Love Without Reason

Love Without Reason

Alison Fraser

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

‘IS IT mine?’ were his very first words, when they met outside the village store.

Riona stood a moment, caught by memories. It had been over a year and she’d never expected to see him again. She wasn’t ready for this.

She murmured a faint ‘What?’ in response.

‘The baby you’ve had—is it mine?’ he repeated coolly.

No ‘It’s good to see you!’ No ‘How are you?’ Just straight to the point for Cameron Adams.

‘No, it isn’t.’ She gave him the answer he wanted.

It was a surprise that he even bothered adding, ‘Are you sure?’

She nodded.

They stood a moment longer, looking at each other, remembering...

Then Riona turned to walk away.

He blocked her path.

‘In that case—’ his lips formed a contemptuous curve ‘—I guess Fergus Ross is the lucky man.’

‘You can guess what you like,’ Riona threw back, and pushed past him.

He let her go and she hurried up the road, turning a couple of times to check he wasn’t following. He remained outside the shop, watching her retreat. He probably thought she was running away from him—and he was right.

She was out of breath when she reached Dr Macnab’s house. She rang the bell with some urgency.

‘He’s back, Doctor,’ she gasped as the door opened. ‘I just met him. At the store. He’s heard about Rory. I have to go—’

‘Now, calm down, lass,’ Dr Macnab advised, leading her inside. ‘You mean Cameron Adams?’

She nodded, before going to pick up the baby lying on the living-room carpet. He gave her a beautiful toothless smile.

‘Cameron knows about the lad here.’ Dr Macnab was clearly less distressed by the fact. ‘Then he must have come to help you. I was certain he would. If only you’d let me write him—’

‘No, Doctor.’ Riona shook her head. ‘I don’t know why he’s come, but it’s not to help. More likely he’s scared I’ll bring a paternity suit against him.’

‘Ah, Riona, lass.’ The old doctor sighed at her cynicism. ‘I can’t think that’s so. He took advantage of you, it’s true, but he’s not a bad man. Now he knows he’s fathered Rory—’

‘Actually, he doesn’t,’ Riona stated, before the doctor’s optimism could carry him away.

‘But you said...’ Hamish Macnab tried to remember exactly what she had said.

‘Someone told him I’d had a baby,’ Riona explained. ‘He wanted to know if it was his. I said it wasn’t.’

‘What?’ The old man was plainly shocked.

‘I just told him what he wanted to hear, Doctor,’ Riona justified her actions. ‘You won’t tell him differently, will you?’

‘I can’t. You know that.’ As her doctor, he couldn’t break a confidence, even if he wished to. ‘But, lass, you can’t hope to get away with it. He just has to see Rory...’

Riona frowned at this mention of the likeness between baby and father. She adored her son, but that was how she thought of him—her son, and nobody else’s.

‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t.’ Her jaw set with determination as she dressed the baby in his outdoor clothes and went to put him in the carrier she used.

Dr Macnab stopped her, saying, ‘Come away, lass, I’ll give you a lift.’

She accepted the offer. It was quite a walk back to her crofthouse and she didn’t want to risk a second meeting with Cameron Adams.

Unfortunately the doctor used the car journey to try and persuade her to tell the truth to the American. She listened politely and, on parting, agreed to think about it, knowing full well she wouldn’t. A year ago Cameron Adams had returned to Boston without a word or a backward glance. He’d left her with a breaking heart and a baby on the way. In time her heart had hardened and life now centred on her son; they needed no help from his father.

She carried young Rory into the crofthouse and sat him in a bouncing cradle close to the old-fashioned range. When they weren’t out on the hills, they inhabited the kitchen, because it was the warmest room.

Rory had actually been born in the house. He’d arrived a few weeks early, allowing no time to travel to hospital in Inverness, and Dr Macnab had delivered him in the bedroom upstairs. He had been a healthy eight pounds, the birth had been relatively easy, and love for her son had flowed through her from the moment he’d been placed in her arms. Giving him up would have been impossible.

Yet keeping him sometimes seemed an act of selfishness. She looked round her shabby kitchen, furnished with an ill-assorted collection of sideboards and tables from her granny’s day. Some work had recently been done by the estate to try and eradicate damp in the walls and warm up the cold stone floor with linoleum, but it was still a shabby place. It made her realise how little she had to offer Rory. She didn’t even own the small, cheerless house, and she barely eked a living from working the croft. She carried Rory with her when she herded the sheep, and, despite the doctor’s assurances, she worried that the fresh air was too bracing for a five-month-old baby.

It wasn’t just the practical difficulties, either. For herself, she could put up with the gossip and the disapproving looks, but what would happen when the boy was older? The peninsula of Invergair might cover a wide area, but its society was narrow. An illegitimate baby was still a talking-point, especially when the father’s identity was uncertain, and in time Rory would be the one to suffer. She had considered leaving the West Coast for Edinburgh, but she would have to find a place to stay and a job to do, and there wasn’t much call for crofters in the city. So she stayed in Invergair, living the life of a virtual recluse.

Of course she couldn’t do that forever, couldn’t keep her son hidden away from curious eyes. She just hoped that, given time, the likeness to his father would fade enough to pass unnoticed.

It seemed a vain hope, however, as she cradled her son in her arms. He had a shock of black hair, dark blue eyes and the hint of a dimple in his chin. All babies were born with blue eyes, she’d been told, but his would stay blue. She knew this because her son was a tiny replica of his father.

Cameron Adams. The thought of their meeting today sent a chill through her. His directness had always been disconcerting. Now it seemed brutal. She supposed he’d been angry about the baby; he’d done his best to ensure there would be no consequences from their brief affair. Even as he’d talked of a future together, he’d known all along it would never be.

Riona’s mind slipped back once more to last summer. It had mainly been a good summer, warm and dry and sunny, but not on the June day they’d met. Then it had been raining. She’d been returning from her weekly trip to Inverness and had caught the bus that went as far as Achnagair. She had started walking home the six more miles to Invergair, hoping for a lift from a local, when a car slid to a halt beside her. It was a posh car, a sleek black BMW. An electric window rolled down and the driver leaned over the passenger-seat to speak to her. She stood a cautious step or two from the door.

‘Hey, kid, am I on the right road for Invergair?’ the driver called to her.

She nodded in response, but didn’t volunteer more.

‘How far is it, do you reckon?’ he pursued.

She answered, ‘Six miles to the village,’ but was careful to keep her voice low. Dressed in jeans and hooded jacket, she’d been taken for a boy. It seemed wise to maintain the illusion.

‘So, it’s straight on?’ he concluded.

She nodded again, and, stepping back from the car, resumed walking.

Instead of driving on, however, he drew up in a lay-by slightly ahead of her, and, climbing out of the car, called back, ‘You might as well hitch a ride, kid.’

‘I...’ Riona hesitated, torn between saving herself the walk and the potential risk. She looked him up and down, struck first by his size. He was well over six feet and looked muscular in build, despite expensively cut clothes. Riona knew little or nothing about designer labels, but she could still recognise money even when it walked around in casual suede jackets and faded jeans.

He also happened to be the most attractive man Riona had ever met. Her eyes went from his clothes to his face and just stayed there. With thick dark hair above straight dark brows, a long nose and square, unshaven jaw, he looked both handsome and dangerous. Then, all of a sudden, his hard, beautiful mouth slanted into a half-smile and his dark blue eyes glittered with cynical amusement.

‘Do you want references, kid?’ he suggested at her lengthy scrutiny. ‘A ride, that’s all I’m offering. Take it or leave it.’

‘OK.’ Riona opened the passenger door and cautiously slid into the passenger seat, gripping her holdall to her.

‘Relax, kid. Boys aren’t my thing,’ he said with a short laugh.

Riona felt herself blushing and was glad her jacket hood hid much of her face. She decided to keep it on.

He didn’t seem to notice. He set the car in motion before asking, ‘Are you from Invergair?’

‘Yes,’ she replied simply.

‘How big is the village?’

‘Not very.’

‘A one-horse town,’ he remarked in a drawl. ‘That’s what we’d call it in the States.’

‘Really.’ Riona sounded less than interested in what an American would call Invergair.

Her reticence was noted, as he came back with a wry, ‘So tell me, are all the locals as gabby as you?’

‘I...’ Stuck for an answer, Riona glanced at him, then looked away as a mocking brow was lifted in her direction.

Of course he was right. She was being ungracious. Riona realised that. He hadn’t needed to offer her a lift. He didn’t even know she was a girl. It was she who was over-conscious of him as a man.

Silence descended until they approached the turn-off for Invergair, then she deepened her voice slightly to request, ‘Could you let me off here? My croft’s further on.’

He slowed down, saying, ‘How far?’

‘A mile or so.’ She nodded towards the road ahead.

‘Then I might as well take you.’ He shrugged, and, before she could object, picked up speed once more.

‘Thanks,’ she murmured reluctantly. She didn’t want to be the recipient of such generosity, particularly when she’d been so churlish herself. ‘You can drop me here, please,’ she said after they’d travelled the further mile.

He slowed down again, but, seeing no sign of habitation, asked, ‘Where do you live, kid?’

‘On the hill.’ She pointed at the rough dirt track leading towards her croft, then found herself protesting, ‘No, don’t go up it!’

‘Why not?’ He’d already turned on to the track.

‘Well...’ Riona searched for a reason, other than an unwillingness to let him see her home ‘...the track isn’t tarred. Your car might be damaged.’

‘So? It’s a rental.’ He casually dismissed the gleamingly expensive motor car and continued up the rutted road to the crofthouse.

The rain had ceased and, as they reached the top of the hill, they had a clear view of her cottage. Built of rough stone and slate tiles, it could be described neither as cute nor quaint. It was a drab, plain building, with a kitchen and sitting-room downstairs, and two bedrooms in the attic. Round it was a dry stone wall, half falling down, and a garden that had gone to weed. The air of neglect was emphasised by the fact that it was deserted.

‘Where are your folks?’ the American asked as they drew to a halt and no one came out to greet them.

‘I haven’t any.’ Riona’s parents had died in an accident when she was too young to remember them. The grandfather who’d raised her had died in the past year.

‘So who looks after you?’ he pursued, when she made to climb out of the car.

‘No one. I look after myself.’ Riona wondered how old he thought her.

He stared hard at her for the first time. She stared back. It was a mistake.

Before she could stop him, he pulled down her hood and announced with some disbelief, ‘Hell, you’re a girl!’

Riona could hardly deny it. Under the hood, her blonde hair was bound in a long, thick plait, and, though she wore no make-up, her soft skin and the full curve of her mouth made her utterly feminine.

‘Beautiful, too,’ he added under his breath.

Riona ignored it. Her grandfather had taught her to consider beauty a doubtful quality.

‘I’m also twenty and quite able to fend for myself, thank you,’ she announced rather briskly, and reached for the door-handle.

He caught her arm, detaining her. ‘You’re on your own here?’

Riona frowned at the question, not sure how to answer. He was still a stranger and it didn’t seem too clever to admit to being alone.

‘Not really,’ she eventually said. ‘There’s Jo. He lives with me.’

‘Jo?’ He repeated the name, before guessing wrongly, ‘Your husband?’

Riona didn’t contradict him but her blush gave her away.

‘Not your husband,’ he concluded drily, before shrugging. ‘Never mind. Who gets married these days?’

If he was trying to save her embarrassment, he drew a scowl for his trouble. Riona didn’t need his approval for living with a man, especially when she wasn’t—Jo was her collie dog.

‘Have I said something wrong?’ he continued at her hostile silence. ‘You want to get married and he doesn’t. Is that it?’

‘What?’ Riona couldn’t believe the nerve of him.

He went on obliviously, ‘Well, if you want my opinion, he needs his head examined...his eyesight, too.’

Once more he admired her beauty, his gaze warm and approving, but any compliment was lost on Riona.

Gritting her teeth, she retorted, ‘Actually, this may come as a surprise to you, Mr...’

‘Cameron,’ he supplied.

‘Mr Cameron, but—’ she tried to continue.

He cut in again. ‘No, Cameron’s my first name.’

‘Mr Whatever-your-name is, then!’ Riona snapped in exasperation. ‘The point is I don’t want your opinion. I’ll probably never want your opinion. In fact, I can’t think of anyone’s opinion I’d want less!’ she declared on a strident note and jerked her arm free.

‘Thank you for the lift,’ she added gruffly, and got out of the car before he could stop her. He climbed out, too, but remained on the driver’s side, returning her slightly alarmed look with a smile. The smile suggested he hadn’t taken offence. Riona thought that was a great pity.

She glowered back at him, and he drawled, ‘Say, has anyone ever told you how beautiful you look when you’re mad...? Because if they have, I’m afraid they were lying,’ he declared in amused tones. ‘That incredibly sexy mouth goes into a thin, grumpy line. And your eyes, well, they go from a green reminiscent of—’

‘This is absurd!’ Riona finally interrupted the running commentary. ‘Look, I’m grateful for the lift, but it doesn’t give you discussion rights on my private life or my appearance. So if you don’t mind...?’

She looked from him to the track down the hill, and waited for him to take the hint.

He did eventually, concluding, ‘I guess that means I’m not being invited in for coffee.’

‘Astute as well as sensitive,’ Riona muttered under her breath.

He caught it and laughed. ‘Well, never mind, I’ll take a raincheck.’

Then, while Riona was still working on a reply, he gave a half-salute with his hand and climbed back into the car. She watched as he drove down the track, faster than he should, and found herself almost wishing an accident on him. Not a big accident. Just one where he and his flash car ended up in the ditch.

It was hardly a nice thing to imagine, but Riona didn’t feel very nice at that moment. Grumpy, indeed! And what about the conclusions he’d leapt to? Not only did he have her living with some man, but he’d also decided she was desperate for marriage.

That his conclusions were ridiculous didn’t matter. It was his sheer presumption that maddened her. She thought of all the clever things she might have said and hadn’t, and for a moment hoped they would meet again. Then she shook her head at the possibility. In a couple of days the American would have ‘done’ Invergair and be on his way, further north to Gairloch, or back down south to some posh hotel. No tourist ever stayed long in their area.

* * *

She’d been wrong, of course. Cameron Adams hadn’t just passed through. He had been there a month in all—just long enough to change her life for ever.

The next time she’d seen him was that night at the ceilidh in the village hall. It was a weekly event in the summer, a mixture of song, dancing and recitation that brought crofters from all over the peninsula of Invergair.

Riona had to attend the ceilidh because, when her grandfather had fallen ill, she’d taken his place playing piano in the band, the other members being two local fishermen on fiddle and accordion. Their repertoire consisted solely of dancing reels, but she’d never been a musical snob. She was needed to play, and play she did.

She’d just finished a Dashing White Sergeant and had come off stage for a break, when she spotted the American. She could hardly fail to, as he bore down on her, allowing no chance of escape.

‘I’ve just spent the last half-hour looking for you,’ he said without preamble.

Riona matched his directness with a flat ‘Really. Why?’

He laughed in response. She wondered if he ever took offence—and, if so, how she could possibly give it.

He went on obliviously, ‘I didn’t notice the piano player. As a rule, they don’t tend to be so beautiful.’

Riona ignored the compliment, but couldn’t ignore his eyes. They slid from her face to the dress she wore. A simple bodiced dress in white cotton, it left her arms and shoulders bare and kept her cool in the warm, crowded hall. It also hinted at the first swell of her breasts, a fact that she hadn’t really noticed until the American’s gaze lingered there.

Riona had always found her figure an embarrassment. She didn’t mind being tall—at five nine, she was taller than many Highland males. And, in her usual clothes of baggy jerseys and jeans, it hardly mattered what her figure was like. She just wished that, when she wore feminine clothes, her curves were less pronounced, less suggestive. It seemed a joke of nature when, in character, she wasn’t the ‘sexy type’ at all.

She felt only anger as the American’s eyes reflected his thoughts, and she snapped, ‘Perhaps I can have my dress back when you’ve finished.’

‘What?’ Distracted from their private fantasy, his eyes travelled back to her face, and he gave her one of his slow smiles. ‘I guess I was being obvious.’

‘Painfully,’ she agreed, and tried to walk past him.

He moved to block her path. ‘So can I buy you a drink?’

‘No, thank you,’ she said, politeness forced. ‘I don’t drink.’

‘You’re kidding.’ His face expressed genuine surprise. ‘Next to bagpipe playing and caber-tossing, I thought drinking was the national pastime in Scotland.’

Not sure if this was meant to be a joke or what, Riona scowled in response.

She countered, ‘So why did you come if you have such a low opinion of the place?’

‘On the contrary—’ he shook his head ‘—I think it’s a wonderful country. Drunk or sober, no one can rival the Scots for their generosity of spirit. It makes you quite forget their occasional bloody-mindedness,’ he said on a wry note.

Again he was probably joking, but Riona wasn’t laughing. ‘Do you know what I like about you Americans?’ she rallied.

‘No, what?’ He actually smiled.

‘Your stunning diplomacy,’ she answered with dead-pan sarcasm, then smiled, too—before walking away.

She was intercepted again, but this time by Dr Macnab. ‘Well, good evening, lass,’ he greeted her, then added, ‘I see you’ve met him.’

‘Who?’

‘The American.’

‘Oh, him.’ Riona pulled a face.

‘You didn’t like him?’ The doctor frowned.

‘Not so you’d notice,’ she shrugged back. ‘I just hope the new laird isn’t like him.’

The Doctor’s frown changed to a look of puzzlement, before he sighed, ‘I’m rather afraid he is, lass.’

It took Riona a moment to catch on. They’d been waiting months for the new laird’s arrival, ever since Sir Hector had finally pegged out at ninety-five. They’d heard he was an American, a C H Adams from Boston, and that was about it. They’d worked out for themselves that he wasn’t too interested in his inheritance, having failed to materialise to claim it in person.

‘You don’t mean...’ Riona prayed she’d misunderstood.

She hadn’t, as the doctor went on, ‘Aye, that’s the man himself. Sir Hector’s great-nephew.’

‘Oh, God!’ Riona closed her eyes in despair. She had just cut dead the man who owned the cottage in which she lived and the croft she worked.

‘What’s wrong?’ the doctor asked.

‘Nothing really.’ Riona grimaced. ‘I was just rather insulting to him.’

‘Dearie me,’ Dr Macnab exclaimed in his mild way. ‘That’s not like you. He must have said something to prompt it.’

Riona nodded, before pointing out, ‘But that hardly matters. He’s laird and I’m just a lowly tenant...least, I was.’

‘Ach, lass,’ the doctor chided, ‘he’s no going to turf you out for a few hasty words. In fact, he’s probably laughed them off already. I’m told he’s got a fine sense of humour.’

Riona gave an unladylike snort. Fine wasn’t the word she’d have used—more like warped.

‘Who told you that?’ she asked.

‘Mrs Ross.’ The doctor named his housekeeper. ‘Her sister’s girl, Morag, helps with the cleaning up at the House.’

The House was Invergair Hall, the seat of the Munro family. It wasn’t quite a castle, but it did boast a turret or two and was fairly imposing in size.

‘Anyway, Morag thinks he’s very charming,’ Dr Macnab continued.

‘Yes, well...’ Riona wasn’t too impressed with Morag Mackinnon’s opinion. A nice enough girl, her head was easily turned by a good-looking male, and Riona supposed Cameron Adams was that.

She glanced round the hall and located him without difficulty. Over six feet, he was the tallest man there. His dark handsome head was inclined in conversation with Isobel Fraser, the secretary to the estate and Invergair’s resident vamp. At thirty-three, she’d already seen off two husbands in the divorce courts.

‘Isobel seems to like him, too,’ Dr Macnab chuckled. ‘Perhaps she’s measuring him up for number three.’

‘She’s welcome,’ Riona replied tartly.

‘Ach, you wouldna wish Isobel on him,’ the doctor said, still with gentle humour. ‘A bonny lass she may be, but she has a hard heart.’

Riona didn’t disagree, muttering instead, ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about Cameron Adams, Doctor. He didn’t strike me as the vulnerable type.’

‘Perhaps not,’ the doctor conceded, before relaying, ‘At any rate, he told old Mrs Mackenzie, the housekeeper at the Hall, he wasn’t the marrying kind.’

‘Really?’ The news didn’t surprise Riona. She remembered his showing a healthy contempt for the married state the first time they’d met.

Dr Macnab went on to explain, ‘Apparently a Mrs Adams called from America while he was out and Mrs Mackenzie assumed it was his wife. He laughed at the idea, saying that Mrs Adams was his stepmother, and that acquiring a wife was something he’d so far managed to avoid.’

The doctor smiled, amused by the American’s phrasing, while Riona declared cynically, ‘I suspect they’ve avoided him—women with any taste, that is.’