Duncan Fraser Stewart.
She blinked then looked again.
Duncan Fraser Stewart.
“Oh, my God,” she breathed, as the blood seemed to rush down to her feet. This couldn’t be happening. The man she’d made mad, passionate love to couldn’t possibly be the same man she’d traveled to Scotland to find. The reclusive artist, the genius, the man who was going to save Wilde & Daughters Ltd.
She looked at his sleeping form. That body she now knew as well as she knew her own—the thought made her feel light-headed with a combination of shame and anger. She wanted to hit him over the head with the emergency kit then tell him what a no-good, rotten son of a—
She caught herself. If she did that, she’d have to face him, and that was the one thing she didn’t think she could do. Murder him, yes. Talk to him? Not on your life.
She heard the sound of an engine idling nearby then a voice called out, “Hallo? Who’s there?”
The thought of enduring a ride to the nearest village with that rat Stewart was more than she could contemplate.
She looked at him again. He was still deeply asleep. If he’d heard their rescuer call out, he gave no indication.
“Get up,” she said, in as quiet a voice as she could manage. “We have company.”
He didn’t so much as move a muscle.
What a shame.
Nobody could say she hadn’t tried.
Turning, she went to head their rescuer off at the pass.
With a little luck, Duncan Stewart would wake up alone.
With a lot of luck, he’d spend the rest of his life that way.
Glenraven Castle, six weeks later
“UP ALL NIGHT he is,” Old Mag said to Robby, the caretaker. “Don’t work at all, just drowns himself in whiskey and howls at the moon.”
“’Tis a lass, plain and simple.” Robby poured himself a cup of tea from the blue china pot that sat in the middle of the kitchen table. “This is how it was the first time.”
“Och!” Old Mag shot him her fiercest look. “Mention that one’s name in this house, man, and deal with my wrath.”
“The devil take her,” Robby agreed. “Her name will never pass these lips again.”
“Broke his heart, the witch.” Mag poured herself three fingers of single malt from a half-empty bottle. “He’s never been the same.”
“Aye,” Robby said, “until now. I’m a man, Mag, and I know what I know. There’s a new lass. He fights his heart now, but it’s a losing battle.”
“Have you two nothing better to do?” Duncan Stewart roared as he strode into the kitchen. He’d heard enough of the conversation to know it was time to put a stop to it. “Do I pay you to sit here and talk about me?”
“And the pay not nearly enough,” Mag muttered, glaring at him. She’d been part of the family since he was a wee bairn and knew how far she could push. “You should be taking care of your own business, not minding ours.”
Duncan ignored the comment. If he engaged the old woman in battle, they’d be at it until sunup. “I’m going into town,” he announced. “More than that no one needs to know.”
Mag and Robby exchanged a look.
“There are young ones in need of employment who’d be willing to do your jobs for half the wages.”
Mag snorted. “Aye,” she said, “and wouldn’t you be the one, looking to save a tuppence on the back of an old woman.”
“You’ll outlive us all,” Duncan said. Two minutes with Old Mag and he sounded more Scottish than Robert the Bruce.
“God willin’,” said Robby.
“God willin’,” said Mag and Duncan.
“And what would I tell a body if he calls?”
Duncan threw his hands up in exasperation. “Tell him what you like, old woman,” he bellowed. “I’m past caring.”
He stormed out, striding past the north turret that served as his studio. Old Mag and Robby had known him all his life. They were more his parents than his own parents had been. It was Old Mag who’d wiped away his tears when he skinned a knee and Robby who’d taught him the things a young boy needed to know to make his way in the world. His own parents were perfectly nice people, but the world of childhood had been beyond their understanding. By the time Duncan was a man, the gap between them had grown too wide to bridge.
His father was gone now, ten years dead and buried. His mother had followed a year ago Christmas.
And Duncan was still alone.
Years ago, when he was young and idealistic, he thought he’d found the woman he would grow old with. He’d met Lana at university, when he was a struggling art student and she was an artist’s model with her eye on a stage career. He had been captivated by her dark eyes, her catlike face, her tiny body with the surprising curves. She had been captivated by his castle and all that came with it. It had taken him four years of marriage—and one tragedy—before he understood that simple fact.
His Highland heritage had served him well. When grief threatened to pull him under, he withdrew to the castle and poured his emotions into his work. And it was his work that saved him.
And no one had ever recognized the loneliness at the core of everything he did. Nobody until Samantha.
The beautiful American had awakened something in him he’d thought long dead. He might not have shared his identity with her but he had shared his heart, and look what she’d done in return—set the hounds of Fleet Street on his heels. She’d apparently returned to
