laird of the Highlands: International Billionaires IX: The Scots (4 page)

Ceri stared at them, the grave concern on Rose’s face, the three girls all delighted with Lorne Ross’s return. She remembered the sneer on the sheriff’s face and the amused distance in his receptionist’s eyes. She’d been a part of this community for five years, and yet, precisely as with her own hometown, that didn’t really matter.

Gold-digger.

He’s caught her red-handed.

This wasn’t a fairy tale. It was her new reality. And just as she had when she’d been eighteen, she’d bet she’d have to face this challenge on her own, too.

Without pots of money.

Without Will.

“
M
r. Ross
.” Reid’s voice reminded Lorne of a buzzing bee. Distracting and irritating, but not something a person needed to pay much attention to. “You must see this is not the way to win the war.”

“Must I?” He stared through the beveled window at the rolling hills of his estate. The castle’s tower gave him an expansive view. Much of Ross land encompassed what was called the Caledonia Forest. The ancient pines had been his dad’s most precious possession, even more than his son. The trees shot into the hazy blue sky, the green tips waving in the brisk Scottish wind.

Lorne wished for the thousandth time he felt some affinity, some attachment.

“Yes, you must.” His solicitor walked to where he stood, the inevitable papers rustling in his hand. “The woman could cause a stink in the village, and the London tabloids could run stories. She also could waste your time by fighting you in court.”

“But it is my time to waste. And I don’t care about the London tabloids.” He eased away from the window and away from Reid. “I thought I’d been clear.”

“Yes.” The older man sighed. “Very clear. No money for her.”

“Correct.”

Her seventy-two hours would be up at the end of today. She was smart. He’d noted the intelligence in those dark eyes. A woman like her, a female who searched for weak prey, would know when the game was lost.

She’d leave.

A flash of memory crossed his mind. The blaze in her eyes as she neared him. The sweet lilt on her harsh words. The scent and impact of her body as she drew close.

Far too close.

Lorne slammed the door to that particular memory, closed it for the hundredth time.

He’d retreated from their first meeting. True. He’d had to, and he knew himself well enough to know what he’d done had been rational, not foolish. Yet the memory had plagued him all day until he’d forced himself back into her presence. The action had been the right thing to do. Standing in the cottage’s tiny kitchen, watching her, everything that had been unsettled went quiet. She was as he'd judged, nothing more, and now the memory of his retreat was no more important than Reid’s irritating voice.

The irritating voice cut into his thoughts. “It wouldn’t take more than your pocket change to get her to leave. The security team’s report was clear. She’s got barely enough money to keep this place going.”

“No.” Padding across the room, he opened the doors to the wide hallway. Reid didn’t have to tell him what was in the report. He’d read it once and could relate every word back to anyone who wanted to know about Ceri Llewellyn. “No money.”

The solicitor sighed.

There was a chance he would have to use the report and his money to drive her off his estate. He’d calculated the chance in his head last night—right around five percent. So, he fully expected to see the hatchback he’d spotted parked on the side of the cottage driving down his long lane sometime in the next few hours. Out she would go onto the road leading away from Ross land.

Gone for good. Gone forever.

The punishment he’d planned as he drove to Scotland would take a bit longer to execute. His security team would follow her travels, dig up her plans, and ruin them. He didn’t know how long he’d proceed with this course of action. Maybe for a few years. Maybe until he’d felt his father had been successfully revenged. The woman might not plead for forgiveness now, however, eventually she would and he might let it go at that point.

“Mr. Ross.” Reid coughed his way into Lorne’s awareness. “We’ll need to make contingency plans in case she doesn’t comply.”

“Is that so?” He frowned. Doc often talked about Plan Bs and fallback positions. His partner had tried to explain that it was much like backing up a computer. But protecting your work wasn’t the same as admitting defeat before you began. He had never seen the sense in this. A person found a goal, focused on that goal, and achieved the goal.

“You must see.” Reid’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “She might not agree.”

He didn’t see. How she could examine her situation and not understand what was best for her survival? “She’s intelligent. She’ll leave.”

“Sir.” The solicitor huffed and Lorne noted the man’s expression had grown distressed. “She might not. And what will we do then?”

He walked to the long desk he’d had installed the day before last in his old bedroom. On it stood three computer screens, all in a precise line along the wall. Looking at his watch, he calculated the satellite crew would arrive in a little more than an hour. After thinking about the situation, he’d decided it was best he make his presence felt at Castle Ross and in Pictloch. At least, for a couple of months. Thus, the necessity of setting up his work so he could operate effectively from here.

“Sir?” Frustration laced the word.

“Ye have filed the papers stopping the castle tours?” Lorne fingered the black keyboard. He’d been astonished his father would have allowed such a thing. His father’s true love had been the forest, yet Castle Ross had never strayed far from his heart. To allow the general public into the rooms that were meant for only Ross feet to stand in? To have strange people staring at his mother’s portrait? To encourage crowds of tourists to stomp through the castle gardens, strewing trash and debris behind them, and filling the air with their noise?

A shudder went through him.

His father must have gone soft in the head. Or that woman had made him do it for the money. Probably a combination of both.

“Yes.” His solicitor huffed again. “They should be served tomorrow and that will effectively shut her down from doing anything with the castle until your dispute of the inheritance is heard in the courts.”

He laid his hand on the desk. “Good.” Brushing his palm along the wood, he zeroed in on the threads of grain in the fine oak. It reminded him of the seamless consistency of his latest computer code. He suddenly itched to get back to what he did best, get back to the straightforward clarity of his work.

“Mr. Ross.” Reid shuffled to his side, too close, too irritating.

“Ye can go to your bedroom.” He’d put the man in Lady Aileen’s room. The ornate velvet bed hangings and tapestry-laden walls might muffle the man’s constant whining, he’d thought. The fact a supposed ghost also trailed around the room might provide some entertainment. Much to his disappointment, so far, the man hadn’t reported any issues, and hadn’t stopped whining, either.

“As your counsel, I have to say this.”

Lorne brought his head up slowly, wishing he could keep his focus on the wood. There’d been something in the roll of one grain that made him think he could incorporate it into his code. But he wouldn’t be left alone until the man had his say, he’d learned. “Say what?”

Reid appeared stern and serious, his owlish eyes piercing. “You don’t really want this castle.”

He didn’t. He didn’t love this place, or plan on living here for any length of time. Still, that had nothing to do with his goal. Staring at the man, he said nothing.

“If your aim is to get back at this woman, there’s a simple solution.”

He inspected the solicitor. He liked simple. Simple was most often the way to go. “What?”

“As the only surviving child, according to Scottish law, you are due half.”

Lorne kept his silence. Waiting.

Reid patted the papers in his hands, a sly smile crossing his face. “You could demand half of the moving estate.”

“Moving estate.” He said the words softly, carefully.

“Half of anything that isn’t the property itself.” The man’s smile went gleeful. “You could take all the famous paintings.”

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.”