Читать книгу The Heir's Chosen Bride - Marion Lennox, Marion Lennox - Страница 9

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.’