Lord of the Isles: International Billionaires VIII: The Scots (2 page)

The boys threw her a glare but shuffled off past the bend of the store.

“Lilly Graham.” The woman gave her a big smile. “Your da is going to be so happy.”

Fear faded, to be replaced with the ever-present guilt. Last year, she’d planned on staying the entire month, but an excellent assignment had pulled her away after a mere two weeks. And the year before, her two half-sisters, Taylor and Ashley, had demanded she spend at least a week with them in the Hamptons. Her dad hadn’t complained either time. She’d seen the disappointment on his face, though. This year, she was determined to stay the entire month. “It’ll be nice to see him.”

“He’s been talking about nothing else for weeks.” Mrs. Butler waved her hand at the lane behind the one-street town. “Ye go on then, and say hello for me.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Butler.”

“I’ll be seeing ye soon, I’m sure.” A speculative look crossed the old woman’s face. “Lots to discuss.”

Lilly had no idea what she could possibly need to discuss with Mrs. Butler and whatever it was, she didn’t need to deal with it right now. She was dead on her feet, and just wanted to hug her dad.

The lane led over a short ridge and then dipped into a valley. Her father always offered to drive to Fingal to pick her up. But she liked to stretch her legs after long travel. Plus, she enjoyed taking in Somairie, sinking into the peace she found here every single time she visited.

Peace would not be the word she’d choose now.

Even the sky, the Scotland sky that changed from a mellow blue to the brewing dark of a storm in minutes, even the sky didn’t give her a sense of place and peace. It looked dull, a blank color that didn’t make her fingers twitch to pick up her camera at all. The sea’s waves rose in a sluggish beat on the sandy beach and the gulls’ calls seemed muted.

A shiver of unease ran through her.

Spotting her dad’s cottage, her pace quickened. Her dad would hug her, she’d take a nap, and this odd feeling would disappear.

“Lilly.” Edward Graham appeared in the open door of his house, his face wreathed in a smile, his brown eyes twinkling. He hadn’t aged since the last time she’d seen him a year ago, and that fact made something inside her settle. “You’re finally here.”

“Dad.” Dropping her duffle, she stepped into his warm embrace and laid her head on his sturdy shoulder. “It’s good to be here.”

“It’s good to have ye home.” His arms tightened.

He always said she was home when she was here, but she’d never felt the attachment. Her life was about dancing with the new, not settling for the familiar. Right now, though, she didn’t want to argue or explain. “I’m tired.”

“Why wouldn’t ye be, coming all the way from India?” He drew away, patting her shoulder before retreating into the interior. “Come on, then. I’ve got a nice little spread, courtesy of Mrs. Butler.”

Grabbing her bag, she ducked her head before it hit the mantle of the door and stepped into the welcoming den her father spent most of his time in. The leather chair sat right by the peat fire, and the side table held his familiar pile of books and wire-rimmed glasses. “I saw Mrs. Butler on my way through Fingal.”

“Did ye?” He bustled into the small kitchen lying past the den.

“Yes.” She pulled the strap of her camera case off her shoulder. “She and Mr. Hume were acting a bit odd. Things have changed.”

He popped his head out from the kitchen door. At the look on her face, he frowned. “Now what did they dump on ye?”

“Neither dumped on me.” She tried to reassure him by fixing a smile on her face. “Mr. Hume just told me some of his stories. And Mrs. Butler was her usual pleasant self.”

Her father sighed. “Both of them are scheming, and I don’t think their plans are good ones.”

“Plans?”

“Why don’t ye take your bags to your room?” His voice grew muffled when he withdrew back into the kitchen. “Then ye can come down and we’ll have a bite before ye get too tired to eat.”

She obediently climbed the simple wooden steps that lead into the narrow hallway sporting four doors. One led into her father’s bedroom and another into the spare he used for storage. Her bedroom lay under the eaves, right by the dinky bathroom. The cream-and-pink quilt on the bed was as familiar as her own face. It had been passed down for generations, and supposedly had been hand-crafted by her great-great-grandmother. The rest of the room appeared exactly the same too, nothing having changed since she’d been here the last time.

Lovingly cared for and waiting for her return.

The peace she craved whenever she came here finally settled over her, driving away the odd twinges. Sighing with relief, she shoved her duffle into the closet. Unpacking could wait. Her camera case slid easily into the notch in the wall where, as a kid, she’d stored seashells and pretty rocks. Tomorrow, she’d wake early and take some shots of the bay that lay past the edge of her father’s land.

“Got yourself settled?” He beamed at her as she walked down into the cozy den.

“Pretty much.” Looking at the spread, she smiled. “Scones and raspberry jam. My favorite.”

“Cold ham and macaroni pie also.” He placed two steaming cups on the small round table. “Come on. Dig in, and then ye can take a nap.”

The food was good and tasty. A comfortable lull fell between them—a silence she’d loved as a kid, because it was so different from the life she’d lived with her mother and stepfather.

“So.” Her dad coughed before taking a sip of tea. “I suppose old Angus Hume told ye a few things about the island.”

The peaceful feeling she’d been enjoying wafted away. “Sure.”

“I’m sure he painted a black picture, as he’s used to doing.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say black.” She stared at the last scone and decided against stuffing herself. “Maybe a bit dark.”

“I’m telling ye not to take any note while you’re here, Lil.”

“What do you mean?” She frowned at him.

Edward Graham rarely looked serious. He tended toward jovial, kind, and patient. Yet the look on his face could only be called grim.

Grim?

Her father didn’t do grim.

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t want ye around all the time, but it won’t do.”

Confusion filled her foggy, travel-tired brain. “What won’t do?”

“I’m just telling ye not to pay attention to any of the villagers and their ramblings.”

She liked the villagers and their ramblings. They were her father’s companions and she’d known many of them for years. She couldn’t claim to be close to any of them, really, yet she enjoyed seeing them when she was here. Most were more her dad’s age than hers, as the young people tended to leave for the lure of the big cities, at least for a time. They were harmless, hearty folks, though, who’d welcomed her every year. She couldn’t understand why he needed to issue this warning, when he’d never done it before. “Um. Okay?”

“It’s no business of yours if Iain McPherson is driving his islands into disrepair and ruin.” He glared at his teacup.

Her father grim? Glaring? And it
was
her business, if her dad’s favorite place on earth was being hurt. “Ah, Dad—”

“It’s no business of yours if the boy is doing harm to everyone, including himself.”

The new Lord of the Isles was harming himself? What did that mean? “I think you need to explain—”

“Iain McPherson might be destroying his heritage and himself, but it has nothing to do with ye.”

“Dad.” Lilly straightened in her chair, her peace and comfort long gone. In its place the odd, unsettled feeling she’d tried to push away as her father got more and more upset had turned into a cold, hard knot. “What do you mean, he’s destroying or harming himself?”

“We’ve all heard the rumors.” He slapped the side of the table, making her jump. “We’ve all seen what’s being delivered.”

“What he’s ordering from Glasgow and London?” She attempted to grasp the strings of the disjointed story.

“Whiskey.” He grimaced. “Some say drugs.”

“I don’t think any reliable service would be delivering drugs.”

“Those are the rumors.” Sighing, his hand dropped from the table in a dispirited slide. “It’s nothing ye need to worry about, though. It is what it is.”

But she did worry, against her will. She didn’t like the arrogant kid she’d met that one time, but clearly, there was something wrong. And she’d learned to pay careful attention now, after losing a friend who’d retreated into alcohol as the first step toward suicide. “Did any of you think to go to the castle and talk with him? Find out if everything’s okay?”

“Of course we did. Many times.” Her dad gave her an offended look. “He wouldn’t answer. We couldn’t even get into the inner court.”

She scrunched her face in confusion. “The outer gate is always left open.”

“Not anymore.” He gave in to another gusty sigh. “The boy locked it tight as soon as he buried his da next to his mum.”

“Ten months ago.”

“When he came back from the wars.” Her father’s brown eyes went dim. “The rumor is something dreadful happened before he quit.”

The tense knot of worry turned into a crater. “He quit the service to come here and take over for his father. That’s what you told me.”

“Maybe.” He stood abruptly and began to stack the dishes. “It’s nothing to ye. Do ye understand?”

“Um.” It certainly did have something to do with her if her dad’s beloved island was being ruined. Still, she had time to figure this out and right now, she needed to sleep. Rising, she grabbed the platter of ham.

“Naw, naw.” Her father waved his hands. “I’ll take care of this. Ye go up and have a sleep. Tomorrow morning you’ll be bright and cheery and ye can make your old da his porridge.”

“Okay.” Lilly gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s nice to be back.”

“Nice to have ye back.” Snaking his hand around her neck, he returned her kiss. “Just for this month. I know that well.”

The usual guilt murmured, but she banished it with a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, lass. There’s always tomorrow.”

S
leep was as far away
from her as India and there was no waiting until tomorrow.

Huffing out her irritation, Lilly rolled over and stared at the wall. When she’d been nine, her father had taken her to the finest fabric store in Inverness. He’d told her she could choose any wallpaper she wanted. She’d picked pink butterflies fluttering across a tapestry of blue and yellow flowers. Her dad had chuckled at the choice, but paid for the expensive paper and dutifully put it up himself.

She’d still believed in fairy tales then.

The butterflies were faded now, the colors blurring with age.

Flopping on her back, she gave the slanted ceiling another huff.

Coming back from the wars. Whiskey. Drugs.

The words raced around in her head, and scrambling behind them came the worry again. In her travels, she’d made a fair share of friends among the nomadic tribe of journalists and photographers. Two years ago, one of them had confided in her after he’d returned from covering the Middle East.

Panic attacks.

Alcohol and drug abuse.

Thoughts of suicide.

She hadn’t paid enough attention to her friend’s condition. She hadn’t understood how dangerous PTSD could be. She’d let Patrick go off on another assignment without alerting his family or his employer of what was really going on with him. When she’d heard he’d committed suicide two weeks after talking with her, she’d been devastated. She’d felt terrible guilt ever since.

She should have done something.

She should do something now.

Ten months of avoiding everyone. Isolated and alone and ordering liquor and perhaps even narcotics. The whole situation held the potential for disastrous results and no one in the village seemed to understand. All they were focusing on were their own problems.

Locked in. Locking everyone out.

The castle’s front door.

Not the back one
.

The secret back door Iain McPherson had shown her long ago. The secret she’d cherished for a few short minutes before he destroyed her childish trust.

Sitting, she glanced at the one small window.

Perhaps that was her problem. Although it was past ten, the Scotland sky still glowed with a bit of sunlight.

Gloaming, her dad called it.

With a sigh of defeat, she swung her legs from under the cozy nest of covers. The wooden floor was cool on the bottoms of her feet and for a moment, she thought about what she was doing.

Don’t do it, Lil. It’s not your problem.

But it had to be someone’s problem. Not it, though. Him.

Iain Arrogant McPherson.

She stood and walked to the chair where she’d slung her windbreaker and sweater. Within a few minutes, she’d dressed, and before she could talk herself out of it, she was in the hallway.

Maybe he’d changed since he’d been a kid and she should forgive him for his behavior. After all, it had been almost twenty years. She didn’t do grudges, so why had she held on to this one for so long?

Her dad’s muffled snoring came from his bedroom and she sighed a breath of relief. She’d dreaded trying to explain to him why she was going to go up to the castle. Now she didn’t have to. Hopefully, she could have a talk with the McPherson, assure herself that there was nothing to worry about, and be back in her warm bed before midnight.

She crept down the stairs and, without a sound, opened the front door and stepped into the night.

The sun had set, yet this far north, the light still glowed dimly, making it easy to navigate the pathway to her destination. She hadn’t come this way since two years ago, when Malcolm McPherson had held his final summer party. She and her dad had followed the line of villagers over the narrow bridge leading into the castle’s inner court. There’d been bagpipes and highland dancers and tables filled with haggis pot pies, fresh salmon, local cheese, and an assortment of raspberries and strawberries.

Iain McPherson hadn’t been there. That had been the only reason she’d agreed to attend.

But everyone had talked about him. His gallantry medals and commendations for bravery and on and on. She’d rolled her eyes a time or two, but she’d kept her mouth shut.

What was the use of fighting a make-believe legend?

The wind was soft tonight, something to be grateful for in Scotland. It took her only fifteen minutes to get to the stone bridge curving across the slender stream. At one time, her dad had told her, there’d been a mighty moat to guard the family against hungry Viking raiders and greedy English kings. Now the only remnants of this castle’s bloody past were the chipped edges of some of the stones where a Viking ax or English arrow had clunked into defiant resistance.

Lilly looked up and up, over the castle wall, over the bulk of stonework sheltering the main hall and public rooms. Her gaze landed on the tallest tower. One lone light glowed from the square window set high in the circle of stone.

“So you’re awake,” she muttered. “Good.”

Marching to the front gate, she eyed the stout wooden double doors. Black steel bars ran in a crisscross on the wood, barring any entry. Above her head loomed the spiked iron grate, a string of daggers ready to block any invader. She sneered at the barriers before turning and stomping past, heading around the arc of the wall. There was more than one way to breach a castle and a man’s defenses.

The dirt trail was faint, as if no one had traveled it for years. Perhaps no one had, since the boy who had showed her this path long ago had left his home for glory.

She didn’t have a clue what she was going to say, but something had to be said.

Not for a second time would she allow a man to wallow in despair to the point he’d do something destructive. The only thing she needed to do was assess the McPherson’s condition. Hopefully, it wasn’t as bad as her vivid imagination had conjured.

She could leave the arrogant man alone and return to her dad’s cottage to sleep in peace.

A little bump of a ridge hid the beach, yet she knew it was there. The private McPherson beach, he’d told her as he led her down this path. Her heart had been beating hard then. Not in anticipation of seeing what he talked about, but for the beauty of knowing a fifteen-year-old boy had been concentrating on her.

She climbed the last of the ridge and took in the real beauty.

The beauty she should have focused on, that long-ago day.

The cove was protected by a harsh outcropping of rock. Her dad fancied himself an amateur geologist and had told her the rock was called Lewiston Gneiss, some of the oldest in the world. Some smart McPherson ancestor had chosen to meld his castle to the crag, making it almost part of the rock itself. Unlike the hard face of the ridge and the looming castle, the sandy shore was all soft, gentle beauty. The sand was white in the gloaming and the waves of the sea washed over it in a nearly silent swish of sound.

Her fingers twitched for her missing camera, but she doggedly reminded herself she had something more important to do.

She would not have another man’s life go wrong because she kept quiet.

Shrugging at the beauty before her, she headed for the secret path. He’d told her no one knew except the McPhersons, and she’d shivered with delight then.

A shiver went down her spine now as she came to the spot.

What was she doing? What was she going to say?

The questions thumped inside her, making her pause.

Lilly. Think with your head not your heart.

Her stepfather’s voice pummeled into her and her spine straightened. She’d tried to listen to him for years. But she’d learned her own way these last ten years. A better way for her.

Now? Now she listened to her heart and it had never failed her.

Her heart told her to keep going.

She’d figure out what to say and do once she spotted the McPherson.

Taking up her courage once more, she pushed aside the drape of moss clinging to the peat and dirt. Behind the curtain lay the stone steps he’d led her up that summer. By the heaviness of the moss and the stubborn grip of the dirt, it was apparent no one had climbed up or down these stairs in a long time.

He hadn’t told anyone else. Not even the clan of friends he’d run with over the years.

A stupid thrill ran through her, along with continued puzzlement. Why had he told her that day? What had been so special about her he’d given away a family secret? She hadn’t figured it out then, and she certainly wasn’t going to figure it out at this point. There was something else she needed to figure out.

Whether or not Iain Arrogant McPherson needed help.

The ancient rock steps crumpled in the middle, as if some giant had stomped down them, breaking each one. A thin glaze of moisture made them doubly treacherous. She clung to the castle’s stone wall as she inched her way towards her goal.

The secret back door.

An arch of stone circled around a heavy oak door with black iron studs slicing across the wood every couple of inches. When she’d been a kid, she’d thought this door enchanting and magical. Tonight, it seemed to scream at her to stay away, don’t trespass. The door was closed. Tightly. Like it was locked. Like it was meant to keep everyone away.

Her heart lurched, surprising her.

When had this become so important? Finding him. Making sure there wasn’t anything seriously wrong. She touched the rough wood. The arch above the door dripped with condensation, dewing her fingers with sudden wetness.

Lilly pushed.

The door swung open with a creak.

He hadn’t locked it.

Her heart sped into a furious beat.

She was going to see him. She was going to have to think of what to do and what to say.

A low thrum of music caught her attention, drawing her into the tiny stone foyer. The sound was dark and dreary, a dirge of some classical piece she couldn’t identify. Her stepfather was a big supporter of the New York Philharmonic, and she’d spent a lot of her childhood being dragged to symphony after symphony.

She had no great fondness for classical music.

The music suddenly boomed, a pounding roar of violins and drums. She jumped and the door behind her swung shut.

For a moment, her brain swarmed with indecision.

If he was playing music, it couldn’t be that bad, right? It could be all this worry for him was a waste. Maybe she should just turn around and creep away before she made a fool of herself over Iain McPherson once again.

The music stopped with an abrupt snap.

Her spine snapped to attention, too. She wasn’t a quitter, never had been, never would be.

The guy needed someone to confront him and tell him he should get help. The villagers were too awed by hero worship and too angry about their jobs and homes to focus on Iain McPherson himself. Someone had to get in his face and slap him out of his isolation.

Before it was too late.

That thought pushed her out of the small, circular foyer she’d last stood in when she’d been ten. He’d turned on her here, turned from being an exciting teenager into a snarling, arrogant rejector. The memory made her grit her teeth.

Perhaps he’d changed.

Thrusting open a stout stone door, she spotted a staircase down a short hall. The granite steps circled around a heavy rock post, leading up into the tower, she’d bet. The castle tours she’d taken as a kid had never been in this part. Her fingers slid across the layers of ancient sandstone as she slowly climbed up and up.

Silence echoed from above.

Her heartbeat escalated as she ran through various versions of what she should say to this man. Tension tightened the muscles of her back and the hair on her neck rose, as if sensing the danger in front of her.

She pushed Patrick into her brain and kept going.

This must be the oldest part of the castle. She could tell by the narrow slits of windows interspersed in the thick walls. Now, they were decorated with lovely stained glass, but she’d guess they would have once been used to shield warriors as they fought off invaders.

“Who the hell are ye?”

Jerking her head up, she spotted…a warrior.

He stood at the top of the stairway, and the flickering light behind him emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the taut strength of his body. His black shadow fell on her, making her freeze in her tracks, making her think of cold, dark woods with ravaging creatures ready to scare someone stupid enough to enter their forest.

Her heart thumped in her chest like a wild, uncontrollable drum.

“Well?” he snarled. “Answer me.”

He held some kind of bottle in one hand and for a moment, she thought he might hurtle it at her. “I’m Lilly,” she blurted. “Lilly Graham.”

“Who?” He shifted, menace lining the one word.

Taking a grip on her ridiculous fear, she climbed one step, then another. This was only a man, not a raging warrior or a ferocious beast. Just a man who needed someone to evaluate whether he needed help or not.

“Stop right there.” He growled, low and harsh, and the sound slammed into the stone walls, accentuating the threat.

She straightened her shoulders, thought about Patrick again, and took another step toward him.

A guttural curse was his response before he jerked back, disappearing around the bend of the stairwell.

Being an optimist, she took this as progress. Walking up the last of the stairs, she gathered her courage before stepping into the archway.

Surprise stunned her to a stop.

The room was distinctly modern, even though the ceiling arching overhead was made of ancient stone and the walls were thick, standing here in solid splendor for hundreds of years.

He’d sat down in a big leather chair, his long legs sprawled out in front of a dying fire. No other light brightened the round tower room, filled with a hodgepodge of stereo and computer equipment, a matching leather sofa to the chair, and a sturdy wooden trunk with scrolled Celtic sides.

The surface of the trunk brimmed with empty bottles and dirty plates.

“Go away,” he muttered, before lifting the half-filled bottle to his lips.

A bottle of whiskey.