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The tears hadn’t stopped. His mother had held her husband’s death to her heart—over his head—for the rest of her life. She held it still.
Her voice came back to him in all its pathos.
‘Wash your knees, Hamish. Your father would hate it if he saw his son with grubby knees. Oh, I can’t bear it that he can’t be here to see.’
Tears.
‘Do your homework, Hamish. Oh, if you fail…’
Tears.
Or, as he’d shown no signs of failing, ‘Your father would be so proud…’ And the sobbing would continue. Endlessly. His mother, her friends, his aunts.
There’d been tears every day of his life until he’d broken away, fiercely, among floods of recriminations—and more tears—and made his own life. He’d taken a job in Manhattan, far away from his Californian home. Far from the tears.
He hated the crying—the endless emotion. Hated it! His job now was an oasis of calm, where emotions were the last thing he needed. Marcia was cool, calm and self-contained. Nary a tear. That was his life.
He shouldn’t have come, he thought. This title thing was ridiculous. He’d never use it. Marcia thought it was great and if she wanted to use the ‘Lady’ bit then that was fine by him.
Marcia would never cry.
He’d call her, he decided, retrieving his cell phone. Manhattan was sixteen hours behind here. Four in the afternoon here made it midnight back home. Marcia would be in bed, reading the long-winded legal briefs she read as avidly as some read crime novels.
She answered on the first ring. ‘Hamish. Fabulous. You’re there, then. Should I address you as Lord Douglas?’
‘Cut it out, Marcia,’ he said uncomfortably, and she backed off in an instant. That was the great thing about Marcia. She never intruded on his personal space.
‘I’m sorry. Did you have a good journey?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
There was a moment’s pause. Marcia was expecting him to say something else, he knew, but he was still watching Susie under his window. Susie was digging as if her life depended on it.
‘What’s it like?’ Marcia said eventually, all patience. ‘The castle?’
‘Crazy. Queen Victoria’s in my bathroom.’
‘Who?’
‘Queen Vic. It’s OK. I’ve changed to one with Henry the Eighth.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Portraits in the bathroom. The place is full of kitsch. Queen Victoria is a trifle…distracting.’
‘Oh.’ She sounded annoyed. ‘For heaven’s sake, Hamish, just take it down.’
That’d be sensible, he thought. He’d take all the portraits down. He’d send them to his Aunty Molly. As soon as Susie left.
‘Was there anyone there to meet you?’
‘Rory Douglas’s widow. The lawyer told us about Rory Douglas.’
‘He did,’ she said, and he could hear her leafing through documents till she found what she wanted. ‘I’ve got the letter here. He was murdered by his brother, which is why you inherited. What’s she like?’
‘Emotional.’
‘A lachrymose widow,’ she said with instant sympathy. ‘My poor Hamish, how awful. Will she be hard to move?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If she’s been living there…she’s not a tenant for life or anything, is she? You can still sell?’
‘She offered to move out tonight.’
‘That’s great!’
‘I can hardly kick her out tonight,’ he said and heard her regroup.
‘Well, of course not. Will you need to use some of the inheritance to resettle her, do you think? Does she have somewhere to go?’
‘She’s American. She’s coming home.’
‘Not entirely silly, then,’ Marcia said with approval. ‘She has plans. What about you? How long do you think it’ll take to put the place on the market?’
‘I’ll paint a “For Sale” sign on the gate tomorrow.’
‘Be serious,’ she told him. ‘Hamish, this is a lot of money. If the place is full of kitsch you’d best clean it out so it doesn’t put potential buyers off. Will it sell as a potential hotel?’
That much he knew. ‘Yes.’
‘Then there are specialist realtors. International hotel dealers. I’ll get back to you with names.’
‘Fine.’
Was it fine?
Of course it was fine. What Marcia suggested was sensible.
He thought about posting Queen Victoria to his Aunt Molly.
He watched Susie.
‘Steak and chips.’
Hamish had only partly opened the kitchen door when Susie’s voice announced the menu. He blinked, gazing around the room in something approaching awe. This room was built to feed an army. It had huge overhead beams, a wonderful flag-stoned floor, an efficient gas range, as well as an old-fashioned slow combustion stove.
‘How do you like your steak?’ she demanded.
She was being brisk. She wasn’t crying. Emotion had been put on the backburner, and she was being fiercely efficient.
‘Medium rare,’ he said, and she smiled.
‘Great.’ Then her smile faded, just a little. ‘Medium rare, eh?’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘It might be,’ she said cautiously. ‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On how it turns out. I was planning on beans on toast before you arrived. Much more dependable.’
‘You know where you are with a bean,’ he agreed, and she looked at him with suspicion.
‘Don’t you give me a hard time. Kirsty’s bad enough.’
‘Kirsty?’
‘My sister. She and her husband are the local doctors. Kirsty said I have to give you something good to celebrate your first night here. She dropped off the steaks a few minutes ago. She would have stayed to meet you but she has evening clinic and was in a rush. But she left Boris, just in case you turn nasty.’
Boris was—apparently—a nondescript, brownish dog of the Heinz variety who was currently lying under a high chair. A toddler—a little girl about a year old—was waving a rusk above the dog’s head, and the dog had immolated himself, upside down, all legs in the air, waiting with eternal patience for the rusk to drop.
The dog hadn’t so much as looked up as Hamish had entered. Every fibre of his being was tuned to the rusk. Some guard dog!
‘What will Boris do if I turn nasty?’ he asked, and Susie grinned.
‘He’ll think of something. He’s a very resourceful dog.’ She produced a frying-pan and then looked doubtfully at the steaks.
The steaks lay in all their glory on a plate by the stove. They looked magnificent.
‘How are you planning on cooking them?’ Hamish asked.
‘I’ll fry them,’ she said with a vague attempt at confidence. ‘That doesn’t sound too difficult.’
‘You’re cooking chips?’
‘They’re oven fries,’ she confessed. ‘Kirsty brought them as well. You put them in the oven, you set the timer for twenty minutes and you take them out again. Even I can’t mess that up. Probably.’
She was making a huge effort to be cheerful, he thought, and he’d try to join her.
‘Tell me you’re not responsible for Queen Victoria,’ he said and she grinned. She had a great grin, he thought. He was reminded suddenly of Jodie.
Jodie would love Loganaich Castle.
‘Aunty Deirdre is responsible for Queen Vic,’ Susie told him. ‘Angus gave her carte blanche to decorate the castle as she saw fit—but he also gave her a very small budget. I think she did great.’
‘She surely did,’ he said faintly. Susie brushed past him on her way to the fridge and he started feeling even more disoriented. She’d showered since he’d last seen her. Or since he’d last smelt her. She was wearing clean jeans and a soft pink T-shirt, tucked in. Her hair was still in a ponytail but it was almost controlled now. And she smelt like citrus. Fresh and lemony. Nice.
‘Mama,’ the little girl said. ‘Mama.’
‘Sweetheart,’ Susie said, and that was enough to slam reality home. His mother always called him ‘sweetheart’ when she was trying to manipulate him.
He stopped thinking how nice she smelt, and thought instead how great it was that he had his Marcia and his whole life controlled, and he’d never have to cope with this sort of messy tearful existence.
Susie was carrying a tub of dripping to the stove. She scooped out a tablespoon or more into the frying pan. Then looked at it. Dubiously.
‘What are you doing?’ he said faintly, and she raised her eyebrows as if he’d said something stupid.
‘Cooking.’
‘Deep frying or shallow frying?’
‘Is there a difference?
He sighed. ‘Yes. But with that amount of fat in the pan you’re doing neither. The chips are already in the oven?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have they been in?’
‘Five minutes.’
‘How do you have your steak?’
‘Any way I can get it.’
‘Then you’ll have it medium rare as well, and I have five minutes before I start cooking. Can you find me an apron?’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No.’
‘Gee,’ she said, stunned, but willing not only to hand over cooking but to be admiring while she was at it. ‘You really can cook?’
‘I can cook steak.’
‘Would you like to make a salad, too?’ Her voice said she knew she was pushing her luck. It was almost teasing. ‘I can mix up chopped lettuce and tomato but anything else is problematic.’
He sighed. ‘I can make a salad. But I do need an apron.’
‘An apron,’ she said, as if she’d never heard of such a thing.
‘Something to cover—’
‘I know what an apron is,’ she said with dignity. She looked down at her faded, work-worn clothes. ‘I just never use one. But I’ll bet that Deirdre was an apron lady.’
She turned and searched a capacious drawer by the door. ‘Hey!’ She held up something that took Hamish’s breath away. Bright pink with purple roses, bib and skirt, the garment had flounces all round the edge and a huge pink ribbon at the back. ‘Good old Deirdre,’ Susie said in satisfaction. ‘I knew she wouldn’t let me down. You’ll look great in this.’
Yeah, right. He could just see the next front page of the Financial Review. There were guys back home who’d kill to see this, and he was well known enough to hit the social pages of the tabloids.
He eyed Susie in suspicion. Mobile phones could also be cameras. If you wore an apron like this, you trusted no one.
‘You have a washing machine?’ he demanded, trying not to sound desperate.
‘I have a washing machine.’
‘Then I’ll make do without the apron.’ Some things were no-brainers. ‘Just this once.’
‘That’s big of you,’ she told him, laying the frills aside with regret. ‘Why are you tipping out the dripping?’
‘That was half an inch of fat, and if you thing I’m spoiling my first Australian steak, you have another think coming.’
‘Ooh,’ she said in mock admiration. ‘Bossy as well as a good cook.’
‘Watch your fries,’ he told her, disconcerted.
‘Hey, we’ll get on fine,’ she said happily. ‘You can cook. I can’t. A marriage made in heaven.’
Then she realised what she’d said and she blushed. The blush started from her eyes and moved out, and he thought, She’s lovely. She’s just gorgeous.
Rose chortled from her high chair and Hamish allowed himself to be distracted. He needed to be distracted. Whew!
Rose was a chubby toddler, dressed only in a nappy and a grubby T-shirt reading MY AUNTY WENT TO NEW YORK AND ALL SHE BROUGHT ME WAS ONE LOUSY T-SHIRT. She had flame-coloured curls, just like her mother, and huge green eyes that gazed at him as if expecting to be vastly entertained.
It was very disconcerting to be gazed at like that. He’d never been gazed at like that.
In truth, Hamish had never met a toddler.
This situation was getting out of hand.
Rosie chortled again, raised her hand and lifted her rusk. It fell. On the floor beneath, on his back, Boris did a fast, curving slide so his mouth was right where it needed to be. The rusk disappeared without a trace.
Rose and her mother—and Hamish—all gazed at Boris. Boris gazed back up at Rose in adoration, and then opened his mouth wide again.
Hamish laughed.
Susie stared.
‘What?’ he said, disconcerted, and she flushed and turned away.
‘N-nothing.’
‘Something.’
‘It’s just… For a minute…’ She took a deep breath. ‘The Douglas men,’ she said. ‘Angus and Rory had the same laugh. Low and rumbly and nice. And it’s here again. In this kitchen. Where it belongs.’
For a moment neither of them spoke. Did she know what power she had to move him? he wondered.
He’d never known his father. Oh, he had a vague memory of someone being there, a grey, silent, ghost-like presence, but that was all. He’d seen faded photographs of a man who didn’t look like him. He had no connection at all.
And suddenly he did.
He didn’t do emotion.
‘I’m hardly a Douglas,’ he said, more sharply than he’d intended. ‘My father died when I was three, and I’ve had no contact with anyone but my mother’s family.’
‘But you are a Douglas.’
‘In name only.’
‘You don’t want to be a Douglas?’
Not if it means all this emotion, he thought, but he didn’t say it.
‘Move over,’ he told her instead. ‘It’s time to put the steak on. Four minutes either side, which gives me time to whip up a salad. But there’s no time for idle chat.’
‘You don’t do idle chat?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll concentrate on my chips, then,’ she told him, and proceeded to sit on the floor, flick on the oven light and watch. Which was distracting all on its own. ‘I know when to butt out where I’m not wanted.’
‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘Neither did I,’ she told him. ‘But maybe that’s the way we have to be. You don’t want to be a Douglas. I can’t bear to be near one. So let’s get tonight over with and then we can both move on in the direction we intend to go.’
CHAPTER THREE
SHE woke to singing.
She must be dreaming, she decided, and closed her eyes but a moment later she opened them again.
‘“I’ll be true to the song I sing. And live and die a pirate king.”’
It was a rich, deep baritone, wafting in from the window out to the garden. Straight out of Gilbert and Sullivan.
Hamish?
It was early. Too early. She’d had trouble getting to sleep. Rosie was still soundly sleeping and she didn’t have to get up yet. She didn’t want to get up yet.
She closed her eyes.
‘“It is, it is a glorious thing, to be a pirate king.”’
She opened one eye and looked at her clock.
Six a.m.
The man was mad, she decided. Singing in the vegetable garden at six in the morning.
It was a great voice.
OK, she’d just look. She rolled out of bed, crawled across the floor under the level of the sill, then raised herself cautiously so she was just peeking…
He was digging her path. Her path!
The window was open and the curtains were drawn. Before she’d even thought logically, she’d shoved her hands on the sill and swung herself out. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
Hamish paused in mid-dig. He was wearing shorts. And boots.
Nothing else.
This wasn’t a stockbroker’s body, Susie thought as he set down his spade and decided what to say. The man had a serious six-pack. He was tanned and muscled—as if he’d spent half his life on a farm rather than in a stockbroker’s office.
He had great legs.
Oh, for heaven’s sake…
‘Whose boots are they?’ she demanded, and then thought, What a ridiculous question to ask. But the boots were decrepit—surely not carefully brought over from New York.
‘I found them in the wet room,’ he told her, looking like he was trying not smile. ‘There’s a whole pile. I figured if I inherited the castle with contents included, then at least one lot of boots must be mine. They’re a size or two big but I’m wearing two pairs of socks. What do you think? Will I take Manhattan by storm?’ He raised a knee to hold up a boot for inspection.
Boris had been supervising the path-digging lying down. Now the big dog rose, put out a tongue and licked the specified boot. Just tasting…
It was such a ridiculous statement—such a ridiculous situation—that Susie started to giggle.
Then she suddenly thought about what she was wearing and stopped giggling. Maybe she should hop right back in through the window.
But he’d already noticed. ‘Nice elephants,’ he said politely.
And she thought, Yep, the window was a good idea. She was wearing a pair of short—very short—boxer-type pyjama bottoms and a top that matched. Purple satin with yellow and crimson elephants.
There was a story behind these elephants. Susie’s two little step-nieces had wanted pyjamas with elephants on them. Harriet from the post office had been in Sydney for a week to visit an ailing sister and had thus been commissioned to find pyjama material with elephants. What she’d found had been royal purple satin with yellow and red elephants—the lot going much cheaper by the roll. Harriet had been so pleased that she’d bought the entire roll, and every second person in Dolphin Bay was now sporting elephant-covered nightwear.
‘They’re home-made,’ Susie managed. ‘I know the seam-stress.’ She managed a smile and Hamish thought—not for the first time—what a lovely smile she had. ‘She’ll make you some too if you like.’
‘No, thank you,’ he said hurriedly, and she grinned.
‘You could really take New York by storm with these.’
‘I don’t think Manhattan is ready for those pyjamas.’
There was a silence. She was trying not to look at his six-pack. He looked like he was trying not to look at her pyjamas.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, as much to break the silence as anything. Though it was obvious.
The garden was in the full fruit of late autumn. The fruit trees were laden. The lavender hedge was alive with early-morning bees, everything was neat and shipshape, and the only discordant note was the path she’d started digging. She’d dug the first twenty yards. Twenty yards had taken her two days.
Hamish had dug another fifteen.
‘I assume you wanted the rest dug,’ he told her.
She bit her lip. ‘I did. It’s just…’
‘I’ve put the soil in the compost area,’ he told her, guessing her qualms. ‘I’ve left it separate so you can mix it as you want.’
One question answered.
‘And the worms are in the yellow bucket,’ he told her, answering her second.
He was laughing at her! He’d done what represented over a day’s work. She should be grateful. She was grateful! But he was laughing.
‘Worms are important,’ she said defensively, and he nodded.
‘I’ve always thought so. But not the kind that come out of your eyeballs.’
‘There’s no need to mock.’
‘I’m not mocking.’
More silence.
‘You don’t get muscles like those sitting behind a desk,’ she said tentatively. She felt she shouldn’t mention those muscles—but she was unable to stop looking at them.
‘I work out.’
‘You use a gym?’
‘There’s a gym in the building where I live.’
Of course. More silence while she tried again not to concentrate on muscles.
Oh, OK, she’d look. Guys looked at good-looking women all the time. She could do a little payback.
‘So I’m not doing the wrong thing?’ he prompted when the silence got a bit stretched—and she hauled her thoughts together and tried to think what she ought to be saying. What she should be looking at.
‘Of—of course you’re not. I’m very grateful.’
‘What are you planning on doing once you’ve dug?’
‘I have a pile of pavers under the lemon tree.’ She pointed. ‘There.’
He looked. And winced. ‘They look like they weigh a ton. You were going to lay them yourself?’
‘Of course I was.’
‘But you’ve been injured,’ he said. ‘The lawyer told me—’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You limp.’
‘I don’t limp much. I’m fine.’ She took a deep breath, moving on. ‘Not that it matters. They’re your pavers now.’
‘Susie, do you have to leave so soon?’
‘I…’
‘I’m here for three weeks,’ he said urgently. ‘I had a phone call this morning from the States. That’s why I’m up early. A combination of jet-lag and a phone call at four. The best way to sell this place—’
Do I want to hear this? Susie thought, but she hardly had a choice.
‘—is via a realtor who specialises in selling exclusive country hotels. He comes, assesses potential, and if he likes what he sees then he’ll put this place on his list of vendors and promote the place internationally. He’ll be in Australia next week. Marcia thinks I should persuade you to stay till then.’
Marcia? Susie wondered, but she didn’t ask.
‘Why do you want me to stay?’
‘You know the history of the place. The agent holds that important. If people come to an exclusive location they want the personal touch. They’ll want to know about Angus and the family and the castle back in Scotland. All its history.’
‘I’ll write it out for you.’
‘I’ll sell the place for more if you’re here to give a guided tour,’ Hamish said flatly. ‘Widow of the incumbent earl’s heir…’
‘If you think you’re going to play on Rory’s murder to get your atmosphere—’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t need to,’ she told him, and glowered.
‘But will you stay? I’ll pay you.’
‘Why will you pay me?’
‘Well…’ He considered. ‘You could still pave the garden.’ He eyed her, assessing and guessing her weakness. ‘You would like to get this path finished.’
‘I would,’ she admitted, and bit her lip.
‘Then I’m happy to pay landscape gardening hourly rates. Think about it,’ he said—and went right back to digging. Leaving her to think about it.
Which slightly discomposed her. She’d expected more…argument?
Staying on here was dumb, she thought. More than dumb. She looked at Hamish’s broad, bare back and she thought that staying could be unsettling. Would be unsettling. She hadn’t looked at another man since Rory had died and, of course, she never would, but there was that about Hamish which made her very solid foundations seem just a little shaky round the edges.
She didn’t want her foundations shaken. Her world had been shaken quite enough for one lifetime.
So she should go. Immediately.
But then…
She and Rose had lived here for over a year. She’d started packing after Angus had died, but her efforts had been desultory to say the least. She needed to get organised. Today’s deadline might not be actually feasible.
She thought about it for a bit more. She watched Hamish dig some more. He’d have blisters, she decided, seeing him almost inconspicuously shift the spade in his hands. She knew what he was doing. She’d done it herself often and often. He was finding unblistered skin to work with.
He was strong and willing but he wasn’t accustomed to this sort of work. He was a Manhattan money-maker.
The locals would hate the idea of the new laird being such a man.
But that started more ideas forming. Hamish was asking a favour of her. Maybe she could ask one of him. Angus’s death had left such a void. Maybe they could have a laird one last time, she thought. Maybe…
‘I’ll do it, but not for payment,’ she called out, and he looked up, surprised, as if he hadn’t expected to see her still to be there.
‘You’ll stay?’
‘Yes.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll even cook.’
‘More fries?’
‘I can do toast, too. And porridge if you’re game.’
He smiled at that, and she thought, Yep, there it was again. The Douglas chuckle and the Douglas smile in a body that wasn’t a Douglas body at all. It was a body she knew nothing about and wanted to know nothing about.
She had to get those foundations steady.
‘I look forward to meeting your toast, but not your porridge, Mrs Douglas,’ he told her formally, and she managed to smile back and then thought maybe smiling wasn’t such a good idea. He didn’t have enough clothes on. She didn’t have enough clothes on. It was too early in the morning.
He was a Douglas!