“I’ve really no idea,” he said cheerfully and turned his attention to the lane as it widened around a stand of oaks, and Eilean Ros came into view.
His estate was not really what the name, Island of Roses, implied, but it was built out on a piece of land that jutted into Loch Ard. It was a grand home nestled beneath Scots pines, built two hundred years ago by the fifth laird Douglas. When Payton’s father, the ninth laird Douglas, had inherited it, he had dreamed of creating a palace at the foot of the Highlands and had started extensive renovations. He’d died before he could see them through.
Upon his death, Payton had become the laird and had completed the renovations. The work had added another wing to the house, and it now boasted fourteen bedchambers, three salons, and more sitting rooms, dining rooms, and studies than Payton could count. It was indeed a Highland palace. No other Scottish abode could boast such grandeur.
Nor, Payton reckoned, was there another Scottish abode that sounded quite as empty as his.
Time and again, he’d walk the long corridors of his home, hearing nothing but the click of his boot heels on the stone and wooden floors. He had an almost desperate desire to fill that empty sound with laughter and voices and warmth. When his brothers had gone out into the world—Lachlan to India, Padraig to America, he had remained behind as the sole Douglas and heir of Eilean Ros, destined by his firstborn status to carry out the family duties and name. It was, he had come to realize, his cross to bear in some respects. His was a rather lonely existence.
Now, as he and Sarah rode around the stand of oaks, they could see the entire length of the house…and the donkey tethered beneath the shade of an oak tree, beside a cart that looked positively ancient.
“Oh no,” Sarah sighed, scowling at the cart. “I shan’t believe they arrived in that.”
“Be kind, Sarah,” Payton warned her and set his horse to a trot.
Mared and her twelve-year-old English niece, Natalie, were standing beneath a towering portrait of the eighth Lady Douglas, Lord Douglas’s great-grandmother, as a pair of servants bustled about, preparing the room for tea under the watchful eye of the butler, Beckwith.
“Her husband killed our great-grandfather in a duel,” Mared whispered to Natalie as she stole a glimpse of Beckwith over her shoulder.
“A duel?” Natalie gasped, her blue eyes lighting up.
“Aye. They’re a sorry lot, the Douglases. Never forget it, lass. This one’s husband called out our ancestor for merely having fallen in love.”
Natalie looked up again, her mouth open.
“I trust ye gave her a fair accounting, Miss Lockhart.” Payton Douglas’s voice boomed behind her, startling Mared and Natalie both. Neither of them had heard him approach across the Wilton carpet.
Mared slapped a hand over her heart. “Diah, sir! Have a care! Ye might have frightened us to death!”
He smiled wickedly and leaned forward, his deep slate gray eyes peering intently at her. “Ye did give the lass a fair accounting, did ye no’?”
All right. So her great-grandfather had loved the woman in the portrait. But honestly, the poor woman had been locked in a horrible marriage—who could blame a Lockhart for desiring to give her a spot of happiness in her bleak existence? “Aye, of course,” she said, and with a brazen smile, she sank into an uncharacteristic curtsey and glanced up coyly. “Do ye doubt it?”
He cupped her elbow to lift her up, and there his hand remained as his gaze dipped languidly to the décolletage of her gown. “When it comes to ye, lass, I doubt even my sanity.”
Then she was doing something quite right. It brought a smile of satisfaction to her lips, and she put her arm around Natalie, pulling her into her side, forcing his hand from her elbow. “Ye recall our Miss Natalie?”
Natalie dropped into a perfect curtsey. “How do you do, my lord,” she said in her English accent.
With a charming smile, Douglas took Natalie’s hand and bowed low over it. “I do very well indeed,” he said, and kissed her small hand. “’Tis a pleasure to have such a beautiful lass at Eilean Ros.”
Natalie’s face lit up at that. Aye, that was Payton Douglas, was it not, as charming as the day was long? But then he turned his attention to Mared again, his gaze sweeping the length of her in a way he had of making her believe he could see every bare inch of her, and with a smile that Mared half-expected to melt her gown right off her shoulders.
“May I remark,” he said low, “that I canna recall when I last saw ye adorned in such a bright color…or ribbons,” he added, lifting a curious brow.