She backed up to the massive front doors, then managed to heave, haul and tug the load through the winding maze of halls and down short flights of odd-angled stairs that wound through the hodgepodge of construction that was Ballantrae castle. Hundreds of years of renovations, upgrades, and additions to the original structure had resulted in a rabbit warren of cobbled-together rooms and passages that more closely resembled an M.C. Escher rendering than the spare and simplistic fortress it had once been.
Sack of linens in tow, she descended to the bowels of the castle, and the stone room that centuries ago had been a reputed torture chamber. The perfect place to install a washer, as far as she was concerned. She hated doing laundry. After cramming as much in as she could, she tossed in soap, then slapped the lid down and dusted off her hands. Both a figurative and literal end to her relationship with Jory. And, she supposed, Priss. If only the rest of her life were so easily tidied up.
She leaned back on the washer, shoulders slumping a bit now. Normally she’d be ringing up Priss to tell her all about her wild and stormy night. Priss would have drawn every sordid detail out of her. They’d have sipped tea and inhaled a whole box of biscuits as they examined, analyzed and discussed every second of her snowbound tryst. By the time they were through, Priss would have gotten her over this ridiculous melancholy. Talking
with her best friend would have helped her put it all into perspective. They’d have sighed at the romantic tragedy of it all, of course. Then they’d have moved on.
As it was, only Priss had moved on. Right on top of Maura’s boyfriend. “Ex-boyfriend.” She pushed off the washer as it started to whir and hum and slowly climbed the stone stairs to the main floor. She’d head back to her tower, make some tea, then tuck herself into her li
t
t
l
e makeshift office, which was actually just a rolltop desk situated between the kitchen and the lounge on the main floor, and settle down to work.
Priss was welcome to him,
she thought as she entered her tower home and hung her coat on the rack next to the door. She headed direc
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y to the stove and set the ket
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e on to boil. After what she’d done last night, it was hardly fair to pretend her heart was aching at the loss. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t hate him for using such monstrously bad judgment. Screwing her best friend in her own bed was terribly bad form, no matter what Maura had done last night.
But why couldn’t he have exercised his incredibly bad judgment with someone else? Anyone else? She didn’t want to lose Priss. She had other friends, but Priss was her closest, her dearest, her most trusted.
“Ha!” she spat out, indulging in a rise of temper. Obviously Priss didn’t feel as committed to their friendship if she’d toss it over for a toss on her back. And, when you got down to it, she supposed that was what bothered her more than anything, except perhaps for the lingering visual of Jory’s pelvis pistoning against Priss’s bare ass. That one would take a while to recede. And it didn’t matter that Priss had harbored some secret crush, or that perhaps Jory had as well, she stubbornly thought. Priss was her best friend. The one person on whom she’d placed her trust, and her heart,
and felt secure that her faith would never be betrayed. She supposed the lesson to be learned in all this was to never trust anyone.
Her thoughts strayed to last night, and the impact a total stranger had made on her, the feelings he’d roused, the emotions she’d ended up all but wallowing in. She was forced to roll her eyes at herself. “Oh, that’s right, Maura,” she said, steeping the tea egg in the steaming water, “there’s a lesson learned. Trusting a complete stranger.”
She knew she could congratulate herself on being strong enough and wise enough to get the hell out of there this morning before she did something even more phenomenally stupid. But somehow that self-satisfactory accolade didn’t fill the emptiness in the pit of her stomach. The void that had started with Priss’s defection had yawned ever deeper when she’d walked out of the inn this morning. Without even having said good-bye.
“Bollocks,” she swore. She was getting downright maudlin, which wasn’t her style at all. So she stacked another biscuit or two on her plate—sugar was always her antidepressant of choice—before heading to her desk.
She’d thought about leaving him a note, of course, but she couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t emotional and pathetic. She’d regretted it as soon as she’d left, feeling a coward for leaving him that way. Not wanting him to wake and his last impression of her be a bad one. All the way up the mountain in Robey’s tow truck, she’d debated tucking a note somewhere on his car. But it had taken so long to unearth her truck, in the end she hadn’t waited around while Robey had set about digging the car out. She’d told herself at the time it was because she had to get back, had to get to work on her next solution to her problems. When it had really been fear that had driven her away. Fear she’d wait
too long and he’d show up. What would she say to him then? Sorry to have wild, unbridled sex with you then leave you sleeping it off?
But that wasn’t her worst fear. The real source of her trepidati
on was that he might show up…
and everything would be even more wonderful than it had been the night before. Only this time she wouldn’t be able to walk away. Which would only lead her to fall even more for him than she already had.
She rolled the desktop up and set her teacup and plate on the corner, searching through one of the cubby drawers for some aspirin. “It was one night with a stranger,” she muttered beneath her breath. “One night does not a lifetime of happiness make. You don’t even know him.” And what she had learned hadn’t exactly set him up as a potential prospect. She let out a hollow laugh. For God's sake, the man lived in a South American jungle! Just how much more impossible a match could she make?
“Put him out of your mind,” she counseled herself as she crossed the room and went about laying the fire. She rubbed her arms as she waited for the peat to catch and smolder. She wrapped her sweater tighter about her middle and settled into the aged oak-and-leather padded chair. The Maura she knew, a hearty, independent lass, would have woken the bloke up for one more toss before setting out. But no, somewhere during the night she’d turned into pathetic, needy Maura. “Still should have taken that last toss,” she grumbled defiantly, ignoring the burn of tears that threatened again.
Lonely,
she thought, sipping her tea and pulling her account books from the side drawer. That’s what had made her so maudlin. Loneliness. Of course, anyone would go a bit batty, rattling around in this place all alone. Normally there would be masons and carpenters banging about. But since Taggart’s death, she hadn’t
been able to pay the laborers. That, and the onset of a heavy winter, had combined to make her the stereotypical spinster, holed up in her tower with nothing more than her cat and the stories she made up for company. If she had a cat, that is.
“Oh, for God’s sake, get a grip,” she commanded. Grabbing a wad of tissues, she blew her nose, blinked back the tears that refused to stop hovering on the brink, and pulled out a red pencil and the rough draft of her article. She’d scoot through this, then get out the ledgers, tote up the colum
ns, look at her spreadsheets…
and figure out which parcel of land would have the best chance at finding a buyer. The letter to the States would come next. But even if Taggart’s heir responded quickly, she needed ready capital a month ago. The bank wasn’t going to hold off any longer on a maybe. If she was lucky, she’d only have to sell off one or two small parcels to make ends meet, before an arrangement was made. She raked her hands through her hair, the words on the page a blur. Problem was
…
which plot would be the first to go?
And what if Taggart’s son turns you down?
a
little voice added in the back of her mind.
She shut out that nagging whisper, but ended up shoving her rough draft aside and dragging out her ledgers. She couldn’t think straight until she had a plan in place. The barren crofts were to the immediate west, between the castle and the working crofts closer to the river. The soil was richer there, and less likely to brown over the winter, allowing wider-ranging grazing. Those tenants had signed leases, and had paid more for the advantageous location. Even if they were of a mind to help her out, she couldn’t very well ask them to move to a plot closer to the cas
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e in the middle of winter. Which left her with parcels to the north and south. North made the most sense; it was the property closest to the village.
If she could somehow sell it as commercial property, that would net her more money, but she’d have to petition to have it rezoned. No funds for that. Or time. Of course, she could sell it off anyway and the new owner could apply, but then she’d have to take a pittance for it. At the moment it was heavily wooded and no good to anyone for anything except hunting pheasant.
Her gaze drifted to her laptop set up on a side table. She should have written the letter to the States sooner. Right after she’d gotten word of Taggart's death. But she hadn’t had the heart to intrude on a grieving family with something as mercenary as a request for money. Not that she knew for certain they were grieving, given their estrangement
…
but, grieving herself, she still couldn’t bring herself to do it. “And because of that, you’re going to lose Sinclair land. A lot of it.”
She sighed and slumped back in her chair, her forehead throbbing despite the aspirin. She was a disgrace to her clan. She should have had more backbone, greater ingenuity. She should have found a way to follow through on Taggart’s promise to her and damn the emotions of the sons who couldn’t even be bothered to reconcile with their only flesh and blood when he lay dying.
She tossed her pencil down in disgust, only she wasn’t sure who it was directed at. Taggart’s cold and distant offspring, or herself. She was massaging her temples when she heard a distant rumbling noise that sounded like a truck engine rattling into the central compound. She stood and crossed the room, looking out of the tower windows behind her, which provided a view of the entire courtyard.
She frowned, not recognizing the black lorry that pulled around the courtyard
…
twice, as if not sure where to park. Finally whoever it was pulled up to the
rear delivery entrance of the main house, and cut the engine. She was about to turn away from the window and start the descent down to the underground passageway that ran from the tower, beneath the courtyard, to the main house. With both wings either closed off entirely or under heavy construction, it was the fastest way to get from here to the main house without driving around. But she stopped short when the truck door opened
…
and a mop of curly hair emerged.
Her breath caught and her hand came up to her throat. He was too far away for her to see his face, but that hair
…
that lanky body. It could only be—“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolded herself, turning away and crossing the room to the door leading to the stairs going below ground.
“
You’ve obviously gone completely round the bend now.” First off, he’d been driving a small, silver compact, not a rat
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etrap black truck. And second, she’d left hours ahead of him. He had no way of tracking her down. No one back in Calyth even knew who she was. Except—
Robey!
No, no, that couldn’t be it. Sure, she’d told him her name, but she’d paid the man with cash. She’d already tapped her credit card paying for the room. A foolish sop to her guilty conscience that she’d regret when her bill came, but it was done. Was that it? Had he gotten Helen’s husband to give him her name from the credit receipt? Still, what would a name have gotten him? She realized she was hurrying down the stairs at a breakneck speed, barely grabbing the lantern off the hook and flicking it to life before descending into the dark, dank passageways she knew like the back of her hand. Once in the main house, she charged up the stairs to the service level, praying he hadn’t given up and left. Careening around corners, clinging to the banisters and knocking books off the miles of cramp packed shelves that lined every staircase and winding hallway.
The truck,
she thought, grasping onto that fact, any fact, that would squelch the hope blossoming in her chest. Why would he be driving a truck? It was probably one of the laborers come to find out if she was going to be hiring again soon. It had been the long hair, the curls. It wasn’t him. Couldn’t be him.
“Slow down,” she whispered raggedly, damning her breathlessness as she skidded to a halt on the threadbare Persian runner that lined the back hall leading to the delivery entrance just off the cavernous formal kitchens. Though these rooms hadn’t been used even during Uncle Mali's lifetime, a childhood spent playing hide-and-seek had committed every inch of Ballantrae to memory. She made her way easily through the gloom of the main kitchen and the twin fireplaces, each big enough to roast an entire ox, past the huge doors to the double pantries and the scullery and herb room, only to skid to a complete stop when a shadow crossed the partially shuttered window panes of the rear door.
She went to reach for the handle, but something held her frozen in place. The man on the other side of the door was tall. With broad shoulders, and judging from the height of the window, long legs. She couldn’t make out his face through the clouded panes of glass, but she could tell he wore a dark coat. And there was that wild mop of curls.