Finish the Scots Billionaires Trilogy (Stories 2 and 3)

She always noticed the colors first.

The cool, misty gray of the air and the sea. The muted sunlight throwing a soft glow over the line of low buildings hugging harbors and roads. The touches of bright color in the paint of a home, or a flash of a bold tartan, surprising the eye and begging to be caught in the lens.

Her profession was about color. Color and contrast and how both combined together to set a mood. Scotland always set a mood from the moment she put her feet on its shores. A comforting, timeless sort of mood.

This time, though, this time there was something off.

“Well, if it ain’t Miss Lilly Graham come home to see her da again, eh?” The old sailor smiled, showing a wide mouthful of yellowing teeth. He edged his boat by the dock, engine humming.

“Hello, Mr. Hume. How are things going?” Jumping into the compact Orkney longboat, Lilly plopped her duffle bag on the co-pilot’s chair and carefully placed her camera case on top of it. “Dad told me you’d be coming to get me. What happened to the ferry?”

“Och.” He grunted before turning to the wheel and swinging it around. “There’s no more service to Somairie.”

“No?” She settled into a padded seat running along the stern. “Why not?”

“Not enough demand.” The old man fiddled with the controls and the boat surged out of Oban's harbor, rolling past the cluster of pleasure craft, sailboats, and one large cruiser. “When the new lord decided to shut down the golf course, there weren’t enough tourists to make it worthwhile for the ferry.”

“Dad said something about that.” She tugged the sides of her windbreaker together. Even though it was the first of August, there was a bite in the air out here on the water.

“He’d be the one to know.” Mr. Hume yanked on his leather sailor hat until she could barely see his eyes. “Your da sure loves to golf.”

“True.” She’d touched base with her father right before she left for India a month ago, and he hadn’t sounded happy. Except she’d been too excited about where she was headed to pay enough attention.

A slither of familiar guilt shifted inside her before she brushed it away.

The assignment had been long and exhausting, yet she got amazing photos of elephants and cobras. Of market days filled with vibrant color and movement. Of the beauty of the land with its bold rivers and the vivid greens of the surrounding landscape.

The familiar urge to start taking photos shot through her.

Lilly swung her gaze across the water and her fingers immediately twitched for her camera. The ruins of a castle clung to the point of the peninsula, and there was a flock of seagulls weaving in the wind above. Scotland wasn’t anything like India, but she still saw the possibilities, still wanted to capture everything in a photograph for other eyes to notice and appreciate.

“Your da tells me you’ve been in India.” The sailor grimaced. “Can’t say I would want to go there.”

“It’s beautiful.” She kept herself from gushing because she’d learned most people didn’t understand her enthusiasm for the exotic.

“Guess ye have to go where you’re sent.” He turned the boat to the right, past the castle and around the bend of the land into the open sea.

The India assignment was from a small travel magazine and hadn’t covered her expenses. But it had been worth it to spend her own money. The photos she recently emailed to the agent she’d been targeting for years held quite a bit of promise. By the time she finished her annual monthly visit with her dad, she’d hopefully have good news waiting back in New York. Mr. Hume wouldn’t be interested in that, though. Like most of her father’s friends, his focus was on his home. “Dad did mention he wouldn’t be playing much golf.”

“The new lord.” Angus Hume made a disgusted sound deep in his throat.

She hid her amusement by staring at the receding town of Oban. The fact that there was still some man being called a lord in this day and age—seriously? She stifled a wry chuckle.

“He ain’t nothing like his da, I’ll tell ye that.”

“No?” She nudged her hips deeper into the seat, ready for a story. Mr. Hume was known on the island as the best gossip and raconteur. If she was going to get the gist of what was troubling her dad, no better person could give it to her. “What’s wrong with him?”

“We had high hopes.” He shot her a look from his gimlet eyes. “When old Malcolm died, we thought his son would be the ticket to getting Somairie and the surrounding islands back on track.”

“I thought you all loved Malcolm McPherson.” 

She’d met the man many times. Since the age of six, she’d come with her dad to his family’s summer cottage on Somairie. The island stood in the middle of a whole swirl of other smaller islands—all owned by the McPhersons for as long as anyone could remember. The first male of the line always inherited the islands, along with the businesses tied to them: the fishing licenses for vast stretches of the sea; the tracts of land where the Highland cattle grazed; the two creameries that processed the signature McPherson cheese; the three B&Bs sprinkled on the largest of the islands that did a brisk trade in the summer.

But more than anything else, the eldest son inherited the mythical title that had been passed down for generations.

Lord of the Isles.

When she was a kid, she thought of the title and the castle and the stories surrounding the McPhersons as a romantic fairy tale come to life. Then, at the age of ten, she met Iain McPherson, the only son. Just once. Except that one time had been enough to shatter any dreams of fairy tales and princes.

“We did love Malcolm. Still mourn his loss.” The wheel swung back and forth as the old sailor navigated the waves. “He was a good man. Over the last few years, however, he couldn’t keep up with the pace of the change that’s needed to keep the islands viable.”

“His son could, though?” She drew her attention off the surroundings to focus on the grim line of the man’s jaw. She had her own memories of Iain McPherson, yet she’d never shared them with anyone. And as the stories of his bravery grew legendary with the villagers, she was glad she hadn’t said a word.

Who wanted to bash their opinion against a wall of heroism?

“Apparently not.” The sailor’s gnarled hands tightened on the rim of steel wheel. “He’s been a wee bit of a disappointment.”

Wee wouldn’t be the correct description, she’d guess. Not by the way Mr. Hume said the word.

“We gave him some space when he came home to bury his da.” The old man’s voice rose when the sounds of the sea and wind escalated as they puttered out of the protection of the harbor. “Except that was months ago. Months and months.”

About ten months ago, if her memory served. She’d heard the news of the old lord’s death on her monthly call with her father, right before she took off to get shots of Oktoberfest in Munich. He’d sounded resigned about the passing, but also excited about the opportunities for the island with a new leader.

“The lad hasn’t been seen for months,” the old sailor mumbled, clear distress in his voice.

Her eyebrows rose. Somairie’s inhabitants and the other islanders within the McPherson holdings were a tight community, even if there was always an influx of tourists. The islands stretched for several miles. And like any small town, everyone knew everyone, and no one got away with disappearing for long. “Months?”

“Months.” The old man snorted. “I’m telling ye, it’s the oddest thing. The castle gate is locked all the time, and the only light we see at night is straight at the top of the old tower.”

“Huh?” She stopped and tried to rein in her usual overwhelming curiosity by staring at the ocean waves. The stopping didn’t work. “What does he eat?”

Another snort. “He eats. Much to Mrs. Butler’s displeasure.”

“What?” Confused, she swung back to stare at the old man. 

Mrs. Butler was possibly the nicest, sweetest woman she’d ever met. She ran the only grocery store on the island, and never failed to have cookies waiting for the kids. The old woman called them biscuits, but whatever they were called, they were delicious. Lilly found it nearly impossible to think of Mrs. Butler being angry at anyone.

“He orders his supplies from Glasgow and London.” His voice filled with bewildered disgruntlement. “Can ye imagine?”

Yes. She could imagine the arrogant kid she met long ago as someone who’d turn his nose up at Mrs. Butler’s sturdy, unassuming stock. But the disbelief in Mr. Hume’s voice told her the islanders had still not quite shaken the image of the dashing Royal Marine hero. The boy who’d gone from brave feat to valiant deed, from decorated medals to honorific titles.

The wind rose in intensity as they chugged past the first of the McPherson islands. She let the conversation go. She’d heard enough to understand the lay of the situation and she’d hear the rest from her dad.

A sudden burst of sweet desire to see her dear dad’s face welled inside. 

She sucked in a deep breath of salty air. This wasn’t home. But it was as close to one as she’d ever had.

“There’s Fingal.” The old sailor had to roar the words, because coming around the east side of Somairie, the boat was hit with the full force of the ocean wind.

Fingal, the island’s biggest village, clung to the edge of the island like a needy lover. The two- and three-story houses and stores were painted with bright reds and yellows, deep blacks and greens. A line of fishing boats bobbed in the round harbor. The old, white lighthouse rose on the point, no longer needed, yet still enjoyed by the village children and the tourists who swarmed the island in the summer.

She stood, clinging to the side of the boat. The odd mood she’d picked up in Oban stirred. “Mr. Hume.”

“Eh?” He kept his gaze on the approaching dock.

“Where are the crowds?”

There were always crowds in August. Edinburgh was holding their annual festival and the peak of the summer tourist season guaranteed large groups of tourists all across Scotland and the many islands of the Hebrides.

“No crowds this year.” He swung to glare at her like it was her fault. “I told ye. Things have changed, and someone needs to do something about it.”

The odd feeling grew. Did he mean she needed to do something about it? What could she do? “The fishing boats are all docked.”

The old man humphed as if she’d disappointed him. “Why do ye think I had time to come and get ye, lass?”

She glanced at the town and the harbor. “No fishing?”

“The new lord,” his words went hard again, “ain’t renewing the licenses.”

Without fishing or golfing, this island community would eventually die. Unease slipped into the oddness, making her stomach a bit nauseous. It didn’t really affect her, but her dad loved this place and had buddies here. 

What would he do if Fingal died and Somairie was deserted?

The boat bobbed in the water as it eased next to the longest pier in the harbor. Mr. Hume threw a couple of ropes across to a glum, petulant dock boy. 

“Your dad will be glad to see ye,” the old sailor said as the boat was tied to two stout pilings. “He’ll tell ye the rest of the island news.”

She’d heard quite enough of the island news. Her dad would have more to say about this situation, though, whether she liked it or not. Hefting her bag onto her shoulder, she clutched her camera case and jumped onto the dock. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Ain’t got much else to do,” he grumbled as he swung his attention back to the wheel and instrument panel.

Not knowing what else to say, she paced toward the main street, noting how little action was going on. On her other trips here, this harbor would have been bustling with activity. Now, it was strangely empty. A sad, forlorn mood cast a gloom over her own.

She was suddenly tired, the impact of her long flight from India hitting her all at once.

A good meal and some sleep and she’d be fine. This whole situation couldn’t be as bad as Angus Hume indicated. The old man tended toward the dramatic, she remembered. Every good story needed drama and he was a good enough storyteller to know that.

Walking down the main street, she noted the boarded-up tea shop she’d loved last year. And the empty shops boasting the McPherson tartans and crests. Even Mrs. Butler’s neat, tidy store looked a bit rundown. The windowsills and door needed a fresh coat of red paint, and the windows themselves could use a cleaning.

This was bad.

She felt it in the mood.

A bunch of teenage boys lingered on the last corner of Fingal, sullenly smoking cigarettes and eyeing her. Two of them wore hoodies tightly drawn around their faces and another one sneered at her as she drew close.

Lilly had learned to trust her instincts. Her specialty was in culture and travel and people, still, her career had taken her into a few perilous situations. 

Her instincts went on high alert in a split second. 

She never thought she’d feel afraid on Somairie, yet she was now.

“Ye all go on.” Mrs. Butler stepped onto her stoop, her white hair flying, the brisk wind whipping it into a fluffy cloud on top of her head. “Don’t be making me get my broom to chase ye away.”

The boys threw her a glare before shuffling off past the corner of the store.

“Lilly Graham.” The woman gave her a big smile. “Your da is going to be so happy.”

Fear faded, to be replaced with the ever-present guilt. Last year, she’d planned on staying the entire month, but an excellent assignment pulled her away after a mere two weeks. And the year before, her two half-sisters, Taylor and Ashley, demanded she spend at least a week with them in the Hamptons. Her dad hadn’t complained either time. However, she’d seen the disappointment on his face. This year, she was determined to stay the entire month. 

“It’ll be nice to see him.”

“He’s been talking about nothing else for weeks.” Mrs. Butler waved her hand at the lane behind the one-street town. “Ye go on then, and say hello for me.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Butler.”

“I’ll be seeing ye soon, I’m sure.” A speculative look crossed the old woman’s face. “Lots to discuss.”

Lilly had no idea what she could possibly need to discuss with Mrs. Butler and whatever it was, she didn’t need to deal with it right now. She was dead on her feet, and just wanted to hug her dad.

The lane led over a short ridge and then dipped into a valley. Her father always offered to drive to Fingal to pick her up. But she liked to stretch her legs after long travel. Plus, she enjoyed taking in Somairie, sinking into the peace she found here every single time she visited.

Peace would not be the word she’d choose now.

Even the sky, the Scotland sky that changed from a mellow blue to the brewing dark of a storm in minutes, even the sky didn’t give her a sense of place and peace. It looked dull, a blank color that didn’t make her fingers twitch to pick up her camera at all. The sea’s waves rose in a sluggish beat on the sandy beach and the gulls’ calls seemed muted.

A shiver of unease ran through her.

Spotting her father’s cottage, her pace quickened. Dad would hug her, she’d take a nap, and this odd feeling would disappear.

“Lilly.” Edward Graham appeared in the open door of his house, his face wreathed in a smile, his brown eyes twinkling. He hadn’t aged since the last time she saw him a year ago, and that fact made something inside her settle. “You’re finally here.”

“Dad.” Dropping her duffle, she stepped into his warm embrace and laid her head on his sturdy shoulder. “It’s good to be here.”

“It’s good to have ye home.” His arms tightened.

He always said she was home when she was here, but she’d never felt the attachment. Her life was about dancing with the new, not settling for the familiar. Right now, though, she didn’t want to argue or explain. “I’m tired.”

“Why wouldn’t ye be, coming all the way from India?” He drew away, patting her shoulder before retreating into the interior. “Come on, then. I’ve got a nice little spread, courtesy of Mrs. Butler.”

Grabbing her bag, she ducked her head before it hit the mantle of the door and stepped into the welcoming den her father spent most of his time in. The leather chair sat right by the peat fire, and the side table held his familiar pile of books and wire-rimmed glasses. “I saw Mrs. Butler on my way through Fingal.”

“Did ye?” He bustled into the small kitchen lying past the den.

“Yes.” She pulled the strap of her camera case off her shoulder. “She and Mr. Hume were acting a bit odd. Things have changed.”

He popped his head out from the kitchen door. At the look on her face, he frowned. “Now what did they dump on ye?”

“Neither dumped on me.” She tried to reassure him by fixing a smile on her face. “Mr. Hume just told me some of his stories. And Mrs. Butler was her usual pleasant self.”

Her father sighed. “Both of them are scheming, and I don’t think their plans are good ones.”

“Plans?”

“Why don’t ye take your bags to your room?” His voice grew muffled when he withdrew back into the kitchen. “After ye settle, ye can come down and we’ll have a bite before ye get too tired to eat.”

She obediently climbed the simple wooden steps that led into the narrow hallway sporting four doors. One went into her father’s bedroom and another into the spare he used for storage. Her bedroom lay under the eaves, right by the dinky bathroom. The cream-and-pink quilt on the bed was as familiar as her own face. It had been passed down for generations, and supposedly was hand-crafted by her great-great-grandmother. The rest of the room appeared exactly the same too, nothing having changed since she was here the last time.

Lovingly cared for and waiting for her return.

The peace she craved whenever she came here finally settled over her, driving away the odd twinges. Sighing with relief, she shoved her duffle into the closet. Unpacking could wait. Her camera case slid easily into the notch in the wall where, as a kid, she stored seashells and pretty rocks. Tomorrow, she’d wake early and take some shots of the bay that lay past the edge of her father’s land.

“Got yourself settled?” He beamed at her as she walked down into the cozy den.

“Pretty much.” Looking at the spread, she smiled. “Scones and raspberry jam. My favorite.”

“Cold ham and macaroni pie also.” He placed two steaming cups on the small round table. “Come on. Dig in, and then ye can take a nap.”

The food was good and tasty. A comfortable lull fell between them—a silence she’d loved as a kid, because it was so different from the life she lived with her mother and stepfather.

“So.” Her dad coughed before taking a sip of tea. “I suppose old Angus Hume told ye a few things about the island.”

The peaceful feeling she’d been enjoying wafted away. “Sure.”

“I'd guess he painted a black picture, as he’s used to doing.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say black.” She stared at the last scone and decided against stuffing herself. “Maybe a bit dark.”

“I’m telling ye not to take any note while you’re here, Lil.”

“What do you mean?” She frowned at him.

Edward Graham rarely looked serious. He tended toward jovial, kind, and patient. Yet, the look on his face could only be called grim.

Grim?

Her father didn’t do grim.

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t want ye around all the time, but it won’t do.”

Confusion filled her foggy, travel-tired brain. “What won’t do?”

“I’m just telling ye not to pay attention to any of the villagers and their ramblings.”

She liked the villagers and their ramblings. They were her father’s companions and she’d known many of them for years. She couldn’t claim to be close to any of them, really, yet she enjoyed seeing them when she was here. Most were more her dad’s age than hers, as the young people tended to leave for the lure of the big cities, at least for a time. They were harmless, hearty folks, though, who’d welcomed her every year. She couldn’t understand why he needed to issue this warning, when he’d never done it before. “Um. Okay?”

“It’s no business of yours if Iain McPherson is driving his islands into disrepair and ruin.” He glared at his teacup.

Her father grim? Glaring? And it was her business, if her dad’s favorite place on earth was being hurt. “Ah, Dad—”

“It’s no business of yours if the boy is doing harm to everyone, including himself.”

The new Lord of the Isles was harming himself? What did that mean? “I think you need to explain—”

“Iain McPherson might be destroying his heritage and himself, but it has nothing to do with ye.”

“Dad.” Lilly straightened in her chair, her peace and comfort long gone. In its place the odd, unsettled feeling she’d tried to push away as her father got more and more upset had turned into a cold, hard knot. “What do you mean, he’s destroying or harming himself?”

“We’ve all heard the rumors.” He slapped the side of the table, making her jump. “We’ve all seen what’s being delivered.”

“What he’s ordering from Glasgow and London?” She attempted to grasp the strings of the disjointed story.

“Whiskey.” He grimaced. “Some say drugs.”

“I don’t think any reliable service would be delivering drugs.”

“Those are the rumors.” Sighing, his hand dropped from the table in a dispirited slide. “It’s nothing ye need to worry about, though. It is what it is.”

But she did worry, against her will. She didn’t like the arrogant kid she’d met that one time, but clearly, there was something wrong. And she’d learned to pay careful attention now, after losing a friend who’d retreated into alcohol as the first step toward suicide. “Did any of you think to go to the castle and talk with him? Find out if everything’s okay?”

“Of course we did. Many times.” Her dad gave her an offended look. “He wouldn’t answer. We couldn’t even get into the inner court.”

She scrunched her face in confusion. “The outer gate is always left open.”

“Not anymore.” He gave in to another gusty sigh. “The boy locked it tight as soon as he buried his da next to his mum.”

“Ten months ago.”

“When he came back from the wars.” Her father’s brown eyes went dim. “The rumor is something dreadful happened before he quit.”

The tense knot of worry turned into a crater. “He quit the service to come here and take over for his father. That’s what you told me.”

“Maybe.” He stood abruptly and began to stack the dishes. “It’s nothing to ye. Do ye understand?”

“Um.” It certainly did have something to do with her if her dad’s beloved island was being ruined. Still, she had time to figure this out and right now, she needed to sleep. Rising, she grabbed the platter of ham.

“Naw, naw.” Her father waved his hands. “I’ll take care of this. Ye go up and have a sleep. Tomorrow morning you’ll be bright and cheery and ye can make your old da his porridge.”

“Okay.” Lilly gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s nice to be back.”

“Nice to have ye back.” Snaking his hand around her neck, he returned her kiss. “Just for this month. I know that well.”

The usual guilt murmured, but she banished it with a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, lass. There’s always tomorrow.”

 

Lorne Alasdair Ross stood in the old graveyard of Pictloch. Rain dripped on his face and his neck, but he didn’t move. He hadn’t moved in quite some time.

William Stewart Ross

Laird, husband, father

A good man, a good life

The last date chiseled into the granite stone had passed four months ago. Yet, the carving appeared as old as the church standing some three meters from the grave. He reached out a hand, sweeping his cold palm across the top of the marker.

“Rest in peace, Da,” he murmured, the sound wafting away in the sharp wind.

A sudden burst of rain poured over his bare head, and the landscape went dim with sheets of sleet and billowing mist. He ignored it, moving his gaze to the slab that stood to the right.

Freya Eileen Murray Ross

Lady, wife, mother

A sweet lass, a warm woman

He stared at the dates on that stone, too. It hadn’t seemed like ten years had gone by since his mum died so suddenly. It still pinged in him, the loss. The loss of so much more than just his mother.

The ping surprised him.

“Sir,” his solicitor called from the open door of the limousine. “You’re going to get sick.”

His glance slid away from the stones to focus on the distressed face of Mr. Reid. Mr. Reid often appeared distressed around Lorne Ross. The solicitor was paid good money, though, and didn’t want to lose the account of his richest client.

Which made perfect sense to Lorne. Very logical.

“Sir.” A white hand waved from the open door. “Come in from the rain.”

Lorne went back to staring at his parents’ tombstones. He ordered his da’s when he was in Singapore. In the middle of supervising the last technicalities of Gaes, Inc.’s new Asian factory, he hadn’t been able to leave. It hadn’t been necessary he do so. His father had already died. All that needed to be taken care of were the various details after anyone’s death.

He’d taken care of them. 

Then, he returned to his work.

The limo’s back door slammed shut.

Mr. Reid was apparently more distressed than usual.

Looking at the church, he calculated that at the current pitch of the right line of the wall, the place would collapse within twenty years. His mother would once have chuckled if he made the observation out loud. His father would have grown distressed that he would even be thinking such a thing.

His father, along with Mr. Reid, had often been distressed with Lorne.

Shifting from his stance by the graves, he picked his way through the long grass and tumbled stones of ancient ancestors until he arrived at the low rock wall circling the church grounds. Below him stood the village of Pictloch, drenched in rain, perched on a prominent roll of the tallest mountain in the area.

He couldn’t see the mountain because of the fog and mist, yet he knew it was there. He knew where everything was, here in the land of his birth. As a child, he’d made a series of maps, detailing every crevice, every ridge of his heritage.

Ben Ross was the mountain’s name.

Named after his family’s founder more than a thousand years ago. Or so the tale went his da told him when he’d been too young to question anything. Lorne looked out at the twinkling lights of the village, the grand roll of the land down to Loch Ross, and finally focused on the white stone walls of his family home. Even in the dim light of the early evening of April seventh, it gleamed through the rain.

Castle Ross.

His work consumed him for the four months after his father’s death. His work often consumed him, and he hadn’t seen anything wrong with that. He was the only child, and so he’d taken care of the immediate responsibilities. The rest of the duties could wait until he arrived back in London. He ignored Mr. Reid’s increasingly frantic calls, because the solicitor always prefaced his rants by mentioning the late Mr. Ross.

The late Mr. Ross was dead, Lorne had thought, before he clicked the voicemail off.

Not until he arrived in England and met with the dour solicitor had the reality of the situation become clear.

His cold hands fisted in the pockets of his long overcoat.

William Stewart Ross had fallen into the clutches of a scheming woman. A scheming woman who, his security team informed him after doing their due diligence, did this before with another older man.

She left that one dead, too.

Lorne shifted on his feet again, never letting his gaze leave the white walls of his ancestral home. A home that hadn’t been passed down to a Ross as it had previously, for more than a thousand years.

Castle Ross had been given to a woman.

Along with everything else.

He turned to the limousine and paced through the graveyard one more time. His hands came out of his pockets as he got to the side of the car.

The door opened. “You’re completely wet,” Mr. Reid muttered.

He slid onto the leather seat and settled back, letting his legs ease forward, letting his hands relax on his thighs.

Leaving the Highlands at the age of eighteen, not six months after his mother’s death, Lorne hadn’t been focused on anything other than Oxford and computer code. During the last ten years, his focus hadn’t swerved—it only transitioned. From Oxford to Gaes, from computer code to hiring coders. But never did it cross his mind that this land and castle and loch and mountain wouldn’t one day be his.

Not once.

“Mr. Ross.” His solicitor sneezed before continuing. “Are we going directly to the castle to make the offer?”

Staring through the window at the wind-whipped moor, he calculated the punishment he would deliver. This wasn’t about money. He had plenty of that. Much more than his da would have entrusted to the schemer. Mr. Reid, in his naïveté, assumed this trip was about reclaiming his family’s home using his wealth.

This trip was about far more.

“Mr. Ross?” The man ran his hand across his bald head. “Perhaps we should arrive tomorrow, instead of tonight. The woman might be more willing to talk then.”

Lorne kept his focus on the land. His land.

He wasn’t surprised at his solicitor’s assumption that he was going to merely hand over money to obtain something that was already his. After all, the man had been working for him since he made his first million. In every area of his affairs, Lorne Ross was methodical. Never had emotion carried him away in his investments, his careful control of his business, nor his admittedly non-existent social life. It would be logical to assume he’d throw money at this situation and move on.

Mr. Reid was rarely distressed about Lorne’s business decisions.

He would, however, be distressed about this one.

“We will stop at the castle tonight.” His voice was soft and quiet. “To take possession.”

“Yes, sir.” The driver nodded his head and turned the limo toward the town’s main street.

“But Mr. Ross, wouldn’t it—”

“Tonight, Reid.” His mind continued to calculate. “Tonight.”

* * *

Ceri Carys Olwen sat at the stout wooden table Will brought from the castle when she moved into the cottage four years ago. The papers strewn in front of her were the work of months, and she still hadn’t nailed down all the details because she wanted it to be exactly right.

Will would say she was being fykie.

At the thought of him, her throat closed.

She missed him—something fierce, as he would also say. She missed his off-tune whistling as he helped with her herbs. She missed his counsel on how to best handle a seventeen-year-old boy who didn’t want to listen to his older sister. More than anything, though, she missed his hug.

Usually, she didn’t like a man’s touch.

But Will had been different.

Restless, she shuffled the papers together and stood. She put the kettle on before messing around in the tiny pantry looking for biscuits or sweets. Settling on some shortbread, which would go nicely with the strawberry jam she bought in Pictloch yesterday, she placed her goodies on the table. She walked over and looked out into the rain, waiting for the kettle to heat.

She’d been in Scotland now for almost five years and she still hadn’t gotten used to the rain. Wales had lots of rain, yet it didn’t seem as harsh and icy as up here in the north. The rain in her homeland hadn’t kept her inside as it did here. Brushing her cold palm across the mist of the window, she peered into the dark.

Rain. Rain. And more rain.

A light flashed near the castle, shocking her. The light wavered and then, went out.

Ceri narrowed her eyes and glared out at the gardens. It was probably a group of stupid teenagers on some dare to see the ghost. On a night like this, though? They must have windmills whirring in their heads. She’d bet they’d have colds and chills when they returned to their scolding mums.

Sighing, she tapped her fingers on the windowsill. 

She did not want to go out in this storm, but she was responsible now for the castle and its grounds. Will had left her with the sacred duty, and she didn’t take it lightly.

She’d wait. See if anything else appeared.

The rain slanted against the window pane, and the pitch black of the moonless night gave her nothing to worry about. Really, why should she? The castle was well-locked, she made sure of that this afternoon once the cleaners left. And how much damage could a bunch of rowdy teenagers do to empty flowerbeds?

The kettle whistled for attention.

Giving the outside one more glare, Ceri decided the flash of light wasn’t a threat. She walked to the stove, poured herself a big cup of hot tea and went back to the table to peruse her extensive plans as she ate her treat.

Tourist season was less than a month away. 

Come the beginning of May, the buses would start arriving to tour the castle, and then go on to Pictloch. The quaint, cozy town now sported two new restaurants and several pubs to handle the crowds. The tourists would also likely drop a few pennies to buy the souvenirs loaded in the new stores: the wools and tartans sporting the Ross red and navy, the bottles of fine whiskey that came from the Ross distillery down the road, the silver Celtic jewelry an industrious lad had taken to making ever since the castle opened to the public three years ago.

At her suggestion.

Will didn’t like the idea at first. Eventually, though, he came around.

He’d had no choice.

Finishing her treat, she washed her cup and plate, and wiped them dry before stacking them on the dish rack. It was only nine p.m. and yet, she was tired after a long day supervising the cleaning crew. Perhaps it would be best to get an early night because come tomorrow, even if it kept raining, she was going to start planting the flowers for the new season. Castle Ross was known for the gardens as much as the indoor antiques.

Walking past the window, she gave the outside one more glance and stopped still once more.

The light. Once more, the light.

She leaned into the cottage’s deep windowsill and tried to figure out what it was. The flash bobbed, and then, inexplicably rose.

“What the hell?” she muttered to herself.

It was far off, past the gardens, she now realized. Could it possibly be Will’s famous ghost?

Ceri had ghosts in her own life so she sympathized with his, but she’d never believed in all the tall tales about Lady Aileen Ross. Supposedly, Will’s great-great-something aunt fell down the tower stairs to her death some three hundred years ago, and had been haunting it ever since.

That light was coming from the tower, dammit. A shiver of shock made goose bumps rise along her arms. Again, the light went out.

She stood. For a long time.

The light did not come back on.

Illusions and mirages had always been her curse and her savior. In this case, she was going to chalk these two sightings up as pure folly and ignore it. There was no way anyone could be in the castle and there was no way she was going to start believing in Will’s Lady Aileen.

Padding down the stone hallway, she let herself into her simple bedroom. She stripped naked and eased under the comforter Will bought for her last Christmas, and sighed.

He’d been so excited about their new plans.

Then, just like that, he was gone. A stroke taking him away from her and Elis so quickly, she still hadn’t quite caught her breath.

Punching her pillow the way she wanted to punch fate, she lay her head on it and sighed once more. Will wouldn’t be here physically, but she’d hold him in her heart as she put in place the plans they shared during many teas and biscuits. This would be as much his as hers. Whatever happened to the project, she’d make sure it didn’t impact the castle or its grounds negatively.

The castle was hers, now. The gardens, hers.

A precious gift of trust.

Something no man had ever given her.

She aimed to keep that trust to the last moment of her life.

* * *

The day broke sunny and warm, much to Ceri’s pleasure. She had only two weeks to lay all the flowerbeds before the landscaping team came in and finished the heavy work. If she had more money, she’d hand the entire job to them and focus on her herb garden, instead. But she didn’t, and that was that.

Striding out of her stone cottage, she breathed in the fresh air.

For a moment, she let her imagination go, and dreamed of seeing Will ambling across the garden path towards her, his dear face wreathed in smiles, his wisp of white hair bouncing in the breeze. For good measure, she added in her brother to the picture. Elis would be smiling, too, his lanky legs far outdistancing the man who’d become almost a father to him during the last five years.

She let the dream go.

She had too much to do today to dream for long.

Walking down the path leading to the back of the stone-walled garden, she took in the damage last night’s storm had done. There were a few broken tree limbs off the line of crab apple trees. Still, other than that, not much harm. The sturdy stone wall had been put in place by Will’s grandfather for just such weather as last night’s. 

Satisfied she wouldn’t have to spend much time cleaning up, Ceri hiked to the large wooden shed she and Will put up two summers ago. Eying the flats filled with annuals, she made quick work of deciding where she’d start. The daisies first, intermixed with the daffodils she planted last autumn. They’d look quite well next to the sweet gale shrubs she and Will had placed on the sides of the beds. Cornflowers and marigolds second. After that, she’d tackle the pruning of the roses. Hefting the first tray of flowers into her arms, she walked out of the shed and came to an abrupt stop.

A tall, lean man stood in the middle path of the garden.

He was dressed in what she could only label as London Savile Row. A dark wool suit jacket and pants with a fine pinstripe. Crisp white shirt paired with a steel-grey tie. Tight-laced leather shoes she guessed were Hugo Boss at its best.

She’d once paid quite a lot of attention to clothes.

It had been one of the few things she was allowed to concentrate on.

She gawked at him as if he were an alien. Because standing here, in her wet, wild Scottish garden, he was one.

“Hello?” she finally muttered. “May I help you?”

He looked at her, not saying a word.

Shifting the flowers onto her hip as they were beginning to be heavy, she tamped down a sliver of irritation. This guy had clearly wandered off whatever track he was supposed to be on and got lost. Into her garden. She shouldn’t scold him for that, merely shoo him on his way. “We’re not open yet. Not until the first of May, I’m afraid.”

His eyes widened, as his hands moved into the suit's pockets, shifting the jacket enough that she could see he was whip-thin.

He said nothing.

Her irritation bubbled. Frowning at him, she made the shooing more clear. “You’ll have to come back later. We’re not open.”

“Mrs. Ceri Llewellyn.”

The old name she’d discarded, as soon as Gareth died, sliced through her in a swift cut. What struck her even harder was the way he said the words. His voice didn’t lift at the end. This wasn’t a question.

“No.” She shifted the flowers in front of her in a poor defense. “That’s not my name.”

His eyes never left hers. He went silent again.

“Who are you?” Her hands tightened on the tray.

“Are ye saying you’re not Ceri Llewellyn?” This time, his voice lifted slightly, but then it slid down at the end, in a hushed, quiet way.

A hushed, quiet threat.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

It was ever-so-slight, his accent. There was posh London riding over every vowel, and a bit of Oxford polish, too. Underneath, though, lay Scots. Pure Scots.

“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice rising, a counterpoint to his.

“Sir!” The call came from behind, strident and harassed. A short, portly man dressed in fine London clothes, too, came waddling across the garden pathway. Coming from the back end of the castle, not the wide swath of parking lot she and Will installed the first year the tourists started arriving.

The castle.

The lights last night.

A man who might actually have a key to the castle. A key of his own.

Maybe she was dealing with a ghost besides Lady Aileen. Because now that she had a moment to think, this man standing in front of her had Will’s build, if nothing else. “Are you—?”

“Sir!”

The sir standing in front of her didn’t stir. Not one hair.

And that hair was a clue, too. Will’s beloved wife had red hair. Ceri had seen several pictures in the castle, and the one magnificent portrait he commissioned of his wife right before her death.

Freya Ross with her red-gold hair. 

A fiery blessing, Will had said with fondness.

This man had his hair pulled back, but his short beard and the hair she could see was all fire. All red-gold fire.

“Sir!” The portly man raced to the other man’s side, his round face flushed. He stumbled to a stop when he spotted her. “You’ve found her.”

“I don’t know.” His voice was so soft, so low.

She could have been lulled by the gentleness of it, if she hadn’t learned some very hard, fast lessons about men. She thought she left those lessons and those kind of men back in Wales. When she pulled her roots up and left for good, she thought she’d start a new life here, where no one knew her or what she was before.

“What do you mean?” The older man lifted his head, his eyes puzzled.

“She won’t confess.”

Confess.

Ceri dropped the flat of flowers onto the dirt-and-stone path. She hadn’t fought in a long time. Not since she arrived in Pictloch to be greeted with warmth. Not since she met Will and came under his protection. And not since she and Elis had been welcomed into Castle Ross and made to feel like family.

But that didn’t mean she still didn’t know how to fight.

“I want you to leave.” She thrust her trembling fists on her hips. “Right now.”

He didn’t move. His gaze never left hers.

“Wait, wait.” The portly man reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to mop his forehead. “We’re here to offer you quite a sum of money.”

“Reid.” The other man swung his gaze from hers, making her feel as if she could suddenly draw in a breath. For the first time, his voice wasn’t soft or quiet. It was hard. Brutal and tough and curt.

Her heart hammered in her chest in a frenzied jitter.

“Yes, sir?” The little man jumped and his nose went red.

“Leave.” He gestured toward the castle as his gaze returned to her.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Sir, it’s best I negotiate with—”

“Now.”

The portly man ran off as if a fire had been lit under his high-class shoes.

Four months. Four months had passed, and she thought Will’s predictions had come true. She thought she was free and that she and Elis were safe. She thought—

“I suppose I can’t make ye claim your name,” he said, his face impassive. “I certainly can call ye what ye truly are, though.”

She glared at him. For all the pain he’d caused his da. For all the silent pauses when Will looked like he’d lost his heart. For all the times she wished Elis could somehow replace what her friend had missed. “You’re Lorne Ross.”

“Aye. And ye,” he slid his hand back into the suit's pocket, “are a gold-digger.”

Meghan Quinn, Karen Hawkins, and Beatrice Bradshaw, these are the stories for you! Includes: beauty meets beast, force proximity, enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, grumpy/sunshine

Wounded war hero Iain McPherson, the brooding Lord of the Isles, struggles with demons from his past until a spirited photographer breaks into his castle sanctuary, challenging him to embrace life, love, and his responsibilities to his Scottish kingdom.

Brilliant but socially awkward billionaire game developer Lorne Ross returns to his ancestral Scottish castle to reclaim his birthright, only to find himself falling hard for the fiercely independent woman who now legally owns it—a woman who challenges everything he thought he wanted and helps him discover what he truly needs.

Free-spirited photographer Lilly Graham never stays in one place too long until she confronts a wounded Scottish lord in his castle, and discovers that in helping him heal, she might finally find the home and love she never knew she was searching for.

Hiding behind baggy clothes and a tough exterior, Ceri Olwen has fought for everything she has—including the Scottish castle unexpectedly willed to her. But when the handsome billionaire heir returns to claim his birthright, she finds herself risking the carefully constructed armor around her heart for a chance at true acceptance and love.

My writing has been shaped by diverse influences—from Tolkien's epic worlds to Bradbury's imaginative brilliance, and most significantly, Charlotte Brontë. As a woman writer, I'm deeply inspired by Brontë's courage during a time when female authors were often forced to publish under male pseudonyms. Initially writing as "Currer Bell," Brontë eventually claimed her work openly, defying the limitations of her era. Her determination to create heroines with moral courage, intelligence, and emotional depth revolutionized fiction and opened doors for generations of women writers.

This spirit of authentic expression and perseverance infuses my Scottish trilogy. In Lion of Caledonia, I offer a contemporary homage to the themes of independence and love based on mutual respect that Brontë championed nearly two centuries ago. When I wrote Lord of the Isles, I was at a crossroads in my own life, facing the painful reality that sometimes even the deepest love isn't enough to save someone who isn't ready to be saved. Despite personal heartbreak, I felt compelled to write a story that reaffirmed what I needed to believe—that love, while not a magical cure-all, holds tremendous healing power when coupled with personal responsibility and genuine effort.

During this period, I found myself immersed in accounts of returning soldiers struggling with PTSD and the difficult journeys they faced integrating back into civilian life. Their stories of isolation, guilt, and the challenging path toward recovery deeply influenced Iain's character. Through his and Lilly's journey, I wanted to explore how healing often requires both internal work and the courage to let someone else see our broken pieces—not because they can fix us, but because their presence reminds us why the fight to become whole again is worth it.

I have to confess—Lorne Ross from Laird of the Highlands is my favorite hero I've ever written, though I hate to admit I have a favorite! There's something irresistible about his logical mind and pure heart. While Ceri might have the classic looks of Snow White, it's Lorne who truly embodies that "pure as the driven snow" quality. He's genuine in a way few heroes are, with no guile or hidden agendas. And speaking of Snow White, Lorne does have his own version of the seven dwarfs—his brilliant college friends who form their own "clan" and star in my spinoff series of seven romances.

Writing this trilogy allowed me to revisit the Scottish Highlands, my absolute favorite part of the country. There's something magical about those misty mountains, ancient forests, and deep lochs that perfectly mirrors the timeless quality of falling in love—especially when you least expect it. Through these stories, I've explored themes of courage, healing, and genuine connection, all set against the dramatic backdrop of Scotland's breathtaking landscape.

1. Lion of Caledonia*

2. Lord of the Isles*

3. Laird of the Highlands*

*all stories are standalone and can be read in any order

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