Lord of the Isles: International Billionaires VIII: The Scots (3 page)

Surprise coursed through her again. She’d had an inkling of what was wrong with this man, yet it still stunned her to see Iain Arrogant McPherson, the hero of the Royal Marines, the Lord of the Isles, like this.

“You’re drunk.”

“So I am.” He eyed her before taking another slug. “Fuck off.”

Stepping into the room, she looked around. Behind the fireplace, she spotted the edge of an unmade bed piled with clothes. Beyond that yawned an open door leading into a dark cavern that probably was a bathroom.

“Are ye here to take inventory then?” he barked from his chair. “Take whatever ye want and leave.”

She swung her head back to meet his gaze. Now that she’d acclimated to the lack of light, she could see his eyes were blood-shot. “You’re not doing yourself any favors by drinking too much.”

He grunted, his gaze narrowing. “So you’re another one of the villagers pounding on the front door, wanting to tell me what I need to do.”

“No.” She thought about taking off her windbreaker and trying to reason with him, but it was clear he was in no mood to listen and in no shape to make any decisions. “I’m not a villager.”

“How did ye get in here?” The straight line of his dark brows furrowed in dazed confusion. “I locked the door.”

She hummed, not willing to let him know she’d remembered his secret. “Let’s talk about something else.”

His response was to drain the bottle.

Lilly sighed. She had enough experience with her drunk friends to know. She was going to have to return when he was sober. Not something she was happy about, yet it appeared she was the only one who could get to him and she wasn’t willing to share his secret with others. “I can see this isn’t a good time to talk.”

“Ye do like to blether on, don’t ye?” Lurching from the chair, he strode under another stone arch and out of her sight.

Though, strode wouldn’t be the word. Weaved was more accurate.

With a reluctant concern, she followed him into a compact kitchen. Another deep-seated fireplace lined one wall, cold and unused. On the other side, a half fridge was planted under a sweep of granite-tiled counters. An island block of cedar wood stood in the middle of the room. All the counters and the island’s surface were covered with more empty bottles and dirty dishes.

The Lord of the Isles ignored it all, heading straight for a tower of cardboard boxes. Yanking out a full whiskey bottle, he tore off the screw top with an impatient, clumsy motion.

“This really isn’t helpful.”

At her soft words, he turned with an abrupt jerk, wobbling for a moment, before righting himself. “Why should I care what ye think?” He took a swig before carelessly wiping the edge of his green-and-blue flannel shirt across his mouth. “Whoever the hell ye are.”

“Lilly Graham.” She provided the information again, keeping her voice gentle, hoping she could reach him with kindness instead of censure.

He swayed once more on his bare feet, the hems of his frayed jeans brushing on the stone floor. “Lilly. Graham.”

“Yes.”

His bloodshot eyes swerved her way and a sudden, sullen knowing filled them with awareness. “Och, yes. The lovely Lilly. Come back from one of your long holidays to visit your dear da.”

He was drunk and shouldn’t be listened to, but the shot hit too close for her liking. Her stepfather’s wealth had been used against her before, when she’d first started her career. The undeserved accusations still stung, even though many years had passed. “They aren’t holidays,” she said with stiff snap. “I work.”

A dark chuckle was his only response. Other than taking another swig.

“I think you’ve had enough.” Gentle wasn’t going to do it. She’d put a friend or two to bed drunk more times than she could count. Traveling journalists and photographers tended to either be gypsies who loved to wander or wanderers trying to escape demons. A firm grip and a tough voice were what was needed in this present situation. “It’s time for you to go to bed.”

“Bed?” He lurched toward her, his face alive with hazy glee. “Now you’re saying something I’m interested in.”

Sighing, she ignored the lurid hint in his voice and grabbed the bottle from his hands.

“Hey.” His objection fell flat as he staggered into a wall. “Fuck.”

“Come on.” Pulling him upright, she lifted his muscled arm and slung it around her shoulders. “Time to go to bed.”

“Whatever ye say, lass.” He leaned on her, heavy and hard. “Can’t say I’m not surprised by this turn of events.”

“I’m sure you are.” A wry edge filled her words.

She managed to shuffle him past the dying fire and into the dark bedroom. A faint light filtered from the small window stuck high into the wall. The king-size bed appeared comfortable, if not for the mound of clothes piled in lumps across the entire surface.

“Sit.” She pushed him down.

He chuckled again, but obediently slumped.

With quick shoves, she cleared the bed. There’d be time enough tomorrow to sort this chaos out. Looking at him, she noted the shaggy hair, so unlike the close-cropped marine cut he’d sported in all the photos his father had passed around during the parties. Now, his dark hair lay in a mat of twisted curls on his forehead and around his ears. “You’re a mess.”

“Hey, hey.” He lifted his head, the light catching the gleam of cunning in his dazed eyes. “Not something ye should say to a man before climbing into bed with him.”

He was big and strong, even after months of lying around and drinking, apparently. For some reason, though, he didn’t scare her. Somewhere underneath all this trouble and torment there still lurked Iain McPherson, the honorable hero his father had loved. She had to believe that in spite of experiencing an entirely different side of him. But that had been only once and had been an aberration from everything she’d heard over the years.

“Time for you to get some sleep.” She tugged on the edge of his shirt. “You’ll be more comfortable if you take your clothes off.”

He made a deep sound in his throat, a shot of sin and sex that made the hair on her neck rise. Before she could step out from between his legs, his hands clamped onto the back of her thighs. “A grand idea,” he murmured. “Help me take my clothes off, lovely Lilly.”

Scratch the thought. He’d just have to wake with his jeans and shirt on. She grabbed his hands and wrenched them off her before pushing him once more.

He splayed on the bed, his long legs hanging off, his arms spreading wide. “Damn,” he groaned. “I knew this dream was too good to be true.”

Leaning over him, she stared into his face. His eyes were closed, his skin pale. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning and we’ll talk.”

Groaning, he opened his eyes. She couldn’t tell the color in the fading light, yet she remembered. The blue of the Scotland sky mixed with the depths of the islands’ seas. “No talk,” he said. “Kiss.”

“Nope.” She pulled away. “I’m afraid you stink.”

“Stink.” A short cough of a laugh came from his throat. “This isn’t a dream. It’s another nightmare.”

Compassion clogged her throat. She didn’t like Iain Arrogant McPherson, but he hurt. And her tender heart hurt for him. “I’ll return tomorrow and make you a nice breakfast. Then we can decide what kind of counseling you need.”

“Whatever ye say, lovely Lilly. You’re all in my imagination anyway.” His eyes slammed shut and he moaned again. “My head.”

“Spinning, I bet. Still, you’ll feel better tomorrow.” Hiking his legs up, she pulled the down comforter over him. “Sweet dreams, McPherson.”

A drunken chuckle was his only response.

“And tomorrow, we’ll tackle your ugly nightmares,” she promised before walking out of the room.

* * *

“
L
ovely Lilly has turned
into a fine peach of a lass.” Iain crooned the jumbled words at the bedroom’s barrel ceiling. “Lovely Lilly is a lovely peach tart.”

He couldn’t quite wrap his wiggly head around that image, so he closed his eyes.

The bed immediately began to spin around and around once more. His eyes shot open and he tried to focus on the string of modern black lighting he’d installed ten months ago when he’d decided to camp out in the tower.

You stink
.

Her flat, American drawl had made the accusation bounce right to his funny bone. Again he found it funny, and he chuckled softly into the silence of his bedroom. The movement made him suddenly nauseated.

He barely made it to the toilet.

“Damn.” Flushing, he moved to the double sinks. The blast of cold water felt good on his hands and wrists and he sunk, his elbows hitting the stone edge of the counter.

He didn’t glance up into the big circular mirror he’d ordered from London. What had he been thinking ten months ago? Had he imagined he’d get over the guilt and find some kind of forgiveness? Enough that he’d be able to look at himself in a mirror?

He laughed, the sound hoarse and harsh.

Soon, eventually, at some point, he’d take the damn thing down so there’d be no temptation to meet what was in his eyes.

Slurping some water into his mouth, he swished. Brushed his teeth. Tottered back into the cold bedroom.

Maybe he’d dreamt the whole thing. Even now, the memory of peachy Lilly shimmered like a mirage in his brain. The quirky way her upper lip curled when she was amused. The strength of her grip as she guided him to his bed. The brush of her breasts on his chest as she leaned over him.

Maybe he needed another drink to remember every detail.

Staggering into the den, he made it as far as his chair before running out of energy. The bottle lying on the floor was empty, but he couldn’t find enough drive inside him to get to the kitchen.

To hell with it.

He slumped into the leather and stared at the dead fireplace. The memory of lovely Lilly and peaches whispered away, replaced by the ever-present gloom and darkness.

It settled in around him, a comforting knowing, a certainty he relied on now as his new reality.

He frowned. If she had been real, he’d have to figure out how she got in here. He’d made damn sure everything had been blocked off, including the stairway leading from the main hall to the tower.

Tomorrow
, his musty mind rumbled.
Tomorrow, you’ll figure it out.

He didn’t want any reminders of what he should be or what he shouldn’t be doing. He didn’t want any memories of a young, ten-year-old girl with a whimsical grin and sea-green eyes. His father’s memory and the memories of his men were bad enough. Having to deal with the memory of a perky, pesky girl who’d turned into a perky, pesky woman was too much.

Yet he itched to remember. Against his will.

Iain leaned his aching head on the chair’s headrest and closed his eyes. To his relief, nothing spun. It allowed him to bring her back, what small details he’d managed to gather in the fog of liquor.

Her hair had been blonde and springy. Exactly like when she’d been a young girl. The color surprisingly hadn’t changed from the pale gold he’d remembered for years. The tousled curls had clung to the edge of her cheeks and jaw making her look all of ten, still.

Her body hadn’t been a ten-year-old’s.

His body stirred, shocking him.

He’d been here for ten months, and had spent the previous two months before that recovering. Not in all that time had his body murmured about a woman.

Not until lovely Lilly had stolen into his castle.

“Fuck that. Fuck her.”

His swearing echoed in the silence surrounding him. Instead of registering the anger in his brain, however, his body immediately jumped to the crude meaning of the words and his cock went hard.

“Dammit.” He opened his eyes and glared down.

He did not want to come back to life. He did not want to wake from his fog of depression and whiskey. What he wanted was to be left alone to rot.

As he deserved.

Reaching under the chair, he lifted his favorite 9mm pistol. He smoothed trembling fingers across the muzzle, the barrel, the grip.

Rotting was overrated. He couldn’t seem to drink enough to blot out the memories. And even though he had blurry, bloodshot eyes and the beginnings of a permanently fogged brain, it didn’t stop the nightmares.

It didn’t stop the curse.

The trigger felt good against the tip of his finger. Right, somehow, as if it all should end here.

He’d been in the military since he’d turned seventeen. For half his life. He’d learned to shoot and kill, learned to ignore pain and tamp down pleasure. The Royal Marines had become his life. He’d made his da proud and he’d managed to forget the memory of his sweet, patient mother.

He’d managed to lose himself.

And at this point, he didn’t want to find his rotten soul ever again.

Because then he’d have to deal with the curse and he had no weapons to fight that battle.

No weapons at all.

“
H
e’s hurting
, Dad.” Lilly swirled her spoon in the oatmeal, trying to stop worrying about the man she’d left alone last night.

“Yes, you’ve said that a time or two this morning.” Her father lifted the steaming kettle off the stove and brought it to the table. Pouring the hot liquid into their two cups, his mouth firmed. “Can’t understand why he let ye in. Not when he’s been so stubborn about keeping everyone out.”

She wasn’t going to tell about the secret door. A strange feeling of protectiveness had grown in her, ever since she’d stared down at the McPherson’s pale face and heard him confess to having nightmares. That back door was his to share and she wasn’t going to have a bunch of nosy villagers stomping up the stairs and poking their nose in his business. She’d find a way to draw him back into the world of his own free will. “The point is, he needs to get counseling.”

Her dad nodded his head as he slid into his seat. “Well, Lil, if anyone can convince a person to do something, it’s ye.”

“I’m going to head back to the castle right after we finish eating.” She stirred the blueberries into her oatmeal, thinking about all the work she had to do. There was a good, brisk cleaning in front of her this morning, and quite a bit of laundry, if she had to guess. But she had a goal now and she was determined to complete it to her satisfaction.

Iain Arrogant McPherson needed her.

And Lilly Graham had a debt to pay.

Her dad squinted through the window at the early-morning sun. “You’re reckoning he’ll still be sleeping off his binge.”

“Yes.” She took in a hot sip. “By the time he wakes, that whiskey is going to be poured down the drain.”

His thin, gray eyebrows drew in. “That won’t make the man happy.”

“No, it won’t.” She shrugged.

“You’ve no fear of him, eh?”

“No, I don’t.” The man she’d confronted last night was a wounded animal. Yet she hadn’t sensed any kind of aggression that would put her in danger. The McPherson was only a danger to himself. Just like Patrick, he needed her to intervene and this time, she wasn’t going to fail.

“I’m not surprised ye aren’t afraid of him. I’ve known the boy since he was a wee lad and there isn’t a spot of bad in him. So I’m not worried about ye going to help him.” Her father humphed and grew silent, his fingers playing with the end of a spoon. “I can’t say I’d not be happy.”

“What?” She looked up from the last of her breakfast.

“Mrs. Butler has that wrong, ye know.”

“No. I don’t know. What are you talking about, Dad?”

“It’s not as if it would sadden me to have ye around.”

“Huh?”

A sharp tap at the cottage’s front door brought the subject to a halt just as it was getting interesting. Her father strode to the door and opened it to a smiling Mrs. Butler. Behind her stood Mr. Hume and Mrs. Ciste, who ran the island’s B&B.

“Well, well.” Her dad propped a fist on his hip. “Quite the group here. And so early, too.”

“It’s never too early and never too late,” piped in Mrs. Ciste, her pudgy jowls rolling with her words.

“Good morning to ye.” Mr. Hume tugged off his hat to show his balding pate. “Are ye going to invite us in, Ed?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Lilly frowned at her father’s surly tone. This wasn’t like him. “Dad.”

“All right, all right.” He opened the door farther, letting the three folks in. “Remember what I said to ye last night though, Lil. Remember.”

Her frown deepened.

It’s no business of yours.

But it had become her business. Last night had changed that for good. Until he found professional help, Iain McPherson was her business.

Standing, she began to clear their breakfast. “We have several of your delicious scones, Mrs. Butler. Would you like one?”

“I wouldn’t mind.” The woman bustled to the table and took a seat. Mrs. Ciste and Mr. Hume followed.

Her father glared at the three of them.

“Dad.”

With another grumbling humph, he went and sat in his favorite chair. She shook her head at him and then went into the kitchen to lay out scones and jam and start another pot of tea.

“This is the first morning I’ve had my girl here.” Her dad’s tone was still gruff and grumpy. “It’s not as if this issue can’t wait for a bit.”

“Never put off until tomorrow what ye can do today,” Mrs. Ciste pronounced with stout authority.

Lilly grinned in the kitchen. That’s right. She’d forgotten Mrs. Ciste’s long list of useful proverbs and parables. Bringing in the plate of food, she poured the tea and sat in the last remaining chair. A silence fell across the table, as the three villagers looked at one another and then at their plates.

“Go on,” her father grouched. “Tell the girl of your scheme and you’ll be getting a sound rejection.”

“Scheme?” She glanced at each of them.

“Iain McPherson.” Mr. Hume laid the name down like he was announcing the arrival of a king.

Or a lord.

She squelched the desire to grin again. “Yes?”

“As I told ye yesterday, he’s been home at the castle now for ten months.” The man ran his hand across his bald head. “And he’s a wee bit withdrawn.”

He was a wee bit of a drunk, but she’d be taking care of that today.

“What he needs is something to cheer him up,” Mrs. Ciste announced in her booming voice.

“Or someone.” Mrs. Butler gave Lilly a sly look.

Her father huffed in his chair.

Suddenly, she got it. Got her father’s dire warning and the villagers’ sly hints. “You want me to talk to him.”

Maybe much more, but she wasn’t interested in that. She supposed she could understand the villagers’ reasoning. There weren’t a lot of young women swarming around Somairie and she was passably attractive. But the man had way too many problems. The last thing he needed was a month-long girlfriend. Still, she could do him a lot of good in the month she was here, and she was determined to get him well on the way to recovery before she took off for her next assignment.

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Hume beamed. “You’ve got it exactly, lass.”

“I already have talked to him.”

The three villagers stared at her in stunned silence.

“What?” Mrs. Butler finally gasped.

“So soon?” Mrs. Ciste boomed again.

“How did ye get into the castle?” The old sailor gave her a puzzled frown.

She was not going to tell these people about his secret door. Her brain scrambled, trying to find an acceptable answer.

“He let her in the front door, of course. Why wouldn’t he? She’s such a pretty girl.” Mrs. Butler threw her an eager smile. “That’s wonderful news. He hasn’t let anyone in for months.”

Lilly sighed with quiet relief.

“Like it’s meant to be.” The other woman patted her hefty chest right by her heart. “A tale as old as time.”

“I’m going to the castle again to help him. That’s all.” Ignoring the romance swirling in the room, she focused on laying the groundwork for when she coaxed the Lord of the Isles from his tower. He’d need these people on his side when she was gone. “And he needs help.”

“How is he?” Mrs. Butler’s face crumpled in instant worry. The concern on the three villagers’ faces lightened her own. The Lord of the Isles might have fallen down on his duties, but it wasn’t too late. There was obviously still genuine affection for him in the village.

“He’s a bit depressed.” She sipped on her tea, trying to decide how much she should tell them. “I aim to make him better.”

“Good for ye.” Mr. Hume beamed at her once more. “You’re just what he needs, I reckon.”

Her father humphed from his chair. When she glanced at him, though, there was a hopeful light in his eyes. She needed to douse that. She wasn’t staying. Not for her dad and certainly not for the McPherson. “Now let’s be clear—”

“Every man needs a good woman.” Mrs. Ciste's jowls jiggled as she spoke. “And we always knew you’d grow into a good woman, Lilly.”

“Um. Thanks.” She supposed she could object and make clear her real objectives, but why bother? She’d be gone in a month and the important thing was to make sure these people took care of their lord after she left. “Once I have another chat with him, I’m hoping he’ll seek counseling.”

“Counseling?” The old sailor frowned. “What’s a man need with counseling when he has a good woman?”

Ignoring him, she pushed on. “I’m hoping there are veteran groups he can join.”

“Old Jamie Donaldson and Tavis McGregor meet every Tuesday night at the pub,” Mrs. Ciste offered.

Meeting at a pub was not a good idea for the McPherson. She’d have to figure out where he could go, herself. She had her laptop, and the WiFi at her dad’s cottage wasn’t bad. A couple of hours snooping around and she’d find what the man needed.

“I should go.” She stood and grabbed her empty plate.

“Go?” Mrs. Butler’s white eyebrows rose. “We’ve just started planning.”

“I need to get to the castle early.”

“Right now, eh?” Mr. Hume said, rubbing a hand along his chin. “With the spot of weather coming in, that’s a fine idea.”

“Spot of weather?” Turning to the window, Lilly stared at the sunshine. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing to fret about.” Mrs. Ciste narrowed her eyes at the man sitting next to her. “Ye should go to the castle immediately.”

The old sailor slapped his hat on his head. “I can go with ye and talk to the boy myself. Point out what he’s got right in front of him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She headed for the kitchen, trying to cut the matchmaking plans and schemes off. “I think it’s best—”

“Going to the castle alone.” Mrs. Ciste broke through with solid force. “I think that’s a fine idea. As our good Robbie Burns said,
to see her was to love her
.”

“What a wonderful thought, Millie,” Mrs. Butler cooed her appreciation.

In the kitchen, Lilly made a face at the teapot. Let the villagers dream for now. She’d once dreamed and it was a very nice place to be in when you could find your way there. Time enough for reality to hit when she left. At least, hopefully, she’d leave them with a restored Lord of the Isles.

“We’ve done fine work here. Time to go,” Mrs. Ciste announced. The scrape of several chairs being pushed back mingled with her dad’s loud cough.

Lilly bit back another grin. She could practically hear her dad say,
what work
?

“You’ll be at the Sunday picnic then, Ed, with your daughter?” Mrs. Butler’s voice hovered above the group. “Mrs. Solas has an excellent feast planned on the golf course.”

“Not much else to do with the place, is there?” Mr. Hume grumbled.

“Now, now,” Mrs. Ciste said. “Our young lass is going to take care of all of that.”

The front door swung open and sunlight lit the side window in the kitchen. Lilly rounded the corner, thinking about confronting that last statement. It was one thing to let the villagers dream a bit about love. It was another thing to let them think she’d be able to achieve miracles in a month. “I don’t know—”

“When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” Mrs. Ciste turned in the doorway to give her a determined look. “Your da has told us about your travels.”

“Yes, well—”

“And he’s told us about the horrid places you’ve traveled to.”

“Horrid? I don’t think I’ve ever been—”

“So we can see what’s before us.”

“A good woman.” The old sailor beamed at her.

“A good, tough woman who’ll do what needs to be done.” Mrs. Ciste finished her pronouncement with a firm nod. “Time to go.”

The two other villagers filed out of the cottage, following the large woman onto the pathway. Her father threw Lilly a wry glance before crossing the room to close the door behind them. “I guess you’ve been told, eh?”

“Dad.” She threw her hands in the air in frustration. “They’re expecting so much. And that’s not what I’m going to the castle for.”

“No?” The flicker of hope in his eyes didn’t dim.

“No.” Marching to the hooks on the wall, she tugged on her windbreaker. “I’m only going to the castle to help a man clean up his place and clean up his act. Then I’m done.”

“Okay.” His one word was suspiciously mild.

“That’s all, Dad.”

“Okay.”

She grabbed the camera case she’d brought down with her this morning and shook it in front of him. “This is my life.”

He hummed, a slight smile still on his face.

“You were the one to tell me this was a scheme. What’s changed your mind?”

“Nothing’s changed my mind, Lil.” Her dad’s smile grew. “But a man can hope, can’t he?”