“Because she’s my mother.”
“You’re worried she’ll tell me all your dark, dirty secrets?”
He scoffs. “If you think I’ve trusted my mother with my secrets, then you clearly have a lot to learn about me.”
“She’s your mother,” I point out.
“And your point is… ?”
“Why wouldn’t you trust her with your secrets?”
“Because she has her own, and she’s definitely not sharing. So why should I?”
“That’s the most childish thing I’ve ever heard. Tit for tat with your own mom?”
His smirk gets wider. “It’s complicated.”
“Aren’t all families?”
“Some more than others.”
I can’t help admiring the harsh, perfect lines of his profile. In another life, he could easily have been a model or an actor. He has the looks, he has the presence, and he definitely has that mysterious, broody quality that women find hard to resist. In my case, impossible to resist—no matter what else he does.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on her, you know. She has your back.”
He frowns. “And you know that how?”
“Because she spent the better part of our conversation defending you. Or rather, justifying your behavior.”
He sighs with frustration. “My mother has a beautiful country house about twenty miles south from the manor. I don’t know why I spent so much on it if she’s not going to stay there when she’s in London.”
“God forbid she wants to be close to her sons.”
He doesn’t answer to that. He just stares off into the winding road ahead, looking stoic and aloof.
“Is it that hard for you to get close to her?” I ask when it becomes clear he’s trying to end the conversation. “Or is that just a general rule of yours?”
I notice that his eyes twitch to his arm. The one with the line of scars running from elbow to wrist.
“Oh, I see. It was another lesson your father taught you. Don’t trust anyone? Don’t trust women?”
The hand resting on top of the steering wheel that was so at ease just moments ago is now death-gripping it. His knuckles show white through his skin.
“You don’t like that I can read you, do you?” I ask.
“What you know about me is what I chose to share with you,” he growls. “If it weren’t for that, you wouldn’t know a goddamn thing.”
I roll my eyes. “Right, sorry. I keep forgetting that you’re a robot who doesn’t need anyone or anything. Least of all to have a conversation.”
I’ve got my hands crossed over my chest, and for some reason that seems to amuse him.
“But,” I continue, “I’d just like to point out that you were the one that approached me that night. You were the one who couldn’t walk away.”
“That is true,” he says softly.
“Don’t worry—I don’t flatter myself that you wanted anything more than a quick fuck.”
“Who said anything about quick?”
I glare at him. “Why don’t we just enjoy the countryside and not talk?”
He laughs under his breath. I can only tighten my arms against my chest and wait for this drive to end. I want to ask how much longer it’s going to take to get to his place, but that would break the “no talking” rule I’ve just put in place.
Thankfully, I don’t have to ask, because a few minutes later, the road we’re on rounds a hill and peters out into gravel. At the same time, I catch sight of a turreted structure in the distance.
“Oh my God!” I gasp, sitting up. “Did I fall asleep and wake up in Narnia?”
“Welcome to Macleod Castle,” is all Isaak says.
“Castle. You just said ‘castle.’”
He smiles. “It’s only a little one.”
“Right,” I say. “A little castle. This is insane.”
And it really is. Isaak’s London manor was large and luxurious. But a Scottish castle is something else entirely.
This one sits on the top of the tallest hill in the area, surrounded by lush greenery and dense pockets of forest. The turrets seem to scrape the cerulean sky. Moss and vines race to the top of the towers and ravens flock along the rim of the walls.
The gates throw themselves open as we approach with some kind of hidden mechanism. Isaak drives us through. From there, it takes us a full four minutes to reach the grand entrance of the castle. It takes me almost exactly that long to find my voice again.
“Eighteenth century?” I ask as we park.
“Seventeenth actually,” Isaak says. “But there were a couple of restorations in the eighteenth century, which is why it has certain nods to the era.”
“This is amazing. I bet the library is brilliant.”
My door swings open. I step out enthusiastically. I’m so busy staring up at the castle’s impressive fa?ade that I don’t even remember to acknowledge the man who’s just opened my door.
“Camila,” Isaak prompts, “this is Alastair Fraser. He’s been tending to this property for the last twenty-seven years.”
I turn to the older man, whose luxurious white mustache is so big that it covers the entirety of his top lip. He’s also dressed in traditional Scottish garb, kilt and all.
“Alastair,” I say, offering him my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little distracted.”
He gives me an easy smile. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” His tone is warm and filled with affection. But it has nothing to do with me. It’s clear that the man is in love with the property itself.
“Gorgeous,” I say fervently. “I’d love a tour.”
“Alastair can give you one shortly,” Isaak cuts in, ushering me into the castle.
His hand lingers on the small of my back. I can’t deny that I don’t hate it there.
“I’m Camila, by the way,” I tell Alastair as he follows behind us with our bags in hand.
“Of course, I know who you are, ma’am. We have all been excited to welcome home the mistress of Macleod Castle.”
My mouth pops open wordlessly and I dig my heels in.
Isaak chuckles. “Excuse her, Alastair. She’s not used to titles. Where have the refreshments been set up?”
“In the formal sitting room, sir. I thought the young madam would enjoy seeing the French tapestries we have on display there.”
“The ‘young madam’ would rather be in the library surrounded by books instead of people. But we’ll start in the living room for now.”
My head is thoroughly spinning now. I’m in awe of the entire place. I know I’m coming off like the country mouse who’s making his first visit into town, but I can’t help it.
Stepping into the formal sitting room doesn’t help matters. To start with, the place is massive and it feels a little bit like a perfectly preserved, highly sophisticated museum. There’s a display of Brown Bess muskets on one wall, next to a Lochaber axe and Scottish broadswords from different centuries.
Then my eyes land on the French tapestries that Alastair mentioned and I actually catch my breath. They’re so beautiful and so intricate that I have to move closer to examine them.
I’m vaguely aware of Isaak talking to Alastair behind me, but I’m not paying any attention to either one of them.
A few minutes later, I feel Isaak at my shoulder.
“This is incredible,” I whisper.