Lord of the Isles: International Billionaires VIII: The Scots (6 page)

Iain scowled at his eager cock. “
Eejit
.”

Goddammit, she better be gone.

He grabbed the clothes and dressed, surprised at how sure his hands were. Usually, when he woke, he had to slug a shot of whiskey or two before he stopped the shakes. The long nap and tasty meal had done him good. The clean clothing felt good, too. He didn’t like lovely Lilly. Still, he supposed if he ever ran into her again, he’d have to give her a reluctant thanks.

Not that he would run into her. Not when he had no plans to leave this tower anytime soon. Or ever. The memory of why he’d holed himself in the tower rose and howled like a banshee in his brain.

He swallowed. What he needed was a drink.

Pacing under the stone arch he came to a sudden stop.

She lay in his chair, curled up like a child. The fire had died down, yet it still played with her blonde hair, highlighting the gold and gleam. She slept, her head on one of the chair’s arms, her long legs stretched across the other.

A long string of curse words he hadn’t used since he’d left the Marines rolled out of his mouth.

Murmuring, she eased her head farther into the leather of the chair. A slight frown creased her forehead before drifting away as she fell into a doze once more.

“Wake up,” he ordered in a loud voice.

Her eyes shot open. For a moment, the blue-green irises were hazed with lingering sleep, but then the color cleared and her brows furrowed. “Stop bellowing at me.”

“I told ye to leave,” he yelled as he marched to his chair. “I told ye to go away.”

“And I told you no.” She stretched like a cat and the motion drew his gaze to the lovely line of her body from her straight shoulders to her slender waist, to her slightly rounded hips.

His idiot cock rose again, making him even angrier. “The fucking storm is going to last for days.”

“Don’t swear.” She straightened, her provocative lips firming. “It’s not nice.”

He leaned down, right into her face. When her eyes widened and she pulled back, he gritted an ugly smile and let loose another string of swear words he’d learned during the seventeen years he’d served in the military.

The Royal Marines had a lot of swear words and were proud of every one of them.

When he finally stopped, she cocked her head, her bright curls making him itch to tug on them. “Impressive.”

“I have more,” he growled.

“Really?” She threw him an impish grin. “Gosh. Go right ahead.”

With another growl, he pulled away.

“That sound you make is impressive, too.” Her sea-green eyes twinkled. “I suppose I should be scared.”

“I should throw ye out.” His hands fisted.

“You could, except you won’t.” She stared at him, a slight smile still curling her mouth, provoking him. “I have your number now, McPherson. You’re not as beastly as you think you are.”

“I could push ye right out the back door and slam it behind ye.”

“But then you’d have to worry about whether or not I drowned or slipped on the stairs and broke a leg.” Her smile grew.

Frustration coursed through him, making his muscles tighten into knots of outrage. “I could throw ye out the front door and be glad for it.”

“But then you’d have to open the front door, wouldn’t you?” She arched her blonde brows. “You don’t want to do that.”

No, he didn’t. Because it would mean he’d have to drag her through his heritage to get to the damn door and he couldn’t do walk through his castle. Ever again.

Hell. He was stuck with her for as long as this blasted storm roared outside. Still, the only thing he had to do was get a whiskey bottle. Soon, she and her blether would disappear in a fog of liquor.

Sweeping past her, he headed for his stash.

Something like comfort rushed through him when he spotted the cardboard tower of whiskey.

Iain stared into the top box and found only empty bottles. What the hell? Pulling the empty container off the tower, he found yet another box with only empty bottles.

There was no stash.

Fear lanced straight into his gut.

He couldn’t live with himself without the whiskey. His memories and regrets would overtake him and those guns lying under his chair would finally win.

She’d done this.

She’d destroyed not only his wanted isolation, but his needed relief from his curse.

Storming into the den, he found her leaning out the window, taking photographs. As if the dolster was some kind of delightful movie and not the ugly reality that kept him stuck inside with her. Without his whiskey.

Rage blanked his mind and fear made his gut tremble. “I hate ye, ye bitch.”

She swung around, her mouth falling open, her hands still clinging to the camera. “What did you call me?”

“My whiskey.” He couldn’t move from the doorway. If he did, he would crush her in his hands, tear her apart limb from limb. “Ye poured it all out, damn ye.”

“Yes, I did.” She pulled the window closed and laid the camera down. Then she had the gall to give him a decisive nod. “It was best for you.”

“Best for me?” The howl of his memories exploded from his mouth in a raging torrent. “Ye don’t even know me. Ye don’t have the right to touch anything of mine.”

“I know you were hurting yourself with the liquor.” She took a step toward him, the stupid woman. Didn’t she know how close he was to losing control? “I know if we talk things through, and you get counseling, your need for the whiskey will go away.”

Iain laughed. He threw back his head and uttered a hoarse, harsh cry. When he looked at her again, she’d stopped stepping toward him. Maybe his laugh had let her know how close she was to destruction. “Ye know nothing. Nothing at all.”

Turning, he stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him, before he touched her and lost the last bit of honor he had.

T
hat hadn’t gone very well
.

Lilly listlessly adjusted her camera again, and tried to focus on taking shots of the sea. She’d gotten some good photos of the bank of clouds rolling in with the storm before succumbing to a sudden blast of sleepiness. Her late night last evening and the trip from India catching up with her, apparently.

Lifting the camera to her eyes and gazing through the closed window, she tried to find a good shot. She wanted to know what to shoot before she opened the pane and let the wind whip in.

But the only thing she could think about was the panic in his eyes and the way his face had turned pale.

She would just have to make it up to him somehow.

Not by getting him more whiskey, though. That wouldn’t help him conquer his demons and, clearly, the man had a lot of demons.

Sighing, she dropped the camera onto its case. Whatever a dolster was, she could see this particular storm was not going to stop by the end of the day. She wasn’t going to be able to escape to her dad’s cozy cottage anytime soon.

Yet, perhaps that was for the best. Because Iain McPherson’s depression and demons were much greater than she first expected. His stubborn denial of any kind of help or any need to talk was going to take more than a couple of hours of her charming company to overcome.

Maybe staying longer was meant to be.

Maybe the attraction you feel for him will grow and get you in trouble.

Shaking away the thought, she slipped the camera into its protective case. He needed a friend, and she needed to remember that.

She glanced around. Now that she had cleaned everything but the bathroom and done the laundry, there wasn’t much to do. She’d tinkered with his computer for a few minutes. However, the man had it locked down like Fort Knox and the likelihood of his WiFi working in this storm was minimal. She’d have to wait to do a search on PTSD counseling and vet groups. There was plenty of time, since it appeared it was going to take several long talks before the McPherson would be ready to listen to her good advice.

Walking to the open archway, she stared down at the stairs she’d climbed mere hours ago. It seemed like a lot longer time than that. It seemed to her as if her dad and his cottage and the villagers and their plots had shimmered away into a mist of rain and time.

Stupid thought.

She took a look back and noted the still-closed bathroom door.

So His Lordship didn’t want to talk. Fine. She’d explore while he brooded. There was no more whiskey and no access to guns—the man couldn’t hurt himself. And exploring new places was one of her favorite things.

The stairs ended at his cave, so she took them down and down, past the hallway leading to the back door, down into the depths of the ancient castle.

The stone radiated the cold from outside as she ran her hand over the circular walls. The silence echoed, like whispering ghosts coming to lead her around. There was a string of modern lighting on the edge of the ceiling, shedding a meager glow on the steps, but it stopped abruptly at one door.

She peered into the dark pit of the stairwell and decided to brave what was behind the stout wooden door.

It creaked as it opened.

A long, arched, stone hallway stood behind it, filled with clutter and darkness. Still, he had to get his food somehow. There’d be no way a delivery firm would take those backstairs—they must come through here.

She moved her hand across the side wall and smiled when she found the switch. The hallway blazed into life and she now saw the clutter was actually lined up along the wall, leaving a thin pathway through to the tower entrance.

The clutter was priceless.

Her stepfather not only loved the symphony and classical music, he also loved antiques. Classic furniture had dotted her family home and at a young age, she had learned to know what was valuable and what was not.

None of this was not.

Stepping to the first piece, she ran a loving hand along an elaborately carved oak headboard. A matching dressing table with a three-panel mirror told her these were Victorian. For a moment, she gave into the pleasure of imagining a medieval McPherson wife, sitting in front of this mirror, brushing her waist-long hair with a silver-backed hairbrush.

How romantic.

Romantic
?
Only a female would think such things were romantic.

She winced and turned toward the stairs, almost positive he stood behind her, with his fierce scowl and lousy attitude and grouchy observations.

But no. She was still alone and still able to explore.

Next, a beautiful piece. Rosewood, she’d guess. A chest of drawers with brass handles and inlaid with a wood veneer that would make her stepfather pull out his wallet in a flat second.

Looking down the hallway, she saw piece after piece of amazing collectibles. Sure, some of it needed work or repair, but this was a treasure trove. Why the heck did the McPherson have all this lined along a cold, dirty wall? He should have this furniture repaired and presented in the grand rooms of the castle. At the very least, he should have them auctioned off so someone like her stepfather or other collectors could enjoy them.

“What the hell are ye doing?” The growl rumbled down the staircase. “Close that damn door and come back here.”

Taking one last, lingering look, she walked to the bottom of the steps and stared up. She couldn’t see him. Perhaps teasing would work a miracle on his attitude? “Come and get me.”

Another longer and lower growl was her answer.

She frowned. Had he not come down from the tower in months? Not even to let the delivery person in with his whiskey and food? By the frantic edge to his growl, it seemed to be true.

“Come back up,” he barked. “Now.”

For a man who’d wanted to remove her from his castle not more than an hour ago, he was acting very strange. There was a strange tone in his voice, too. He’d done his usual
ordering her about
stuff, yet there was a line of terror running through the order.

What the heck?

“Lilly.”

Her name rolled through his accent, like a lilting glide.

“Lilly,” he said again.

She shivered. Not because of the anger resonating in his voice, but because his accent made her want to climb into his strong arms and kiss the demons away.

Two white-stockinged feet appeared on the topmost steps. The tattered hems of his jeans cried out for attention. “Come here,” he commanded.

Her instinct shivered to life, too. The instinct she’d used to escape into a basement before a Kansas tornado had roared through. The instinct that had warned her not to take the assignment in Egypt right before the riots had started. The instinct she’d come to value, as it saved her time and time again.

“Lilly.” He paused as if weighing his options. “Please.”

* * *

S
he’d made him beg
.

A hot lava of rage and fury scorched his mind and burned his brain. He hated her with a passion. A passion he hadn’t felt for months.

But his begging worked.

Her blonde head appeared from around the bend of the stairs. Then she glanced up and he hated her even more.

Because he wanted her.

Dammit.

He wanted something again. Something that would hurt. Something that would make him feel alive. Something that would make him remember he still lived when his men had died. He wanted to run. Run to his stash of guns and end his life.

Then those pretty, pouty lips of hers smiled, and he decided to hate her some more before he put an end to his worthless existence.

“Get up here,” he grumbled. “I didn’t give ye permission to go down the stairs.”

“I don’t always wait for permission.” Her eyes danced with a tease, yet she obediently took another step up.

“Truer words were never spoken.” Not wanting her to get too near, he turned and stomped back into his den. The storm roared outside, but the thick stone walls muted the fury. But it couldn’t mute the memories he no longer could push aside with drunken relief.

The memories of being with his men, training on the cliffs of England and Scotland as the winter sleet lashed their cold faces and hands. The memories of the violent, incredibly beautiful sandstorms racing across the desert, bearing down on their bunkers. The memories of the camaraderie, the laughter, the feeling of being part of a band, a clan.

The firelight flickered on the rug he’d sent home for his da from the Middle East.

More memories rushed at him. The way his mum had held him close as a child when the storms had clamored against their shores. The way Malcolm McPherson had relished the rising waves and stared out at his rocky shores with pride, knowing the islands would survive the squalls of sea and time. The way he’d felt at one with the water and the land, even when their power and potential had robbed him of words.

A clutch of terrible grief, grief he’d pushed aside for months, tightened in his throat.

“The storm’s still going,” she piped from right behind him.

The grief notched his anger at her up another level. Before he thought it through, he yanked around, only to find she was far too close.

Her hair looked so soft and fluffy, a twirl of golden strands slipping and flipping and fluttering around her face and ears. Her lithe body was covered by an old woolen jumper and baggy jeans. Still, the clothes couldn’t hide the womanly curves beneath. Curves he desperately wanted to explore.

His hands fisted.

She stood within his reach, her gaze direct, a lingering wisp of tease in the green irises. Her skin wasn’t white or creamy. It didn’t have the clean purity of the porcelain skin so many of his female ancestors would have boasted about. Instead, her skin glowed with a warm, glossy richness making him think she might have an exotic strain in her bloodlines.

She wrinkled her nose, drawing his attention to the dusting of amber freckles that made his fingers itch to sweep over them. “What?”

The one word made his focus drop to her damn lips. The curl was there at the edge, provoking him. The plump, peachy ripeness made him want to bite into her, taste the juicy sweetness.

He swallowed.

“No bellowing?” The curl went wide into a grin. The woman had the temerity, the bold carelessness, to step closer.

For the first time, he noticed her scent.

Lemon mixed with the fruity fullness of jasmine and spicy amber. The distinctive smell took him straight back to the time he and his buddies had taken leave and gone to Cairo. Walking through the city, they’d found Khan Al Khalili souk. A street awash in gold and silver, in tobacco water pipes and ancient chessboards, in the scream of the present and the echoes of the past. Above it all, swirling around the chanting merchants and haggling tourists, was the scent.

The scent of culture and history and vibrant life.

That’s what this woman smelled like.

He sucked her essence in, and the spice of her went through him like a stroke of heat.

His gut trembled.

“I’ve struck you silent.” She leaned in, an irritating sparkle leaping in her gaze. “How strange.”

He vibrated with life. Unwanted, terrifying life. It roared and raged inside him, silent but overwhelming. His body shook with shock, as if he’d been plugged in for the first time in months. All his senses flooded with details.

Her scent.

Her smile.

Her skin.

Her.

She had the gall to place her hand on his chest, right over his pounding heart. The delicate line of her blonde brows furrowed. “Are you okay?”

His blood pounded through his veins, sweeping away the lethargy he’d worked on for months. “Damn ye,” he whispered.

Her gaze turned from teasing to compassionate, making him hate her even more.

“I want ye to leave.” He attempted a glare. “I need ye to leave.”

The truth of his last statement slammed into him, making him dazed. He needed her to leave before it was too late. Before she forced him to life and forced him to look at what he couldn’t stand to confront.

“Iain.” For the first time, she said his name. Her flat drawl elongated the vowels in an unfamiliar way, making his blood beat with another need.

A need for her.

“Iain. Look at me.”

He realized his gaze had latched onto her throat. Her lovely throat where a pulse of life beat under her glossy skin.

He wanted to bite her. Take her.

His cock jerked in his jeans.

Damn her.

“Iain.” The thread of impatience in her voice pulled his reluctant focus back to her face.

“What?” he croaked.

“Your eyes.” She cocked her head, her curls flopping, her own eyes keen. “They’re clear.”

He didn’t want clear vision. He didn’t want to see what he’d become and what was before him. “I need a drink.”

“No, you don’t.” She patted his chest like she was comforting a favorite dog.

Her confident assertion drove through him like a spike of fiery lightning. Didn’t she understand how close he was to losing his mind? Didn’t she understand how close he was to taking her? He grabbed her offending hand in a hard grip, yanking it away from him.