Laird of the Highlands: International Billionaires IX: The Scots (7 page)

“Is that so?” His brain whirred through the possible reasons this man would reject his offer and came up with nothing. “Why not?”

Reid huffed beside him. “Sir.”

The crowd rustled, murmured to each other. He didn’t read faces well, that was Doc’s job, yet even a stupid man could see his offer wasn’t going over well. Shock swept through his rage, making him shift on his feet. He tried to explain the logic once more. “If closing the castle causes anyone financial hardship, then it’s my duty to compensate ye.”

The man with the big nose snorted. “Ye want to pay us to lay around and do nothing.”

Lorne stared at him. He had made no such suggestion. Why was the man so emotional? Why was his voice trembling with fury? And why was the older lady by his side wiping her eyes? “I want to compensate ye,” he stated the words again, slower this time to make sure they all understood.

Several men at the back of the group grumbled at each other. Two women in front folded their arms and frowned up at him.

“Why don’t ye come down here and say that again?” The blond fisted his hands. “We’ll see what ye do when you’re in the midst of us.”

“Sir.” Reid tugged on his jacket, his face going from smug to fearful. “Perhaps you should let me take it from here.”

He focused his rage and his shock at the woman. She hadn’t merely tricked his father into giving her everything, she’d now done something far worse. She’d turned the villagers of Pictloch against their laird. The old ways had fallen away over the years, but he still remembered the loyalty these villagers had given his father. He still remembered how they’d treated him as a lad, with stilted affection and solid support.

He still had expected that loyalty to come to him.

The noise rose, a few voices yelling something he couldn’t quite make out. The faces lifted to him were flushed and angry, frustrated and condemning. Mouths opened and closed, hands waved in the air. The crowd turned to a mob in a flash of a second.

He wanted to run. Run back to London and his normal life.

Yet his Ross blood rose inside, for the first time in his memory.

He stood his ground.

“Skiff?” A loud voice came from the end of the hall, by the front door. “What’s this? Are you having a party? And I wasn’t invited?”

C
eri tasted victory
.

She’d seen the recognition on the villagers’ faces when she’d shared the letter in desperation after meeting with Will’s solicitor. They’d finally realized what this new laird meant to do. To the castle, to Pictloch, to their lives. She’d done little more than walk the main street of the village, flapping the letter in their faces. Before she knew it, there’d been a crowd milling on the sidewalk outside Mr. Stevenson’s grocery talking and complaining. The anger had escalated to the point where they’d all marched on the castle.

Much to her delight.

Victory.

She tasted victory when she looked at Lorne Ross. His face white, his hands clenched, his words falling on deaf ears. She relished the win as she noted the scowls and frowns, the threats roiling from the crowd, the way the weasel appeared as if he were about to bolt.

They’d leave. Both of them. They’d return to London for good.

Then, just like that, it was all lost.

“Skiff?”

Who?

A man walked past her, his face all smiles, his gait jaunty, his voice mild. He wore casual jeans and a cotton T-shirt. His brown hair was mussed and there was a sparkle of charm in his blue eyes.

His impact on the throng of villagers was immediate.

They turned in unison to stare at him.

A hush descended.

The roiling rebellion paused. Ceri sensed it as clearly as if someone had hit a button on a movie reel. She straightened against the wall in disbelief. She’d been so close to getting her way.

Cnych.

She hadn’t used that particular Welsh word in years, and yet the word came right out of her gut.

Fuck.

The horrible man who was at the point of ruining everything, shot out a grin to the crowd. “Skiff doesn’t usually throw parties. This is a nice surprise.”

“Who’s Skiff?” Mr. Stevenson muttered to his teenage son.

“And who are ye?” Greg Carnegie, the jeweler, gave the newcomer a withering frown.

But she could tell it was all bluster. The anger was draining from the crowd no matter how much she didn’t want it to be so.

She glanced at Lorne Ross again. He still stood rigid at the top of the stairs, overlooking the crowd from the balcony. She’d felt reluctant pity for him a few minutes ago. Although his voice had never wavered and he’d never shrunk from his position, she somehow could tell he was nearly ready to run. Exactly as he had the first time she’d met him in the garden. It was what she wanted, and yet, there was pity in her, too.

Right before her eyes, his whole body language changed. His eyes went wide with relief, his hands un-fisted at his side. His long, lean body eased into relaxation. “Doc,” he said.

His doctor? Was he ill beyond being merely odd?

“I’m Hugh Brooks,” the stranger announced as he barreled right into the center of the crowd. “Your new laird’s partner.”

“Ye own half of the castle now?” someone yelled out.

“Ceri owns the castle,” Rose Roy countered, while eyeing the handsome intruder with wary appreciation.

“I don’t own a thing here, and don’t want to, either.” The man whirled around to confront Rose with a laughing smile. “And who’s Ceri?”

A small hand slid behind Ceri’s back and before she could object, she found herself pushed into the proximity of the horrible man who’d ruined everything.

“Here she is.” Lucy bounced at her side, her grin wide. “This is Ceri.”

The stranger turned again, and his bright eyes twinkled when he saw her.

She gave him a good glare.

Those blue eyes lit with mischief. “What do we have here, Skiff?”

“Doc.” That gentle, dangerous voice slid down from the balcony. “Come here.”

“Not yet, my friend.” He moved to her side and took her hand. “I have a feeling I have met the woman.”

The woman
? What did he mean by that?

Ceri tried to keep the glare in place, but the man’s countenance was filled with such warmth and welcoming friendship, she couldn’t resist him. Yes, she saw the frank appreciation for her as a female she’d seen in so many other men’s eyes. This time, though, it didn’t feel sleazy or wrong. This time, she didn’t feel violated.

“Ma’am.” The Brooks fellow lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her with an elegant bow. “A pleasure.”

The action wasn’t sexual or fraught with promise. He did it as if they were both in a play, on a stage, and why not have some fun?

His gaze said it.
Why not have some fun
?

She let herself give him a small smile.

“Ah!” The blue eyes went wide before his own smile turned wicked.

Yet not in the way she’d come to expect from a man. This man’s wicked was all games, all frolic. She sensed it as surely as she sensed Lorne Ross was dangerous.

“Leave it to Skiff to find a true treasure in the middle of nowhere.” His voice boomed, meant to carry through the room and to the balcony.

The compliment was so overblown, and so clearly conceived to amuse, she let it slide.

Glancing up to the balcony once more, she saw the weasel muttering into his employer’s ears, while waving his white hands around. Lorne Ross had lost his easy posture. His hands had fisted again, and he appeared tenser than he had when addressing the crowd.

Why?

“This ain’t nowhere.” Mr. Stevenson broke in. “This is our home, and he means to ruin us and our town.”

“Ruin you and the town?” Hugh Brooks gave the man an amazed, disbelieving look. Then keeping her hand in his, he tugged her through the restless crowd and toward the stairs. “I’ve known Skiff for years. It is true. He can ruin many things.”

A murmur of immediate anger flashed from the mob.

The man holding her hand ignored it like he was strolling through a sunny park. “For example. He can ruin a good party in moments by talking on and on about computers.”

A twitter of giggles came from the edge of the group.

He kept drawing her along, and she didn’t fight it. It was hard to fight against such charm. Plus, her unwilling curiosity about Will’s son had her wanting this man to keep talking and wanting to be close enough to catch each word.

“He can also ruin a friend’s attempt to dress him well, by pairing a red tie with a green suit.”

A flutter of laughter ran through the crowd.

“Doc.” His voice was hard now, the brutal version. “Come here.”

“Now, now, old chap. You know it’s true.” Hugh Brooks got to the first stone step and pulled her to stand with him. “Why you came out looking like some kind of strange Santa Claus.”

Mr. Stevenson chuckled and nudged his son into a full laugh.

“Additionally, there’s Skiff’s ruinous run with women.”

“That’s enough.” Danger etched in each word. Danger she’d known resided in the man standing on the balcony.

Ceri jumped and the crowd went still.

Lorne Ross was odd and out-of-place and a curiosity, yet he was also powerful. The power flowed from his voice and out into the room, filling it with his presence. The power of his will cut through every person. She could feel it; the magnetic quality of his command. Her gaze went to him before she could stop herself.

He stood straight and taut on the balcony, his face impassive. But those eyes of his were no longer blank. They blazed with…

Rage…

At his friend?

“And there,” Hugh Brooks murmured for only her to hear, “is why he is my partner.”

Ceri glanced over at him to meet a pair of blue eyes as serious and sincere as she’d ever seen. “Because he gets angry at you?”

“Because Lorne Ross is true.”

“True?” She scrunched her brow. “What does that—?”

“Now see here, Skiff.” Mischief swallowed the sincerity in the stranger’s gaze when he swung his attention back to the top of the stairs. “If you were going to ruin a whole town, you should have called me first.”

“I did call ye.” The flatness of his tone didn’t mask the fierce force in Lorne Ross’s voice. “For clothes.”

“Yes, yes.” Hugh Brooks turned to the crowd once more. “He called me for clothes. Very strange clothes.”

“Strange?” Rose Roy stepped forward, her arms folded in front of her, a quizzical look on her face. “What does that mean?”

“Jeans. Boots. Jumpers. Clothes my partner does not usually wear. Which means, my lovely inquisitor, he plans on staying here for a while.” He gave her another charming grin.

“That won’t work,” Greg Carnegie protested, running his hands through his hair. “He can’t stay here.”

“No?” The charm stayed on the stranger’s face, but his gaze narrowed with calculation. “You don’t want your laird around?”

“It’s not that.” Lucy joined in the fray. “We want him here.”

“Doc.” The voice came again, soft with threat. “Come up here.”

“So you want him here, yet not here.” His friend ignored him, and instead focused on the crowd with an exaggerated look of puzzlement.

Rose gave him a reluctant chuckle. “What she means is he can’t stay in the castle.”

“Why not?” His brows rose. “Doesn’t every laird need a castle to live in?”

Someone in the crowd snickered.

He raised Ceri’s hand and it shocked her she had let him hold it for so long. Perhaps because his grasp was so pleasant and safe. Like holding Elis’ hand or Will’s.

“Doesn’t a laird need a castle if he’s going to win a fair maiden’s hand?”

“Doc, stop it.”

Ceri did it herself. She yanked her hand out of his grasp and glared again. “You’re crazy.”

“Yes.” Hugh Brooks gave her a happy, jaunty grin. “I am. And it’s made me quite a lot of money.”

“He can’t offer us enough money to get us to agree,” Greg Carnegie charged into the conversation once more.

“Agree to what?”

“Doc. This isn’t your fight.”

“We need those castle tours,” Rose added. “That’s the lifeblood of the village.”

“Ah.” The stranger, who seemed to have inserted himself into the community within minutes, paused, his expression growing pensive. “Now we come to the heart of the problem.”

“Yes.” Rose’s gaze was frank. “And what are you going to do about it?”

“Me?” With an exaggerated gasp that made one villager laugh, Hugh Brooks pointed at his chest. “Why, I have nothing to do with it.”

“That’s right,” the dangerous voice said from above. “Ye don’t.”

“Except I’m always here to help you, old chap.” With bounding steps, he finally did what his friend had demanded and climbed the stairs to come to his side. “Reid, is it?”

“Yes, sir.” The weasel sidled behind his employer.

Ceri stepped back into the crowd, but kept her gaze on the two men. They were such a contrast. Lorne Ross all tied up in his London finest, Hugh Brooks as casual as you please.

“I don’t think you need this guy around, Skiff.” The stranger waved at the solicitor. “His type only makes matters more complicated.”

“Well.” Reid’s chest expanded in outrage. “I’m here to protect Mr. Ross’s position.”

“I told him to leave.”

“You told the woman to leave, too, and she’s clearly still here.” Hugh Brooks smiled down at Ceri. “So I think we need to have a new plan.”

For a moment, Lorne Ross looked at her, his eyes blank again, yet now she detected something of the real man behind the void. Something alive with frustration and energy and vitality.

Or maybe she was being a fool.

“I think,” his friend continued, “we both need to get to know everyone here and find out what will make everyone happy.”

She would not be happy until Lorne Ross left. Suddenly, her hopes rose. If this was his partner and friend, wouldn’t he see Will’s son belonged in London, not here? Instead of thinking of this Hugh Brooks fellow as a hindrance and ruining everything, maybe she should be looking at him as a godsend.

Ceri beamed her best smile his way.

Hugh beamed right back.

And something ugly skittered into Lorne Ross’s blank eyes.