Lion of Caledonia: International Billionaires VII: The Scots (4 page)

Someone had loved this garden at one point in time.

But that time had been many seasons ago.

She’d first noticed the little white heads of the snowdrops trying to push themselves into the sun past the dreck and weeds. Then a few days later, on her daily walk, she’d seen the tulips and daffodils struggling for life. By the time the lilies and crocuses were begging for attention, she’d lost the fight to stay aloof.

This garden needed her.

Not as much as her grandfather did, however.

At the guilty thought, she snuck her hand in the wool coat she always borrowed and pulled out her mobile phone. The damning voicemail sat, crouching on her screen.

Cousin Edward. At his most commanding.

Where was she
?
Had she found the ring yet
?
When was she coming home
?

Sighing, she stuck the phone back in her pocket. Her grandfather had been released from the hospital, her cousin had boomed down the line, but time was still of the essence.

Her grandfather was old. Very old.

Her grandfather was sick. Very sick.

He needed that ring.

A ring that had been in the Fellowes family for generations. Until her grandfather foolishly gave it away in a fit of love he’d regretted for the rest of his life.

“She left quite suddenly,” he’d said, in an unusually quiet voice as she’d sat by his hospital bedside. “I never saw her or the ring again.”

Jen had a hard time imagining her forceful, decisive grandfather doing anything foolish, much less for love’s sake. Yet the sheen of tears in the old man’s eyes had tugged any questioning about the love story and her mission right out of her control.

She needed to give this to her grandfather. A man who’d given her back a place to belong. Not a home exactly, but at least, a place.

“I thought I’d never see it again,” he’d continued, his gnarled hand moving across the cotton bed sheet in a restless motion.

Except he had.

Cameron Steward’s next bestseller had made the front page of her grandfather’s favorite newspaper’s book review.

The Blood Ring
screamed the title.

“That’s my ring,” her grandfather had barked at all her cousins.

And then, all the cousins had called Jennet.

Her hand tightened on the trowel. She shouldn’t be indulging herself out here in the garden. Even though she’d searched the entire first floor and found nothing, that was no excuse. No excuse for procrastinating on what she had to do. Which was to start creeping around on the second floor. The family quarters.

She had to.

She had to find the damn ring so she could leave. She needed to leave. Not only because her grandfather could die at any time, but because she’d become seriously addicted to Cameron Steward in a startlingly short period of time.

The realization thumped in her stomach once more.

The first time it had hit her had been one day last week when he’d turned and winked at her. The wink had been in response to her quiet sigh as he’d wrapped up an incredible chapter in the exact perfect way.

The wink had made her heart flip and flutter.

The thump in her stomach had come right after.

The second time she’d realized she was sliding into addiction had been when he’d leaned over her shoulder to read the words he’d just dictated. Again, she’d felt his heat and inhaled his scent. This time, though, she hadn’t wanted to escape him. This time, she wanted to lean into him and take him in.

Take him in
.

Jerking around, she stomped toward the rickety garden shed.

She couldn’t claim to be an expert on sex or sexual desire. Still, she wasn’t a complete idiot, either. She knew what this was running through her blood. Her boyfriend at university had claimed she was a bit of a cold fish. She’d known better.

She burned underneath.

Most of her life she’d burned.

Yet no one knew and no one ever would. She’d fashioned a good, solid life with the quiet persona she preferred and she wasn’t going to give that up. Not for Cameron Steward, especially.

The man she had to steal from.

Yanking the shed door open, she stepped inside to the scent of rust and mold. This had once been filled with the best tools a person could buy. However, most of them had long ago fallen victim to the damp Scottish weather. All of the junk made her sad for the waste. Someone had loved, but now what was left was in ruin.

Placing the trowel on a slanted wooden shelf, she ripped off the old gloves and made a promise to herself and to her grandfather. No more indulging in her favorite pastime. No more wasting time mourning the death of a garden that wasn’t hers to worry about. No more procrastination.

Find the ring.
Leave
.

A flash of movement outside seized her attention. She swung back to see…nothing.

The ghost?

Her mouth firmed. There was no such thing as ghosts. She sucked in a breath and marched out of the shed.

Not a living thing anywhere, except for one robin perched on the old stone wall, staring at her suspiciously. Jen craned her neck one way, then the other. Nothing. She stomped around the shed, determined to find this nonexistent person. For two weeks, she’d felt as if she were being watched, and she’d had enough.

The hawthorn hedge’s leaves trembled, like someone was climbing through the thick growth.

Doubting her sanity, she walked over and kneeled down. A snug, tight tunnel wove through the overgrown hedge. A quick glint of murky sunlight gleamed off a shoe buckle before it disappeared.

She knew this was stupid, even as she planted her hands on the wet, cold soil and began to crawl. The best thing to do was go back to the house and start exploring the second floor, not crawl into a bunch of hedges. But something stubborn inside pushed her forward. Whoever this person was, they’d been spying on her and it was time it stopped.

The tunnel wove through the hedge and she became more and more impressed. Whoever had planned this, had spent quite a bit of time making this escape route.

She stuck her head out of the hedge on the other side, ready to congratulate as well as interrogate.

No one. She must have chosen the wrong passage at some point.

“Sod it,” she grumbled to herself.

Getting to her feet, she brushed off the worst of the twigs and leaves. She looked up to see the spread of the wild moor before her. Not a movement of any living thing caught her attention.

Whoever was spying on her was smart.

“Sod you,” she muttered to the empty landscape.

There was no way she was going to crawl back through the wet hedge. She’d just have to find an alternative route to the house. To do that, the best thing she could do was climb to the top of the moor and see what her alternatives were.

The air was crisp and cool, bringing with it a hint of smoky peat and musky heather. The sun glanced off the parade of customary clouds rolling through the sky. Once again, she was glad she’d packed her sturdy walking shoes. The moor was filled with stone outcrops mixed with little rivulets of water running down toward the loch.

The wind wrapped around her, and she stuck her hands in the coat’s pockets as she drew abreast of the top.

“Looking for ghosts, Ms. Douglas?”

At the sound of the familiar voice, Jen spun around.

Cameron Steward stood on the other side of the moor in a small indent, which was why she hadn’t seen him until it was too late.

She saw more of him than she needed.

“Only stretching my legs.” Her hands knotted in the coat pockets.

His tawny brows drew down in a characteristic movement she’d become far too aware of. “Did ye walk all the way from the house?”

“Yes.” She turned to stare at the estate before she got caught staring at him with her usual fascination.

“Not possible.” Rambling closer than she’d have liked, he gazed at his home with a sullen glower. “It takes me a good hour to get here, walking around that damn hedge, and I spotted ye working in the garden no more than a half hour ago.”

So he hadn’t been the one she’d been trailing. Logically, she’d already known this to be the case. The tunnel had been almost too small for her, much less this man.

“Nothing to say, Ms. Douglas?”

He’d started to use her title a lot in the last week. Every time, one edge of his mouth would curl, as if expressing distaste for her English hoity-toity manners.

“I’m not a snob, you know.” She braved a glance straight into his odd eyes.

“No?” The typical curl edged into a smirk. “You’re not, are ye? You’re just
professional
.”

“Yes and what’s wrong with that?” She knew she should turn and leave, but this seemed important for some reason. As if she had to take a stand.

For what reason, she had no idea.

“Wrong?” Crossing his solid arms, he leaned back, looking puzzled. “Maybe because we’ve spent the better part of two weeks holed up alone, which makes the whole Mr. and Ms. thing rather ridiculous.”

Holed up alone.

Another thump landed in her stomach.

“Or maybe it’s because we’re not in some swanky office building surrounded by hundreds of dutiful employees.” The way he said the words told her he’d never find himself in such a situation. And honestly, she couldn’t imagine Cameron Steward sitting in a cubicle, staring at some computer.

Another solid thump of recognition and response drummed inside.

“Or maybe,” he dropped his arms and came towards her until he was well into her private space, “it’s because you’re scared.”

Yes, she was often scared. In this particular case, yes, she was very scared. Of him and what pumped inside her.

She couldn’t help herself.

She took a step back.

His amber hair waved in the wind and those predator eyes gleamed as if he’d sighted his prey. The modern jumper and jeans he had on did nothing to dispel the sense he came from a time long ago when men were warriors and conquerors and plunderers.

“Ye are scared, aren’t ye, Ms. Douglas.” One big paw of a hand swept his hair from his face, those eyes never leaving hers. “What I’m wondering is…why?”

W
ell
, he’d done a good job of scaring the little mouse, hadn’t he?

Cam watched as she scurried away, down the moor and toward the damn house.

An ugly slide of remorse ran through him, and he tried to shrug it off. He’d only asked a question or two. Nothing terribly important. He didn’t care if he called her Ms. Douglas or Jennet. But clearly, his teasing had stirred something inside her because those big, grey eyes of hers had widened with distress.

“Ye bastard,” he mumbled as he stuck his hands in his pockets.

She’d twirled around without uttering another word and scrambled away from him like he had the plague.

Hunching his shoulders, he swung back to stare at the loch once more, trying to distract himself from his guilt.

Soon it would be warm enough to take his boats onto the water. He couldn’t wait to take his brand new Orkney longliner out for some fishing. Or skim the waves with the Oyster sailboat he’d bought, thinking it would be compensation for losing his freedom. Nothing would be compensation enough, yet the thought of getting out in the wind and the waves was some consolation.

Kicking a stone down the hill, he meandered farther from the house and the mouse. His mind reluctantly went back to what he’d done a few moments ago.

He was going to have to apologize for badgering her.

Baw. He never apologized. Not anymore.

But he didn’t want to lose her magic fingers, and he’d upset her. Unintentionally, but he’d done it. To keep the peace, he was going to have to get on the proverbial bended knee and ask Ms. Douglas for her forgiveness for his sinful behavior.

The thought made all his happiness about his boats slip into surly disgruntlement.

Better to get the damn apology finished now. Get it over with.

His long legs ate up the land as he paced back to his prison. By the time he reached the house, a light rain had dampened his hair and jumper. He still hadn’t gotten used to the cold and damp. After years in the Middle East and Africa, coming back to Scotland’s misty weather and calm, careful culture had been a shock. A shock he hadn’t enjoyed, and hadn’t adjusted to.

And he wouldn’t have to for much longer.

If he put the boy in a boarding school.

Shoving away the thought, he marched up the back stairs. He’d take a quick shower and change these damp clothes before confronting the woman and giving her his humble apology. There’d be no risking of her getting in a snit and hightailing it out of here before he’d finished his best story. He needed those fingers tapping on the keyboard. Moving down the hall, he entered his dark, dreary bedroom.

Only to find little Miss Mouse standing by the antique cherry cabinet he used to store his socks and underwear.

“What the hell are ye doing in here?” Shock ran through him. She was too close, too near the boy.

He’d had strict instructions left by his mum and reinforced by Mrs. Rivers during the last six months. Nothing should startle the boy. Nothing should disturb him or frustrate him. Cam felt like he walked on eggshells every day, and he’d resented it. But this was his son, after all, although he hadn’t been the boy he’d dreamed of. The son he’d wanted.

The mouse gave him only a choked sound in response to his reasonable outrage.

The noise made him angrier. “Speak up. Why the hell are ye snooping in my bedroom?”

Her hand jerked out of one of his drawers.

The thought made him think of her hand in another kind of drawers and his body reacted.

Stunning him.

Not once in the last few weeks had he thought of Ms. Douglas in relation to sex. Not once.

Until now.

The realization that it was lust, true and potent lust running through him, shocked him more than finding her in his bedroom.

His fury spiked.

Slamming the door shut so she wouldn’t escape into the hall, he leaned on the door and crossed his arms. All thoughts of apologies for his rude behavior went straight out of his mind. “Nothing to say again, Ms. Douglas?”

Her throat moved as she gulped in a swallow.

“You’ll not be able to get out of a conversation so easily this time.” His elbow jabbed behind him, hitting the solid oak door with a pointed thud. “Start talking.”

“I’m…” She swallowed again and her eyes widened in distress. Again, distress.

But he wasn’t having any of it. Not now, not anymore.

He’d played nice for weeks. Dutifully calling her what she wanted, reining in his teases, taking long walks outside so he wouldn’t be tempted to hunt her down and find out what she was doing. He’d treated her with a deference he’d given no other woman since his dead wife and dead mother.

Not anymore.

“You’re…?” He arched a brow. “You’re what?”

Her hands, the hands he’d become fixated on for no reason at all, her hands lifted to her mouth. His fascination with them made no sense. Her nails were plain and cut to the quick. The fingers weren’t long and elegant, nor were they short and blunt. They were…average. Exactly like the rest of her.

Yet, he lusted. He lusted, dammit.

“I…” she gasped. “I…”

Her hands fluttered to her throat and her skin, if it were possible, became whiter.

Much to his disgust, his anger dissipated, replaced by confusion. Straightening from the door, he dropped his hands. “What’s wrong?”

Those big grey eyes went from horror to a dazed incomprehension. Her hands slapped on the cabinet, like she was trying to keep herself upright.

“Fucking hell.” He took two steps to get to her side and barely made it in time. She sank down almost to her knees before he scooped her up. Her head flopped back on his arm and her eyes closed, blanking out his ability to understand what was going on.

If this was a fake faint, then Ms. Jennet Douglas should immediately take the train straight to London’s West End.

Her whole body trembled and a light sheen of sweat covered her face. Cam tightened his grip, noticing how solid her weight was in his arms.

How neatly she fit in his arms.

Before he allowed himself to take that thought further, he strode to his unmade bed and sat with her in his arms. She curled into his body as if trying to find safety. He’d been the one yelling at her, though; she shouldn’t be finding comfort in her accuser’s embrace.

“God damn.” His heart thudded in his chest. “Should I be taking ye to the hospital?”

“No.” The one word came, soft yet assured.

Surprised, he looked down to meet her grey gaze. Her eyes had cleared and relief swamped through him. “No?”

“No,” she said again, quite clearly.

“You’re sure?” He swept a careful hand across her forehead, letting himself brush the line of blonde hair he’d wanted to investigate for weeks.

“Yes.” She didn’t move from his embrace or make any attempt to get away from him. The implicit trust settled in him like a long-lost mate.

Something shivered up his spine.

There was something wrong here, something threatening to him, yet Cam had never been very good at walking away from threats. His hand drifted farther into her short hair, sifting through her details: making note of each curl of her ear, the exquisite grain of her skin, the way her lashes ended with a touch of honeyed gold.

The mouse didn’t move, didn’t swing her gaze from his or jump from his grasp. Instead, she lay pliantly, her hands curled into his chest, her legs splayed across his one thigh and the bed.

His heartbeat stuttered, before beating fast once more.

Touching her skin was like brushing warm alabaster, so fine, so pure. He skimmed his fingers over the arch of her brow and down across her subtle cheekbones.

And then, to her mouth.

The mouth that had been so average until a minute ago.

Her lips didn’t pucker or protest. Again, her passive acceptance of him made the blood in his body roar and roil for more and more and more.

“I had one of my attacks.” Her mouth moved under his fingers and a line of sweat popped out on the length of his spine at the feeling of her lips on his skin. “It’s nothing.”

“Attacks?” Cam dragged his hand away from her face before latching his eyes onto hers.

He’d thought they were mere mist, a normal grey color any Scotsman would recognize and not find astonishing in any way.

But he’d been wrong. Very wrong.

They were mystery. They were mystical. Her eyes drew him in and he felt himself falling into the depths, falling into a deep, dark story he’d never imagined existed.

“I have panic attacks sometimes.”

Her words shocked him into straightening, pulling back from the something he’d known was potentially deadly. “Really?” he managed to choke out.

“Yes.” She finally cut the connection that drew him in. Glancing away, she inspected the mess that was his bedroom. The loss of her gaze made him realize where they were.

In his bedroom.

With an abrupt movement, he pushed her out of his arms, holding onto her only until she’d steadied on her feet. “You’re all right?”

“I’ve recovered.” A flush rose up her neck, coloring her porcelain skin. She swept her plain hands down the simple green jumper she wore and then stuck them into her jean pockets. “The attacks come and go quickly.”

He didn’t stand because he didn’t want to get near her again. Her crisis had apparently been averted, so it was time to get back to the inquisition. “Since you’re fine now, ye can answer my question.”

The mouse sucked in a breath and for a moment his own held in his throat, but then she let out a hesitant sigh. “I was only looking around.”

He knew immediately—she lied. The way she looked at everything except him, the way the muscles of her face tightened, the way her hands fisted in her pockets. With a shock, he realized he was even angrier at this point than he’d been before.

“You’re not a very good liar, Ms. Douglas.” He placed his elbows on the mattress, lying in a negligent sprawl, trying to cover the anger in a layer of blasé detachment. “I’d advise ye not to try it anymore. Especially with me.”

That average mouth of hers fell open and her gaze met his. What he saw in them didn’t make sense. It was as if he’d hit on something far deeper than his casual comment deserved.

The something wrong he’d sensed before leapt back into his awareness, crouching in the depth of his mind, just out of reach. Leaning forward and clasping his hands before him, he narrowed his eyes at her. “Come on then. Tell me the truth.”

A sharp knock on the door startled both of them. The mouse jumped and swung around. Cam found himself bemused because the noise had jerked him out of this scene in the same way a sudden interruption during his dictation always jerked him out of a story.

He never liked that.

He didn’t like it now.

“Go away,” he barked at the door.

“Mr. Steward.” His housekeeper’s voice was firm. “You’re needed.”

His boy. Something was wrong with the boy.

He jerked to his feet, all thoughts of interrogation swept away by the need to get Ms. Douglas away from the second floor and far from his son. Striding past her, he yanked the door open.

Mrs. Rivers’ eyes widened when she saw the mouse.

“You’ll escort Ms. Douglas to her room,” he ordered. “I’ll take care of the problem.”

“Yes, Mr. Steward.” His housekeeper’s eyes returned to their usual bland gaze. “Come along, Miss.”

He didn’t waste his time making sure the mouse had left his bedroom. He had more important people to deal with.

* * *

S
he did not want
to be here.

Jen stared at the wooden face of the jester set in the library door.

Yesterday had been a disaster of monumental proportions and she’d barely escaped. Only the unlikely appearance of Mrs. Rivers had saved her from spilling her guts.

A close escape.

Because she’d wanted to. She’d desperately wanted to tell Cameron Steward why she was really here and beg him to give her the ring.

Please give me the ring.

Not until she’d dived into her cozy little nest on the third floor had reality snapped her back into sanity. Her grandfather had begged. He’d written letter after letter to Mr. Steward’s literary agent with no response. He’d called this very house time and time again—and been rejected.

Just as she would have been.

No, she’d been seduced by those big arms holding her in their tender grasp. Seduced by the kindness in his odd eyes and the concern in his rich voice. Seduced into thinking she was safe with him.

Safe with Cameron Steward.

Jen snorted at the jester and at her thoughts. There was no such thing as safe. She’d learned that lesson in a hard and permanent way when she’d been only five years old. It was a lesson she’d never forget.

“Time to get to it,” she whispered to herself before putting her fist to the door.

Her knock went unanswered.

She hit the door again.

Again, nothing.

Mr. Steward. You’re needed
.

Needed for what? She’d spent the night wrestling with that question, along with banishing any lingering need for seductive safety. What or who needed him? Was he still attending to that need, even now?