His Lass Wears Tartan (4 page)

Baillie stood and wrapped her arms around Baillie’s shoulders. “Hmm, I don’t think his change in moods had anything to do with you, sweetie. Sounds like we have a male ego issue going on, and that can be a rather fragile problem at times.”

“Ego? How in any way does talking about the castle equal a problem with the man’s ego?”

“Uh, because he doesn’t own one.”

“Wha ...?”

Baillie smiled and moved back to her chair. “I wasn’t there, but just off the top of my head, I’d say Bruce got his pride squashed with the realization he was sitting across from a rather affluent woman who owns not only a castle but half the land in the area, larger than the town itself.” She grabbed Rogue’s hand and massaged her tight fingers. A warmth pushed against the angst in her heart. Her shoulders eased downward, and the tightness in her forehead melted during the manipulations.  

“A man likes to feel he can take care of a woman when he’s courting someone special. And I think he pushed himself into a huge depressed hole, thinking you were too good for him, being wealthy and all.”

“Bruce thought what?” She was afraid she’d dropped her mouth open. When did the idea of courting ever come into the conversation? It was a simple afternoon tea that Putney had forced on them. What in heaven’s name was she talking about?

Baillie patted her hand. “You have to know the local newspapers and social media have made you into the local princess. You’re the closest thing they have to a celebrity around here, and,” she nodded, “we have American celebrities and world-known people coming and going at the castle each year. That’s pretty intimidating for some people. Puts you in a whole other class of marvel and splendor.”

Had her aunt lost her mind? She cocked her head to the side, watching her aunt’s mouth move but not comprehending where the torrent of words was coming from. Rogue found herself slowly slanting her body away from Baillie.  

“I know you see yourself as an ordinary horsewoman, bereft of parents, forced to wear ridiculous dresses of velvet and lace by me. But view yourself from their eyes.” Baillie leaned against the back of her chair. “I, myself, think the boy has a mad case of puppy love for you. Putney recognized his feelings long before he did himself, and she’s been trying to open your eyes to the possibilities. Granted, she shoves pretty hard when she’s excited. But she only wants to see you both happy.”

“Love?” Her face appeared blank.
Give these older women an inch about men and they’ll take a whole bloody mile. She’s gone bonkers right along with Putney, I swear.

“Okay, rather a strong word considering you just had a simple tea together.”

“You think?” she replied, raising her voice. She crossed her arms over her chest.

Baillie stretched her arms over her head. “But think about what I said. In the meantime, you need to go spruce up and pull yourself together. I have a tour bus of people in an hour, and you’ll be needed behind the gift counter. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, Auntie.” Her head bobbed up and down, but nothing else moved. One minute she crashed into a guy, and the next her aunt and Putney were spouting courtship and ... puppy love. Why did the adorableness of a four-footed bundle of fur have anything to do with a guy? Who made up this stuff? And why did she feel like she was being pushed to the edge of an emotional cliff? Okay, she’d try not to be rude to him the next time they met or whatever. She leaned her head against her hand, feeling a little light-headed.

“Today, please,” Baillie pushed.

On the first day of the writers’ conference, Robbie opened the front door to a dark-haired young man who charged in, pressing one hand against a headset with a microphone and cradling an electronic notepad in the other. An expensive-looking man purse hung from his shoulder on top of a black leather knee-length coat with the collar flipped up. Matching leather knee-high boots added to the overall unusual fashion statement. Strands of wavy, dark brown hair, broken loose from the short ponytail in back, framed the scorn on his face as he ducked, stepping over the threshold, talking quickly into the microphone.

Giving Robbie a scowl from head to toe, he said, “Something dire has come up.” He turned his head a bit to the side, lowering his voice. “I believe I’ve found Gollum. Time is pressing for the eagle’s landing, must run. Ta-ta.”

Baillie stepped up, blocking the sullen guest from making any further remarks about her staff. “Thank you, Robbie, I’ll take care of Mr. Olson from here.” Robbie rolled his eyes for her benefit only and stepped back into a hallway. “Welcome to Baillie Castle. Please, just leave any suitcases here, and we’ll have them taken up to your room.” The smile on Baillie’s face faltered at the man’s cold reception.

The dour young man stood stiff as a royal guard on duty, the collar of his white shirt up around his neck and the jacket cut similar to something found in Civil War reenactments adding to the effect. “Call me Jonathan, Ms. Baillie. I am looking forward to an incredible experience this week.” His walk looked starched, almost an amateur theatrical movement, as he moved beyond Baillie. She expected him to click his boots together any moment. “This ancient architecture will inspire William Leatherton most assuredly during this class session.” His arm swept the area as he bent in a bow, and she felt like grabbing an oilcan for the rusted Tin Man–like forced movements.

“Tell me truly, has Hollywood discovered this ancient domain yet? No, not likely, must make a note. Might be a perfect background for his thirty-sixth novel,
The Stone of Hearts
. Have you read his books?” He tapped the screen in his hand and moved toward the stairs without acknowledging her head shake. “First, a more pressing issue: would you graciously show me Mr. Leatherton’s room? His car will be arriving soon, and I must ensure everything is to his liking or heads will roll. And it won’t be mine.”

Baillie bit her lip not to roll her own eyes at the man. His light tenor voice flowed through the neatly trimmed beard like the threatening growl of a wee dog, his tone balanced between rudeness and a chilly, expected respect. 

Rogue stepped into the front area. “Aunt Baillie?” She wiped her damp hands on a kitchen towel, curious about the new arrival. “Please pardon my intrusion.”

“Rogue, this is Mr. Jonathan Olson, author of the literary novel
Hidden Plunders
. He’s Mr. Leatherton’s personal assistant and will be coordinating the conference.”

Jonathan stared at Rogue with an almost bored yet calculated look, absorbing everything from the thin strands of hair in her face to the comfortable leather flats on her feet. He blinked, and Baillie swore a different man suddenly appeared. His voice practically drooled at her niece. “This is the morn of my first day, and already I am introduced to an impressive castle and a gorgeous princess. This is becoming an absolute fantasy of a conference. I look forward to seeing more of you, Miss Rogue, when I have time.”

Rogue took a step backward, dropping her eyes to the floor, away from his piercing stare. “Welcome, sir, to our home.” She looked up at Baillie. “I came to say Putney will have tea ready in an hour for our guests.”

“Perfect, then our expected writers can relax a few minutes with refreshments after they arrive. Mr. Olson, if you’ll follow me this way, please.”

“Jonathan, please, no need to stand on ancient formalities, though we stand in the halls of some historical century.” He nodded his head toward Rogue before following.

“I have been delinquent in my communications of late and hesitate to be presumptuous, but I believe that was your niece?” he asked still in the new, oilier character. Baillie suddenly missed the more sullen guy.

“Yes.” Baillie kept her voice detached. “She keeps an incredible stable of horses, so if any of the guests are willing to brave the moors and spring winds by horseback, Rogue will be happy to help them.”

A sharp laugh cracked through the air, startling her. “These pathetic writers will have no time for frivolous riding during this week. The workshops each day are intense and demand hours of writing that will be expected for the next day’s lessons.” Jonathan’s voice sounded abrasive with a splash of adulation. “Food and drink twice a day from your staff will be their only respite.”

Baillie could do nothing but blink and continued walking. Her guests paid thousands of dollars to be manhandled by this pretentious man? Hopefully, the great best-seller Mr. Leatherton was not as demanding as Jonathan made him appear. Moving near the castle wall, she shook off the stressful thoughts and took a deep, cleansing breath.

“I’m sure you’ve done your research of our back story here at Baillie Castle, if you will.” She stopped near the end of the hallway, a wooden door with a decorative iron number five nailed to the side in front of them. She flashed a smile as she looked up, only to find a cold, grim face above her.

“Quite humorous of you, yes, using a writing analogy.” His dark eyes squinted. “And my room is where?”

“Next door on the right, with nothing beyond the back wall as you requested. As you can see, this is a dead end.” She pulled a brass key from her pocket and opened the door, smiling at the warmth of a blazing fire and the aura of one of her favorite rooms. A king-size four-poster bed near the door was draped with a festive red and white quilted bedspread. The bedside lamps cast a soft glow on the room, adding to the fresh spring sunlight streaming in. Around the room were arranged a petite rectangle table and chairs for a midnight snack and shelves of books on either side of the fireplace. An antique writing desk sat below the thin beveled windows with a view of the countryside.

The silence behind her was unnerving from Mr. Tall, Dark, and Gloomy.

“This will do.” He stepped back into the hallway. “The key, please.” He dropped it inside one of his coat’s pockets. “And now my room?”

Baillie slid a key from a large ring and walked the few steps to room six. “Do you have the signed forms for me?” Pushing open the thick wooden door, she locked eyes with Kai standing near the fireplace, his outline a watery image only she could see. Her odd, irrational fear standing near this moody author disappeared.

Jonathan handed her a thick folder from his shoulder bag. “You’ll find everything filled out and signed appropriately.” He slid the satchel strap over his head, stepping into the room. “Despite what I am certain is an excellent description of the castle, I trust you’ll not overly mention the noted ‘haunted’ illusion to my clients. They need no fantasy distractions this week; they are here to work.”

“A wee bit of a stick up his
arse
, aye?” Lord Kai stood, his bare sculpted arms folded across his chest covered in a sleeveless white linen. Yards of Baillie clan blues and greens hung in a knee-length kilt that he’d worn for hundreds of years. Kai’s dark eyes flashed like a bull challenging another male in the wilds. “An illusion, he calls me.”

Baillie pressed fingers to her lips, stopping the smile. “I will do my best to see you and the others are not disturbed by our well-known apparition. Do come down for tea, Mr. Olson, when you’re ready. You’ll find a map of the castle in the desk drawer. We also have some in our gift shop.”

Jonathan ignored her and stood in front of the fire, his back to her. She was dismissed.

Closing the door, Baillie leaned against the wall as Kai appeared in front of her. “There’s a rather unpleasant fellow, if I must say.”

Baillie chuckled. “A brooding artist is what we call his type in America. Though the costume concept is a bit over the top.”

“Hmm, brooding, aye. Will the group of them be as withering as this one?”

Baillie moved down the stairs, the rustle of her long Elizabethan skirts the only noise. She cradled the papers in her arms. “Surely not. I’ve had writers gather at my bookstore, and they could be quite entertaining and animated. Mr. Olson is one tightly wound rubber band.”

• • •

Leaning on the kitchen counter, Rogue chewed on the tip of a ragged fingernail while reading an interview about Jonathan from a website on her laptop. What about him had hooked her attention other than the physical appearance of someone dark and gorgeous? She’d met many celebrities with high levels of breathtaking manliness over the years, without any reaction. This man oozed, what? His outside appearance screamed confidence: the groomed beard and longer, dark hair pulled back in a short ponytail like an American gunslinger of the Old West, with his collar up in a bad boy style. An educated gentleman with eloquent speech, according to the interview postings. She tapped her toes, looking at various images of him on Google. The man had an image portfolio online that rivaled any B-list celebrity. She clicked to enlarge one. His eyes staring back at her from the professional photo seemed to erase everyone else in the room, like she stood alone only for him.

Shuffling into the room, Robbie pulled a frayed handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. “The guests are here. Half dozen cars just caravanned up the drive.”

Rogue snapped the laptop shut as if caught in some guilty pleasure, yanked on the sleeves of her costume, and twisted the material at the waist, stalling to catch her breath.

“Quit yer fussing, lassie, and get yerself out front.” Putney pulled a tray of pastries from the oven. “’Tis an easy job ya have today with those American word sellers.”

Rogue faked a curtsy and scurried away, laughing, nudging Robbie in front of her.

“Donna rush an old man, lass. I canna go but one speed; I’ll be there soon enough. Go make sure the part-time help do their job and no one falls in the moat.”

“Rogue,” Baillie called, holding up the folder. “I have all their paperwork. Don’t fuss about check-in right now. Take them in the parlor for tea, and we’ll sort out who’s who in there.”

Opening the front door, Rogue welcomed the travel weary as they oohed and aahed walking over the moat, shivering from the gusts of wind. She smiled at the lot; enjoying their stares and comments at first seeing the castle never got old. She gave the men and women time in the entryway before directing the dazed traffic to refreshments. Young men from town, hired for the event, rushed among the cabs, loading luggage on various carts. She encouraged them to hustle and pointed where to park the carts in a side hallway for now.