The Heir’s Chosen Bride

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!

‘Tomorrow’s the Dolphin Bay Harvest Thanksgiving fête,’ she told him as he started digging again. ‘We need a laird.’

‘Pardon?’ He bent to separate some worms and then dug a couple more spadefuls.

‘The laird opens the fête. It’s traditional. No one’s doing it tomorrow because everyone’s still mourning Angus. But not having anyone there will be awful. Maybe we should do it in stages. Maybe we could use you tomorrow as the last of the Douglases.’

His spade paused in mid air-and then kept digging. ‘You know, I might not be the last of the Douglases,’ he said cautiously. ‘The Douglas clan appear to be quite prolific. In fact, if I give you the phone book you might find almost as many Douglases as Smiths, Greens and Nguyens.’

‘No, but as far as I know you’re the only Lord Douglas in this neck of the woods.’

‘Which leaves me…where?’

‘Opening the fête tomorrow.’

Another pause in the digging. Another resumption. ‘Which involves what exactly?’

‘Saying a few words. Just “I now declare this fête open”. After the bagpipes stop.’

‘Bagpipes,’ he said, even more cautiously, and Susie thought the man wasn’t as silly as he looked. Actually, he didn’t look the least bit silly.

And he’d guessed where she was headed. She could see the suspicion growing and she almost giggled.

‘It’s a very nice kilt,’ she said.

He set down his spade and turned to her in all seriousness.

‘Don’t ask it of me, Susie. I have knobbly knees.’

She did giggle then. ‘I can see them from here. They’re very nice knees.’

‘I only show them to other Douglases.’

‘Me, you mean.’

‘You and my mother.’

‘Not…Marcia?’

‘Marcia has the sense not to look,’ he told her. ‘I’d never have exposed them to you but you woke unreasonably early. Normally I have huge signs out. CAUTION: EXPOSED KNEES. So that lets me out of fête opening.’

‘Then I’m off to pack.’

‘Susie, this is a business trip,’ he said, and there was suddenly more than a trace of desperation in his voice. ‘I’m not an earl. I’m not Lord Douglas. In this day and age it doesn’t make any sense. I won’t use the title. I’ll sell the castle and I’ll get back to my ordinary life.’

‘You sound afraid,’ she said, and he cast her a look that said she wasn’t far off the mark.

‘That’s dumb. Why would I be afraid?’

‘It’s not so scary, standing in a kilt and saying a few words.’

‘People will expect-’

‘They’ll expect nothing,’ she said softly. ‘The people here loved Uncle Angus. He was their laird. You won’t know the story but this castle saved the town. After the war the men depended on the schools of couta to make their living-great long fish you catch by trawling in relatively shallow water. But some disease-worms, actually-hit the couta, and the men didn’t have boats big enough for deep-sea fishing. Everyone was starting to leave. It was either leave or starve. But then along came Angus. He saw this place, fell in love with it and realised the only thing that could keep it going was another industry. So he persuaded the guardians of his family trust-your family trust-to let him rebuild his castle here. The men worked on the castle while they gradually rebuilt the fishing fleet. The people here loved Angus to bits and his death has caused real heartache. You wearing a kilt tomorrow-no, it won’t bring Angus back, but maybe it’ll fill a void that for many may seem unbearable.’

Emotion, Hamish thought. More emotion. But Susie’s chin was tilted upward. She was defiant rather than lachrymose, throwing him a dare.

Open a fête…

It was a dumb, emotional thing to do. It had no foundation in logic and he should run a mile.

‘Why are you digging my path?’ she asked.

‘I was bored.’

‘What are you going to do until this assessor gets here?’

‘I’ll go through the castle books.’ I’ll get rid of some kitsch, he thought, but he didn’t say it. Marcia was researching a place where he could hire some decent antiques to make the place look firstclass.

Maybe Queen Vic could stay…

Queen Vic was in a plastic gilt frame. She’d been a cheap print and was a bit frayed around the edges. Keeping Queen Vic would be a dumb, emotional decision and he needed to stay tight here.

‘The castle books are in the hands of the executors,’ Susie told him. ‘Mr O’Shannasy’s the local solicitor but his office is always closed Fridays. That means you can’t start work until Monday. Which leaves the weekend free for fair opening.’

‘I have a path to dig.’

‘It’s my path,’ she said, almost belligerently, and then stopped. ‘I mean…’

No emotion. ‘It’s your path until you leave,’ he said hurriedly.

‘Which is today unless you open the fête.’

‘Why is it so important?’

‘I just don’t want the stage to be empty.’

‘It’s a sentimental gesture.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘I’m a businessman.’

‘You can be a businessman again when you leave here. Be Lord Douglas for a bit. It’s your title. Enjoy it.’

‘I would have thought lords enjoy themselves by…I don’t know, holding lavish banquets. Driving Lamborghinis.’

‘You can have porridge and toast for breakfast. We’ll put marmalade on top of the toast, banana on top of the porridge, and call it a banquet. And I’ll drive you to the fête in Angus’s old Ford. It has four wheels, same as a Lamborghini. What’s your problem?’

‘I don’t have a kilt,’ he said, backed against a figurative wall but still fighting.

‘No.’ Her face grew thoughtful. ‘And Angus’s would be too small. He was a much shorter man.’ She hesitated. He saw the telltale wash of emotion cross her face and he flinched. But she had hold of herself again. ‘My husband used to come here often before…before he went overseas and we were married. Angus had a kilt made for him from the family tartan. You’re almost the same size.’

Great. He’d go to a fête wearing the kilt of this woman’s dead husband.

But she’d read his expression.

‘I’m not asking for sympathy here,’ she told him, and there was suddenly anger flooding her voice. ‘You can stop looking as if you’re expecting me to burst into tears and tell you you’re just like my Rory.’

‘I never…’

He had.

‘I don’t need you,’ she snapped.

‘Of course you don’t need me.’

‘It’s just the town…so many of the old people…they’ll come tomorrow, and Angus has only been dead for a few weeks, and they’ll see the empty stage and it’ll stay with them and spoil their fête. If you get up in your kilt and open the thing and wander round for a bit and don’t tell people you’re selling, just say you’re not exactly sure what’s happening, then the locals will have a splendid talking point instead of a focus for grief. The fête was threatening to be dismal. You have it in your power to retrieve things.’

‘I don’t want-’

‘You want what’s right for the castle,’ she snapped. ‘You want the best monetary outcome. You told me yourself you can get that if I stay on until the assessor comes. So use your head and not your heart, Hamish Douglas. Where’s the sense in refusing?’

She had a point. But…

‘I don’t think I want to,’ he said weakly, and she cast him a look that contained pure triumph. She had him and she knew it.

‘I’ll go look out the kilt,’ she told him. ‘You’re skinnier than Rory. We may need to adjust it. And quit the digging. You have more blisters than you need already. Breakfast in half an hour?’

‘Er…yes.’

‘The first of your many banquets here, my lord,’ she told him. She grinned-and went to find her lord a kilt.

‘He’s like a fish out of water.’

Actually, he was in water. Hamish was in the shower. His bathroom was right above Susie’s and as she’d dialled her sister’s number he’d started singing. The Pirate King was being given another airing, and a good one. ‘He’s here to make money out of the place,’ she told Kirsty. ‘He’s going to sell. I should hate him but…’ She hesitated. ‘It’s like he’s some big New York financier but there’s someone else underneath.’

‘Someone nice?’

‘He sings,’ Susie explained, and held the receiver out so Kirsty could hear.

‘Um…great,’ Kirsty said, back on the line after a moment’s bemused listening. ‘There’s lots of testosterone in that there baritone. Are you interested?’

Some questions were dumb. ‘Why would I be interested?’ Susie demanded. ‘Anyway, I’m just ringing to tell you that you can come and take your dog back. I’m quite safe. And he’s agreed to open the fête tomorrow.’

‘He’s agreed…’ There was a moment’s stunned silence and then something that sounded like a sniff from the other end of the line. ‘He’s opening the fête? Wearing the Douglas tartan?’

‘Wearing the Douglas tartan.’

‘Oh, Susie…’

‘You won’t weep on him, will you?’ Susie asked, becoming nervous, and Kirsty sniffed again.

‘No, but everyone else will.’

‘They’d better not. He’ll run.’

‘Once he’s opened the fête he can run all he wants,’ Kirsty said directly. ‘That empty stage was going to seem awful. But for the opening to go to another Douglas… It’ll almost seem like a happy ending.’

‘Yeah, well it’s not,’ Susie said, suddenly breathless. ‘Or…well, I guess it is an ending and it’s better than it might be. This’ll be something like closure.’

‘But he’s really nice?’ Kirsty demanded, and Susie flushed. She was Kirsty’s twin and she knew where her sister’s thoughts were headed, often before Kirsty did. She knew where they were headed now, and she had no wish to go there.

‘My daughter is attempting to climb onto the back of your dog,’ she told her sister with what she hoped was dignity. ‘I need to go.’

And she replaced the receiver on any more conjecture.

Things were formal at breakfast. Hamish was dressed again as he might dress for a casual stroll down Fifth Avenue. Understated. Expensive. Cool.

Susie had dressed in shorts and a T-shirt which stayed pristine until she gave Rose her first piece of toast and Rose gave it back. She was therefore decorated with a raspberry streak centre front. Not so cool.

No matter. There was a small glitch when Hamish refused porridge. Susie thought this was one of the few things she could cook-and what sort of a Douglas was he if he didn’t eat porridge?-but she finally decided magnanimously to overlook it. They ate their toast with only social pleasantries expressed between mouthfuls.

Hamish appeared not to notice Rosie and Boris doing their best to make him laugh. He didn’t comment on Susie’s raspberry streak. He appeared to have switched into another mode, one where he was polite and courteous but otherwise remote.

Fine. She could handle this, she decided.

A non-porridge-eating Douglas.

They finished eating. Susie wiped off her small daughter. Then, somewhat at a loss, she offered a full tour and her offer was accepted.

This was good, Susie thought as she led the way through the castle. She carried Rose, Boris following behind as she opened room after room and explained the contents. Formality would get them through the next few days. It was only when Hamish stopped being polite and grinned that her insides started doing funny things.

‘This is bedroom number seven…’

‘I saw this yesterday,’ Hamish said politely. ‘All by myself.’

‘You looked through the bedrooms by yourself?’

‘I was choosing one. You told me I could. Any on the first floor.’

‘They’re your bedrooms,’ she said, and flushed. ‘Am I boring you?’

‘It’s a very nice castle.’

‘I’m boring you.’

‘What about the beach?’ he asked. The sea was right out every north-facing window, tantalising with its sapphire shimmer.

‘There’s a track just over the road,’ she told him. ‘When the place is turned into a hotel you may need to build an inclinator. It’s a bit steep.’

‘But the track leads to the beach.’

‘Yes.’

‘A swimmable beach?’

‘Very much so.’

‘You’re going to offer to show me?’

‘You can find it yourself. You can scarcely miss it. Head north and when it feels wet you’ve reached the sea.’

‘Do Boris and Rose like the sea?’

‘I… Yes.’ Keep it formal. Keep it formal.

‘I’ll go and see it by myself, then, shall I?’

‘If you like.’ Keep quiet, dummy.

‘It’s safe for swimming?’

‘It’s great for swimming.’

‘I’ll get changed then,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back for lunch.’

Keep quiet. Keep quiet…

She couldn’t keep quiet.

‘I can’t get down to the beach by myself,’ she said, sense disappearing and desperation taking over.

This had been the hardest part of living here with Rose. With her weak legs, the track was too steep to negotiate carrying a baby, and to live so close and not have access almost killed her. She could only go to the beach when someone was there to help carry Rose. ‘Not with…’ Say it, she told herself. Say it. ‘I-I have a b-bad leg,’ she stammered.

He paused. He looked at her.

Formality took a slight backward step.

‘You can’t get down to the beach?’

‘Not carrying Rose.’

‘But you like the beach?’

‘I love the beach. So does Boris and so does Rose. We all love it.’

‘So if I carried Rose…’

To hell with formality. ‘We could all go,’ she said, enthusiasm taking over. ‘I could pack a hamper. We could take an umbrella and a rug for Rose to snooze on when she gets tired.’

‘How long are we staying?’ he demanded, startled.

‘Hours and hours,’ she said happily. ‘If I’m leaving this place for good in a few days, then I need all the sea I can get. When this place is a luxury hotel it’ll be beyond my reach for the rest of my life.’

‘So all I have to do is carry Rose.’

‘And the hamper. And the picnic basket and rug. You may have to take two trips.’

‘You’re a manipulator.’

‘The beach is worth it.’