Lion of Caledonia: International Billionaires VII: The Scots (7 page)

* * *

T
he 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.

* * *

C
am 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.

Robert’s eyes suddenly popped open.

Cam jerked his hand back.

His son’s gaze went blank. “I don’t need ye.” His young voice rose in a screech. “Go away.”

So his father did.

B
y the time
the next morning had arrived, Jen had herself back together. She’d banished any thoughts of heat and desire. She’d bandaged her courage. She’d also decided to let well enough alone.

Robbie was her friend. She’d done the best she could for him. It was up to father and son to figure themselves out.

Her job was to find the ring. Her job was to tend to her own family.

Her job was not to try and bring these two males together.

Pulling on a heavy wool jumper, she prepared herself for work. During the past few days, without him around, she realized how much she’d come to love watching Cameron Steward pace the library: his long, powerful legs eating up the area, the way he swung his arms as he walked, the beauty of his body. She’d missed the beauty of his voice too: the rugged touch of its burred accent, the rolling rhythm of the words, the passionate delivery.

She also wanted to know the rest of the story.

Over the last few days as she’d come to realize the ties slowly binding her to this man, she’d realized she needed to leave as quickly as possible. Before she was totally in the thrall of her employer.

Find the ring.

Leave.

Clicking open the door to her bedroom, she stepped into the dusty hall.

“Hi.” Robbie stood at the top of the stairs. His head was covered by a medieval chainmail coif, and he held a scary-looking sword in his hand. “He’s home.”

The ache in the young boy’s words matched the ache she’d heard last night in a man’s deep voice. She swallowed her own aching desire to make this right between them. “Yes. He is.”

“Not that I care.” The sword quivered as he lifted it and swung it in front of him.

“That’s a big sword.” She’d learned during the last few days not to question Robbie’s ability to do anything manly. He had inherited his fierce pride, she’d bet. “Can I hold it?”

“No.” The boy swung it to his side. “Only a man can hold it.”

She could point out how sexist that was. She could also point out he wasn’t a man. Not yet. But picking a fight with her new friend, so early in the morning, wasn’t on her agenda. “I have to get to work.”

“He’s waiting for ye.” He turned and stomped down the stairs, the sword clattering behind him. “He’s been in the library since six a.m.”

How could his father think this boy spent all his time being sick in his bedroom? How could he have not noticed this fierce little creature observing everything he did?

Jen followed him until they reached the ground floor.

He turned, the chain clanking around his head, pushing his glasses askew. “I’ll see ye in the garden, then? We can have a picnic for lunch.”

Glancing out the circular window set into the side wall, she looked back at him with disbelief.

The boy gave her a grin. “Don’t worry. The rain will clear.”

It probably would. The child had a preternatural instinct about the weather. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact he spent most of his time outdoors. “All right. A picnic it is.”

“Ye bring the food.” He danced down the hall, the grin still on his face. “I’ll bring myself.”

She shook her finger at him. “You’re the one who invited me.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll bring the food.” He laughed before racing off.

Jen strode through the clutter of the great hall with a lingering smile on her face and arrived at the open library door right on the stroke of eight.

“You’re late.” A ferocious scowl covered her employer’s face.

The last of her smile disappeared. Yet she wasn’t going to take the bait. A promise had been made last night in her warm, small bed—to herself and to her family. She would not engage in any conversation with this man that could lead to any kind of intimate connection. No arguing. No pointing out he was wrong. No introducing any personal subjects. “I’m here.”

Cameron Steward stood, as usual, in the window bay. His armor of choice, black jumper and black jeans, outlined him in stark contrast to the muted light of the rain-drenched gloom. His hair, as she’d come to expect, lay in rumpled disarray.

He jerked his predator gaze back to looking outside without responding.

Sucking in her breath, she marched to the desk to sit in the high-backed chair. She opened the computer and the program, then placed her fingers on the keyboard to wait in passive silence.

A rustle of movement from the door brought her head up.

“Mr. Steward.” The housekeeper peered into the room from the doorway. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes.” With a restless shrug of his shoulders, he turned to confront them both. “I’m going to have a party.”

Jen straightened in her chair, surprise spinning in her head.

Surprise was not what blanketed Mrs. Rivers’ face. Horror would be a more accurate term. “A party?”

“Yes.” He slid his phone from his pocket and skated a finger across the screen. “I’m counting twelve altogether.”

“Twelve what?” the older woman’s voice quavered.

“Twelve people.” An impatient frown drew his tawny brows down. “In a couple of weeks.”

A couple of weeks? Jen’s mind strolled through the dirty great hall, the dusty rooms, the barren garden. Her brain toured the line of empty bedrooms on the third floor, with their ancient mattresses, uncleaned bathrooms, and musty smells.

She giggled.

He swung around to stare at her, his brows now lifted in wonder. “Did I hear a cheerful noise coming from ye, Ms. Douglas?”

At least he’d used her title. She should be pleased. Instead, a pang ran through her.

Her mouth tightened.

“Or maybe not.” With a grimace of his own, he swung back to his housekeeper. “They’ll stay for a weekend so they’ll need beds.”

“But… But…”

“Do ye cook, Mrs. Rivers?” He kept going at a relentless clip.

Jen knew the woman cooked. After all, who else could be stocking her fridge every week? The dinners she’d eaten, though, were not fit for a fancy house party of twelve. Her grandfather had held hundreds of house parties when she’d lived with him. She understood what the expectations were. Mrs. Rivers’ comfort food would not suit.

“I… I…” The frazzled woman twisted her hands in front of her.

“What I mean is, do ye cook more than what ye usually serve me and the boy?” The man prowled closer to the woman. “Something special?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Steward.” The housekeeper’s dull gaze had turned frantic. “I suppose I can think of something.”

“Good, good.” Looking pleased, he patted her on the shoulder. “We're all set, then. I’ll give ye the exact dates tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes.” The woman ran off as if hellfire were chasing her.

Jen stuffed down another giggle.

“Well.” He rubbed his hands together and paced to the bay window. “That went well.”

The man was clueless. Instead of realizing he’d asked his drab housekeeper for something impossible, he looked as if he’d checked off an item on his to-do list and was able to move on.

There was no way one woman could clean this house in a couple of weeks. There was no way the garden would be ready for a spring party—even if Jen had already spent quite a bit of time on the area. And there was certainly no way one woman would be capable of providing endless elegant spreads for twelve guests and her employer.

Your job is to find the ring, Jennet.

Correct. She put her fingers on the keyboard and focused her concentration on the computer screen.

“Are ye ready to begin the story again, Ms. Douglas?” His broad shoulders twitched before going still.

“Yes, Mr. Steward.”

* * *

“
I
hate
it when it rains.” Robbie’s disgruntled voice rumbled from her cozy armchair, a childish replica of his father’s more powerful roar.

Jen plucked the two tea bags out of their respective cups and threw them in the trash. Plopping a good helping of milk in each one, she whisked them off the counter and walked over to set one on the end table by the chair. “You’re living in the wrong country if you don’t like rain.”

The amusement in her voice made him frown. “It’s not all rain I hate.”

“Really?” Taking a seat opposite him, she sipped on the hot, comforting brew.

“Yes. Really.” He grabbed his cup and took a sip too. “There are different kinds of rain, ye know.”

She leaned back in her chair, prepared for another lecture. This boy knew more about a vast array of things than any child she’d ever met, and most adults too. “Kinds of rain?”

“There’s the kind of rain that’s just misty.” Robbie adjusted his glasses, his odd eyes gleaming with the love of sharing knowledge. “Then there’s the kind of rain that lasts only for a few seconds, like a blast of wet.”

“I’ve experienced that kind of rain.” She shivered. Only a couple of days ago, she’d been caught in a sudden storm that had left her drenched and cold.

“Those aren’t so bad because ye can hide in the shed or under a hedge for a second.”

“What if you don’t have a shed or a hedge near—”

“Then ye get wet.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “That’s why Da says ye always need to be aware of your surroundings.”

His son had taken the advice to heart. The kid knew every inch of this house and every foot of the estate.

“But this is the kind of rain I hate.” He jumped off his chair, the flash of his skinny, white legs making her smile. Today, he’d chosen a traditional kilt overlaid with a leather jerkin. He’d proudly shown her the tasseled sporran she’d spotted in the glass case on the first day she’d arrived.

“How did you unlock the case?” she’d asked as she eyed what must be a hundred-year-old artifact.

“Oh,” he’d said, with a nonchalant grin, “I picked the lock.”

Someone absolutely needed to take this boy in hand.

“This storm is awful because it doesn’t stop.” Leaning on the one window in her cozy nest, he gloomily surveyed the sheets of rain pouring down. “It’s bound to go on all day. We’ll not be having a picnic today, that’s for sure.”

“We had a wonderful picnic yesterday.” Right after leaving the library and a beaming employer who honestly thought he was going to get his party the way he wanted, she had been accosted by her new friend. Within minutes, she’d been tugged outdoors, a food-filled basket in his hand. How could she complain when the boy had led her to an enchanting hidden glade on the other side of the moor from the mansion?

“Da doesn’t come this way now,” Robbie had said when she questioned whether his father would find them. “He always goes the other way in the afternoon.”

He tracked his father.

Lord help him. And his son.

“But that was yesterday.” The son twisted away from the window, his mouth drawn into a pointed, pained pout. “And today is today.”

“We’ll do something in the house,” she suggested. “We can look at your collections.”

“We’ve already done that.” A rough sigh escaped him.

She racked her brain. True, she hadn’t been with children very much, but she’d once been a child herself. This couldn’t be too hard. “How about hide-and-go-seek?”

His two-toned eyes lit. “That would be brilliant!”

“Do you want to hide?” Her heart warmed. She’d found something to keep this eager child challenged. “Or should I?”

“Me.” He bounced off the window ledge and raced to the door. “Give me ten seconds.”

“Wait, we need to set some rules—”

He was gone before she could say one more word. Like his father, Robbie didn’t appear to want many rules.

Counting to ten, she waited until the shuffle of his shoes on the stairway stopped. The third floor was out, obviously, from the noise of his descent, and since the second floor was off limits, her search would be limited to the first floor. Not that this saved her much time. The first floor offered a vast array of places for a boy to hide.

She spent fifteen minutes going through the great hall with no success. The drawing and dining room yielded no laughing child, and the library held only silence. For a brief moment, she thought about taking some time and looking for the ring in the room, but Robbie was her friend and she couldn’t let him rot wherever he hid.

After another half hour had gone by, she was ready to claim defeat. She’d even forced herself into the awful armory room, with no results.

“Psst.”

A little voice made her glance up.

“A hint.” Robbie’s dark eyes twinkled over the banister. “I’m up here.”

“On the second floor.” Crossing her arms, she frowned at him. “You told me I wasn’t to go there.”

A flash of hesitant concern crossed his face before a grin replaced it. “It’s all right. You’re my friend now.”

“I was your friend when you told me that.”

“Not as good of a friend.” His childish logic seemed to please him because the grin widened. “Give me ten more seconds to hide again, and then come up.”

“Robbie—”

With another flash, he was gone.

This is good, Jennet. Very good
.

The second floor. The family quarters. She should be happy about this.

She was not. It felt like a betrayal.

But to whom? Robbie? He’d invited her.