Lion of Caledonia: International Billionaires VII: The Scots (2 page)

“No.” What did the terms matter? She’d be gone before her first pay packet. Scribbling her fake name on the paper, she slid the pen on the desk and edged farther into her seat.

Silence came from behind her chair. Then the man moved again in his unique prowl, walking past her to stand behind his desk once more. His finger punched several buttons on the utilitarian office phone. Nothing happened. An irritated growl rumbled from his throat as he punched more buttons.

The phone beeped and then went silent.

“Baw!” The roar erupted from his mouth, a long, drawn-out cry that thundered through the room. “Mrs. Rivers!”

Before his last vowel rang its peal over the books and memorabilia and Jen, the same woman who’d ushered her into the house not one hour ago, appeared at the open library door. “Mr. Steward?”

She looked completely unfazed at the noise her employer had made, as if this were a daily occurrence.

Was the place filled with nutters?

Finding the ring and getting away from this madhouse couldn’t happen soon enough for Jen’s peace of mind.

“Ye will show Ms. Douglas to her room.” The rumble of disgust at the intransigence of his phone lingered in his voice. “Give her a wee bit of a tour as well. I’ll see ye at eight a.m. sharp, Ms. Douglas.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jen’s words made her new employer frown again. But before he could rebut her use of a title he’d rejected, the other woman intervened with her own assent.

“Yes, Mr. Steward.” The older woman beckoned to her, and with dizzy relief to be out of his presence, she clutched her purse and coat and followed Mrs. Rivers out the door into the vast hall.

“Well, he’s found another one, I see. You’re younger than the others.” The woman wore a serviceable grey jumper matched with a darker-grey skirt. Her silver hair was cut short, highlighting the myriad wrinkles circling her vacant blue eyes. “You can call me Mrs. Rivers.”

“Um.” Another one? Had Mr. Steward run through a whole slew of transcribers before her? Not that she cared; she wasn’t here to keep a job. Yet, the way the woman looked her over gave her the willies. A cold draft of air drifted along the intricately-designed parquet floor, sending a shiver up her legs. She tried to distract herself by glancing down the hallway the woman led her into.

The chill in her gut intensified.

The great hall of this massive mansion should have been glorious. The arched ceiling soared above their heads, held up by elegant marble columns. From where she stood, Jen counted four magnificent stone fireplaces. Panels of oak lined the walls, interspersed with ancient suits of armor and old medieval shields and huge threatening pikes. Dotting the hall were a series of velveteen sofas and elaborately carved chairs and tables. An immense Steinway grand piano stood in solitary splendor at the end of the hall.

The lot of it gave the impression that it all might crumble into dust if a crisp Scottish wind ran through the room.

“You’ll be wanting to gather your luggage.” Mrs. Rivers stuck her hands in her pockets, making it clear she wouldn’t be helping.

Jen obediently glanced around and spotted her one small suitcase nudged into a corner by the double front doors. Her grandfather had been so sure she’d get this job, she’d decided to pack and bring everything she needed for the few days she’d be here. Why go to the hassle and expense to take the train all the way back to London?

“Go on.” The older woman gave her an imperious look. “I’ve got things to do.”

Shuffling to her luggage, she gave herself a wry grimace. She’d been so focused on the coming interview when she’d arrived, she’d barely taken in anything. Ushered into the library so quickly, she hadn’t had time to take in details of the house or this woman. The only thing she’d had time to do was hand over her case and step into Mr. Steward’s lair.

Now, the reality seeped in. This place was strange and so was the housekeeper.

“Well, come then.” The woman marched off down the long line of dusty Persian rugs. Jen snatched up her luggage and scrambled to keep pace.

“I’m the housekeeper here.” The silver head bobbed in front of her as the words wafted back. “I’ve put you on the third floor so you’ll be away from the noise.”

The noise?

Like the roar of her new employer?

Clutching her coat and purse, she dragged her case behind. The rollers kept getting stuck on the tassels of the rugs and she wondered if tugging some fringe off one of these antiques might lead to her immediate dismissal.

But no. Clearly, Mrs. Rivers was not much of a housekeeper. The likelihood of her noticing a missing heirloom, much less a missing tuft, was small.

Good. Fulfilling her grandfather’s wish appeared to be getting easier and easier.

A thick ridge of dust lay on the maple wood of the piano. Each of the statues and suits of armor she passed looked like they needed a good wash. From afar, the velveteen sofas appeared impressive. Up close, she decided if she sat on any of them, she’d be consumed in a cloud of dirt.

“This is the drawing room.” Mrs. Rivers swung two massive oak doors open to another huge room.

Drawing room? Who in this day and age had a drawing room?

At the woman’s impatient wave, she dutifully stuck her head in. The walls were covered in a deep-green tapestry, sporting colorful birds and a weave of plants. Floor-length satin curtains draped to the floor, muting the light falling on a mishmash of antique tables and bookcases—all as dusty as their counterparts in the great hall. Above a black marble fireplace hung a huge painting of a man, dressed in 19
^th-
century clothes, surrounded by a bevy of dogs.

Wanting to be cordial and realizing she hadn’t said a word since she’d left the library, Jen plastered on an inquiring smile. “Who’s the man in the painting?”

“How would I know?” The housekeeper gave her another dull look before she turned from the room and went down another hallway.

“Oookay,” she muttered under her breath as she continued to follow behind.They passed through a dining room sporting an enormous, grimy glass chandelier, into another hall featuring a grand limestone staircase covered with a worn, ruby-red runner.

“You’ll want to stay away from the second floor.” Mrs. Rivers waved a wrinkled hand to the stairs winding to the left. “That’s for family.”

Family? She frowned. Her research spoke of a dead wife in her new employer’s past, but that had been years ago.

“You’ll want to stick to the right.” Another wave of the wrinkled hand. “Those stairs lead to the third floor.”

She glanced at the woman. A pursed mouth, blank eyes, and hands folded firmly in front of her told Jen the tour was over. “I’ll just go up then.”

“Yours is the first door on the right.” Mrs. Rivers turned and walked off down the dusty hall and into the bowels of the house.

“I couldn’t feel more welcome,” she said to the empty room before yanking her suitcase up one step after another. By the time she reached the third floor, the luggage felt like a load of lead. She hadn’t counted, but she’d bet there’d been more than a hundred steps.

“Why did you pack so much, silly fool?”

Her words echoed down the long, long hallway. At the end of the corridor, a round window spilled the last of the misty mid-March sun onto another dusty rug. A half-dozen doors ran along each side of the rug, cutting neat oak planks into the yellowed wallpaper.

Why would a man own such a magnificent home and not take care of the place? From what she’d read about Cameron Steward’s life in the past eight years, he’d made himself filthy rich selling his line of thrillers. Why hadn’t he spent any money on upkeep?

Jen shook off her thoughts and walked to the first door on the right. Pushing it open, she stepped into a surprisingly clean suite. On the left stood a door to a compact bathroom. Straight across was a cozy little nook starring a fat armchair in front of roaring fire. A mini-kitchen ran along the wall beyond the fireplace, and to the right was a cozy-looking bed with a bright-blue comforter and a jumble of pristine white pillows.

“Not bad.” She could stand to live here for a few days.

The roaring fire and made-up bed told her the job had been hers before she’d even entered the mansion. There hadn’t been a string of other applicants waiting in the wings that she’d detected. Her concern had been for nothing.

“See? As usual, you got yourself into a stew for no reason at all.”

Her fragile confidence bloomed once more.

Within a couple of minutes, she’d unpacked an assortment of jumpers and pants into the old-fashioned armoire. The kitchen fridge yielded a frozen casserole filled with shredded chicken, potatoes, and mushrooms. The microwave buzzed and she settled into the armchair to eat her dinner.

The flames of the fire crackled into a slow simmer and her eyelids grew heavy. It had been a long week. First, the summons from her cousin Edward. Away from her position at the nursery. Away from the small cottage she’d decorated to suit her own inclinations. Away from the serene life she’d created.

Then the meeting with her deathly-ill grandfather in his hospital room. Her acceptance of the task before her. The planning, the packing, the trip to Scotland using the train instead of her trusty Volkswagen hatchback to avoid any detection after she’d left this place.

She needed to get a good night’s sleep.

After a quick wash and slipping on her favorite old flannel nightgown, she slid into the cool sheets and sighed with relief.

She’d done it. She’d gotten the job.

The rest should be easy. Transcribing would be no problem. She’d merely put on her headphones and type away. Once she got her daily allotment of work completed, she’d have all the time in the world to find the ring.

Within a few days, her grandfather would be satisfied.

Within a few days, she’d be back in her pleasant life.

Within a few days, this would seem like a bad dream.

Her eyes fluttered shut, the whistling wind and the crackle of the remaining fire the last things she remembered…

A low cry leached into her dreams, making her twist in her bed.

The cry came again, louder and more piercing. She flopped on her other side, pulling the pillow closer.

Another cry, this one too high-pitched and shrill to ignore.

Her eyes popped open.

The cry came once more, filled with a fierce mix of anger and fear.

She lurched up. The fire had died down to ash, and the small window by the bathroom scattered the muted moonlight on the hand-knotted rug covering the floor of the suite.

Another cry.

Her heart pounded in response. Part anxiety and part compassion. A hurt flowed through her for this poor person. Who was in such misery they’d cry like that? Where were they?

She scooted to the edge of the bed and stepped on the cold wooden floor. Shivering, she tiptoed to the door. She rattled the old knob. Opening a small crack, she peeked out.

The hallway held no ghostly apparitions or haunting phantoms. Silent and shadowed, it gave nothing away.

Jen waited, waited, waited.

Only the harsh whip of the wind outside made any noise.

Only the faint light of the moon streaked over one side of the hall.

After several minutes, she pulled herself back into her cozy den and closed the door. The old clock standing on the mantle chimed a low clang only once.

So much for a good night’s sleep. She was wide awake.

With a snort, she walked to the window and peered out.

The full moon fought with the misty clouds, managing to light the extensive grounds with only a hazy gloom. The gardens rolled down to the loch where the moonlight flickered over the roiling water. A wicked March wind thrashed the bare tree limbs to and fro.

Jen took in a deep breath.

He stood at the edge of the water, his broad back already familiar to her. His hands fisted at his side as if he argued with the wild waves. The way he held himself, tight and taut, made her heart hurt.

For the second time tonight.

J
en wasn’t an early bird
, unless it meant being out in the morning sun in one of her gardens. Transcription didn’t elicit the same sort of excitement.

Yawning, she stumbled to a halt in front of the closed library doors.

She’d finally fallen asleep again around three a.m., to the best of her recollections. When her trusty mobile phone beeped an alarm an hour ago, she’d barely been able to drag herself from the cozy bed and into the shower. Even a long, hot blast of water and two cups of tea hadn’t managed to pry her eyes open much past halfway.

No big deal.

Once she got her assignment, she’d nod her agreement to any of his instructions, and take the work back to her room. She typed fast; she could afford a small nap before digging into the work.

She stared at the intricate carving on the double door. Sheaves of wheat swirled around finches and grouse. In the middle of the door, the face of a leering court jester poked out in high relief.

The sneer on his face made her shudder.

This whole place, including the residents, made her shudder.

Find the ring, Jennet, find the ring
.

A good thing to remember. As soon as she found the bloody ring, she’d return to her peaceful, predictable place, never having to confront roaring employers, daft housekeepers or leering doors again.

A low grumbling answered her hesitant knock. She took that to mean she should go in.

“You’re late.”

He stood in the murky light of one of two window bays. He still wore all black, though she thought the jumper was a different one than he’d worn yesterday. His hair still lay messily on his head, as if he’d spent the night running his hands through it. And he still had those predator eyes pinned on her.

Did the man sleep? She didn’t detect any hazy drowsiness in those eyes, even though he’d been up as late as she had. At least as late. No, instead, they were sharp and alert.

“Nothing to say?” His voice went from a deep grumble to a muted roar.

She’d grown up with this kind of man. Best to draw some lines of defense early on. “I’m here to gather the work.”

The tawny brows rose. Then, he paced to his huge desk and slapped the nearest mound of papers. “Gather the work?” he said. “The work is going to be done here.”

He meant her to slave away in this cold, intimidating library, not in her snug, little suite. Inwardly, she groaned. Not only because the nap appeared to be receding into the distance, but she sensed this man intended to pace around her as she worked.

You can do this for a few days.

“All right.” She forced herself into the room, padding to the desk and looking down at the work. “I’ll go get my laptop and headset and start right in.”

“Headset?” His brows rose further.

“Did you handwrite all of it, or is there some audio to go through?” The mound of papers told her he’d done most of it longhand and the sheer breadth of the project made her suck in a breath.

“There seems to be some confusion.” His hand, a broad male paw, slapped the papers again. “I haven’t started.”

“What?” Lifting her head, she stared at him from across the desk. She was grateful for the expanse of it, because she was finally close enough to see his eyes clearly. A bolt of stunned awareness went through her, causing her knees to wobble and making her glad there was something to hold on to right in front of her.

Her hand grabbed the edge of the desk.

The center of his eye went from the black of his pupil into a dusky brown that matched his brows. What startled her was how the color turned into a rich gold at the edges, reminding her of her grandfather’s prized collection of antique English coins.

Coins she’d treasured throughout her childhood.

“I said I haven’t started telling the story yet.” The brown and gold snapped with impatience. “I’ve been ready to start dictating for the last half hour.”

“But…but…” She stepped back from her predicament. “I’m a transcriber.”

“Transcribers take dictation too, don’t they?” The impatience in his gaze also flowed from his voice.

“I don’t.” The words blurted from her mouth before she thought them through and remembered her goal.

A rumble of disgust came from deep in his throat. “Ye signed the contract yesterday. I don’t have time to find another person for this job.”

“But—”

“It’s pretty simple.” He yanked on the tall leather chair. “You’ll type into my computer.”

Jen ignored his imperious wave, a demand she come around the desk to comply. “I type into my laptop.”

“I’m not letting my story get into someone else’s computer.”

He talked about his story as if it were a real person or thing. Her previous transcribing had been mostly medical reports and a smattering of college lectures. None of the voices coming from the audio tapes had ever held the intensity this man’s voice did for his work.

“Well?” His ferocious frown turned into an annoyed lift of one tawny brow at her continued silence. “Ye reckon we can get started now?”

The ring, Jennet, the ring
.

Her grandfather’s whispered voice in her memory made the choice for her. The only choice she could make.

She found herself obediently circling the massive desk and coming within touching distance of her troublesome employer. Thankfully, he stepped back from the chair so she could sit down and tap on the computer’s keys.

The man grunted in apparent appeasement and strode to the wall of African masks.

Instead of staring at him, she stared at the computer.

It was old. Plus, the word processing software he had loaded on the thing appeared to be a version she’d used in her university studies more than four years ago.

Taking a breath in, she let it out slowly.

She honestly didn’t know if she’d be able to do this. She wouldn’t be able to stop the tape and go through the words to make sure they were correct. She wouldn’t be able to go back through a particular section if she got confused. Keeping up with a dictating dictator, who already exhibited an impatient anger, might make her freeze in dismay or even worse, bring on one of her attacks.

“Are ye ready to begin?”

She had no choice.

“Yes.” Her voice quivered at the end before trailing off. The difference between his rich, rumbling growl and her timid, tiny answer made her flinch inside.

Where had her hard-won confidence gone?

From the corner of her eye, she saw him swing his body around in another one of his fluid, animalistic turns. Before she could suck in a breath, he began to pace back and forth from one window bay to another.

Her hands stilled on the keyboard, ready for…

A heavy silence fell in the huge room, broken only by the thrashing of the wind outside and the crackle of a low flame in the fireplace.

The silence continued.

Jen kept her focus on her breathing.

“They call me the Dragon of Waverly and I take the title seriously.”

Jumping in her seat, her fingers fluttered on the keys.

“I would advise anyone to take the title seriously as well. I didn’t burn a thousand dreams and char a thousand hearts without knowing and relishing what that meant for my future reputation.”

All she could take in was the way the words rolled off his tongue in a vivid, fierce stream of emotion.

Silence fell again, and she found herself gazing in dumb fascination at her employer.

His predator eyes gleamed with frustration. “Did ye get that?”

What she got was this man was lethal in so many ways she couldn’t count. Lethal in his keen intelligence. Lethal in his physicality. And now, lethal in his talent.

“Ye didn’t.” Striding to the front of the desk, he leaned over to stare at her empty screen, his hand wrenching though his hair as if ready to pull the mess out. “Did ye?”

“No, I’m sorry.” Her breath caught in a familiar knot in her throat.

“Ye don’t understand.” He leaned in farther, his eyes glowing with the hot heat of inspiration, and the smell of him enveloped her in its crisp, deep scent. “Every word is precious. Ye have to get every word.”

“Okay.” Her shaking hands hovered on the keys. “Start again.”

A low rumble of irritation came from across the desk. “Usually I can’t remember what I say.”

Sod it. Had she already ruined her chances at finding the ring before she’d typed one word? “I’m sorry—”

“But I’ve had the beginning of the story in my head for a while.” He paced back to the African masks. “I’ll say them again. This time don’t miss one word.”

“Right. I won’t.”

She hoped.

The rich roll of the words streamed from him like he held a river of legends inside him, just waiting for a chance to flood out. She focused on keeping up with him and before long, she found herself enraptured with the world he created with only words. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, catching each sentence and word and vowel.

“That’s enough for today.”

She typed what he said onto the manuscript before realizing they didn’t fit his story. Jen glanced over.

Cameron Steward stood in the hazy light of the window bay, exactly as he had when she entered the room hours ago. His hair still bristled around his head like a mane of a wild man. His shoulders hunched as he gazed towards the loch.

“You’ll have the rest of the day off.” Turning, he marched to the double doors leading into the great hall. “But be here tomorrow.”

“Yes, si-”

“On time.” His statement slashed through her disobedient use of his title and the slam of the door behind him put a stinging punctuation to his demand.

The air in the room seemed to drain, like all life had been sucked out at his departure.

Jen dropped her hands into her lap and gazed at the words dancing on the computer screen. They capered and leapt off the page in a choreographed adventure that stirred her heart and mind.

He was lethal.

Yet he was also magic.

She hadn’t read any of his six thrillers. Reading wasn’t one of her big hobbies; she’d much rather be in the gardens getting her hands dirty. Yet she couldn’t wait to find all of his books and dive into the thrill of his words.

There had to be a copy of each one in this big, old library of his, wouldn’t there?

Pushing back her chair, she stood and groaned when her muscles clenched. She’d been typing for four hours without a break and yet, until now, she hadn’t noticed the time. She stretched on her tiptoes, then leaned down, planting her palms on the floor between her feet.

Every muscle yelled. Her stomach joined the protest by grumbling.

Her memory came back to life and reminded her why she was here.

She took in a deep breath. She wasn’t here to read tall tales. She was here to steal. And she was right here in his library. Could it be possible he kept the ring here?

“Ms. Douglas.” The housekeeper’s voice came from the open door.

Jen jumped up, embarrassment flooding her cheeks at getting caught with her arse in the air. Another realization flooded her—she’d lost her chance to search for now.

“At Mr. Steward’s direction, I’ve put your lunch in your room for ye.” The older woman gave her a frosty stare.

“Thank you.” She tried a tentative smile.

Ignoring her, Mrs. Rivers huffed before disappearing through the arch of the door, but she felt as if the older woman was lingering, watching. Okay. She wouldn’t search here first. That didn’t mean she was going to let herself be regulated to her tiny bedroom.

Walking into the great hall, she glanced around and wasn’t surprised when silence was the only thing she got from the Steinway and the suits of armor. Mrs. Rivers had an eerie way of disappearing. The woman matched this eerie place. It didn’t matter. She’d grab a sandwich upstairs before starting her search somewhere other than the library and the hall.

By the time she’d had a spot of tea and her delivered lunch, she was ready to go.

Find the ring, Jennet, and sneak away.

As she walked down to the first floor again, she found herself lingering by one wide window that looked out on the gardens. In the daylight, she saw what she’d missed last night. The vast length of the lawn rolling to the loch was filled with overgrown hedges and flower beds filled with old, dead weeds.

Every one of her gardener instincts rose in instant objection. Sure, it was March, but these beds should be cleared and ready for spring. Those hedges should have been cut back in the fall.

Find the ring.

Shaking herself, she stomped down the last of the stars, reviewing her plan. This was a monster of a house, yet there were only so many places a ring could be stored. She’d start on the first floor and with luck, find the prize there. If not there, then she’d have to get sneaky and take on the second floor—the family quarters.

Be smart, that was all she had to do.

Where would Cameron Steward store the ring he’d put on the cover of his last bestseller? The ring he’d labeled The Blood Ring? The ring her grandfather had given to his lost love forty years ago?

Not the great hall, she bet.

So, where?

She strode to the doors of the drawing room, but then shook her head. Not there, either.

Wandering past the dining room, she walked over to another set of double doors. Why not see what was in here?

The door opened with a creak, and she poked her head in.

And gasped.

Unlike the rest of the muted light in the mansion, this room was lit from one end to another with a string of bright, beaming modern fixtures. The long, narrow room’s walls were painted a brilliant crimson that highlighted the steel and silver and mahogany strewn across the surface.

Guns.

Swords.

Bows and arrows.

More guns.

Jen hated big and she hated violence. All she saw on these walls were big, ugly instruments of war and hunting. She wanted nothing to do with any of this. Right before she pulled her head out of the room, though, her gaze landed on a small wooden case. Something glittered.

The ring? Could he store the ring in here?

She tugged the door a bit wider.