Lion of Caledonia: International Billionaires VII: The Scots Page 3

  “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.

  The lights blazed down on the something twinkling in that cabinet.

  As usual, she saw nothing and no one who would protest at her curiosity. Sliding inside, she closed the door behind her.

  A half-dozen great blunderbusses hung in a line above the object that had caught her interest.

  Creeping nearer, she peered through the glass.

  Not a ring, but some kind of decorative item. A curved, sterling-silver crest and three matching tassels with a leather pouch behind it. Beside the item lay a long sword and short knife. All of the items were locked in the glass cabinet, but lying on top of the glass was a distinctive black and silver sheathed knife. Or she figured it was a knife. The weapon lay on the edge of the case as if someone had just laid it down.

  “What are ye doing in here?”

  Cameron Steward’s voice boomed from the doorway, and she whipped around to stare at her employer. “I’m…I’m…”

  He prowled into the room, his gaze never leaving hers. “You’re…you’re…”

  His mocking tone straightened her spine. “I’m—”

  “I’d think a little mouse like ye would be afraid of all these big, bad guns.” The mocking tone deepened his voice to a rich molasses.

  Little mouse? Her spine snapped to complete attention. He might be a big lion of a man, but she was no mouse. Not anymore. A flare of unfamiliar anger swept through her.

  Grabbing the first thing she found, she shook it in front of her. “I’m looking for something to use in the garden.”

  Her words landed b
etween them and his long legs stopped. Those odd eyes glittered with instant humor. “With that?”

  She gulped in a breath and stared at the weapon in her hands. True, it didn’t look like a shovel, but it didn’t look like a regular knife, either. It was too broad. “Yes.”

  Humor went from his eyes to his mouth. A glint of white flashed when he smiled. “That’s a 17th-century antique called a Sgian-dubh.”

  “Um…” Heated embarrassment ran up her neck. Digging with an antique would make her appear ridiculous.

  “Hundreds of years ago, every good Scotsman kept a black dagger under his arm or in his stocking.” His lethal smile widened. “Just in case.”

  The heat of her embarrassment mixed with another kind of heat she didn’t want to stop and identify. “Well—”

  “Still, I’m not one to reject a helping hand.” His smile mocked her too. “If ye want to tackle the garden in your spare time, I’m not going to say no.”

  “Um.” If he gave her a few years and a hundred thousand dollars, she’d be able to turn his backyard into a garden fit for a king. However, that wasn’t why she was here.

  “But not with one of my antiques. Put it where ye found it.”

  Feeling like she couldn’t do much else, she placed the antique down with a careful touch.

  “Come along.” He didn’t seem fazed by her muted response. With his usual grace, he turned.

  She wasn’t a short woman, yet she scrambled to keep pace with his long, strolling legs. He led them down a flight of stairs, past a kitchen with an old Aga oven and an ancient fridge from the seventies. Reaching the end of a dark, low-ceiling hallway, he grabbed a musty, woolen coat and thrust it into her hands. “Wear this.”

  She noticed he didn’t grab one of the dozen other coats hanging on a strip of hooks for himself. Maybe the heat his body generated while strutting across his land made him impervious to the chill of the weather.

  Before she could push the thought of heat away again, her temporary employer banged the stone door open and marched into the back of the garden. Jen trailed behind, grappling with her lingering embarrassment and growing bewilderment at her reaction to this man. The mix made her uneasy and also more determined. She could escape this bizarre situation if only she could find the damn ring. But here she was, thrown out into the garden, a place no sane person would store a ring.

  “You’ll find some stuff there.” His big paw waved to a broken-down shed. “Help yourself.”

  He gave her another mocking quirk of his brow and mouth before tramping past the overgrown flower beds and over the hill facing the loch, disappearing into the mist coming off the water.

  She let out a relieved breath.

  He was too much for her, and the sooner she got away the better.

  Finding the ring couldn’t be done, though, at least for now. Who knew when the man would pop his head into a room and question what she was doing? For the time being, she’d have to do something outside, which was fine. She preferred the outdoors to the drafty building behind her. However, she wasn’t going to do his bidding and work for free in his garden.

  She had too much new spine to do that.

  Spotting a ramshackle building on the bank of the loch, she hiked onto the muddy path of the garden. The bare limbs of a line of chestnut trees whipped back and forth above her head in the stiff breeze coming off the lock. She came out onto the open lawn of the mansion next to the old building. The aged planks of oak and the cracked tiles of the roof told her this was old, and like everything else on this estate, ill-cared for. Bulky wooden piles stood in the water, holding up a second floor with a rickety porch possessing nothing more than one old plastic chair.

  Jen didn’t think she’d want to risk sitting on that chair to stare at the loch in contemplation. She might well find herself hip-deep in freezing water.

  Still curious, she walked to the side of the building. The sliding door she found was hard to open, but she managed to yank it wide enough to peer in. A stout, rounded boat with a small covered area floated next to a sleek sailboat. Both of them appeared well-kept, compared to anything else in this mansion or grounds.

  Her employer must sail. And maybe fish.

  Not that she cared.

  It was only surprising to note: he could take care of things if he chose to. So why didn’t he care about the great mansion he must have paid millions to acquire?

  Not that she cared.

  She glanced at one wall and noted a thin stairway going up to the second floor. Figuring she had nothing else to do, she walked over and gingerly tested the wood steps. They seemed sturdy enough, so she climbed.

  There was only one room, with a mangled kitchen and small, filthy bath on the side. A loft, with stairs she decided right away not to test, rose above. The place was empty of furniture and empty of spirit.

  A feeling, soft, then harsh whispered through her soul.

  Stepping to the one window, she stared out onto the waves. The clouds blurred the sun; only a thin stream of light glittered on the waves. The blue-grey ridge of mountains loomed over the other side of the loch, and the lap of the water on the rocks below competed with the ever-present whip of the wind.

  Her finger etched a line through the film of dirt on the window.

  Something rose inside, a desire she’d never experienced. In a flash, she saw what this rundown place could look like. The porch with a padded swing and a sturdy table piled with food. The loft above filled with a warm, cozy bed. A snug little fireplace with a plump sofa basking before it.

  Before, she’d only ever had flashes of what a garden could look like. During the past two years, she’d put those visions into practice with the clients she’d worked with. Even as a child, she’d thought of her grandfather’s gardens as a place of refuge, a place almost like the home she’d lost as a five-year-old. For the first time, she saw an inside as a home instead of an outside.

  A clatter of something falling echoed from below.

  Jen jerked straight, her heartbeat picking up its pace.

  Was it him? Was he lurking downstairs trying to see why she wasn’t slaving away in his garden?

  Silence rang from below. She didn’t know much about her employer yet, but she knew enough to know silence wasn’t something that occurred around him unless it had something to do with his writing.

  She tiptoed to the stairwell and stared into the gloomy bowl of the boathouse.

  Nothing moved. No sound.

  Did something just fall? All on its own?

  Shivering in her borrowed coat, she forced herself to creep down the stairs. Both boats lolled in the water, looking ordinary and non-threatening. She scurried to the open door and walked out into the chilly, early-spring air.

  No one stood outside. No lurking man with a curled grin and a mocking gleam in his eye.

  No one at all.

  A movement flashed to the side of her and she whipped around and thought she saw something or someone rustle through the edge of hedges. Then everything went quiet once more. Maybe she’d been wrong, merely letting her imagination go wild.

  Yet as she strode toward the bleak mansion, she still felt the hair on her neck rise.

  She was being watched.

  But by whom?

  Chapter 3

  She was definitely a mouse.

  And he had no interest in mice.

  Cam stood by the bay window, in his usual place, a place where the words seemed to flow better than anywhere else. His transcriber sat in her usual place, a place she seemed to have become used to during the last week. She perched herself on his big leather chair, behind the massive desk his wife had bought him after the success of his third novel.

  He’d never liked that desk.

  He rarely sat in that chair.

  “Did you want to stop?” The mouse’s crisp, upper-class English voice cut through his thoughts.

  Realizing he’d been quiet for several minutes, he straightened. “No. We’re not done.”

&nbs
p; Ms. Douglas responded in her docile way, her fingers poised on the keyboard, her focus centered on the screen. During the past week—during the hours and hours he’d dictated, during the series of mornings they’d spent together—he’d never once seen another hint of the stubborn courage she’d displayed in their first meeting.

  Unreasonable as it was, he felt disappointed.

  He should be grateful for her quiet demeanor; it let him focus on what was important, his writing. He should appreciate her undemanding presence; he’d had too many women in his life who demanded everything. He should enjoy the fact she barely scratched the surface of his life; he had far too many scratches already.

  Instead, her whole attitude irritated him.

  He wanted to see a spark in her eye or hear a jab in her voice. Even a flash of annoyance on her placid face would be welcome. It would at least be something amusing to concentrate on in this prison he occupied.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stop?” Again, her voice came, bereft of emotion.

  Women had always given him emotion. If nothing else.

  “No,” he snapped. “Shoosh. I’m thinking.”

  She acquiesced, as always, her focus never leaving the screen, her hands draped on the keyboard, waiting.

  He frowned at her. And at himself.

  Why did his gaze seem to latch onto her as soon as she came to his library door? Even in the midst of dictating the best story he’d ever told, his attention still was snagged over and over again by…Her.

  He couldn’t understand the draw.

  Dressed in a simple buttoned-up shirt and jumper, with another one of her plain wool skirts that routinely hit below her knees, she exuded nothing womanly or provocative. The colors she chose were what he’d call bland or muted or boring.

  Mousy.

  His mouth quirked into a quick grin.

  She must have caught the movement or perhaps some instinct alerted her. Turning her head slowly, she gave him a look. A look he’d received a hundred times in their brief acquaintance. A look he’d begun to despise.