Marion Lennox: The Heir’s Chosen Bride

‘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.’

Emotion, Hamish thought. More emotion. But Susie’s chin was tilted upward. She was defiant rather than lachrymose, throwing him a dare.

Open a fête…

It was a dumb, emotional thing to do. It had no foundation in logic and he should run a mile.

‘Why are you digging my path?’ she asked.

‘I was bored.’

‘What are you going to do until this assessor gets here?’

‘I’ll go through the castle books.’ I’ll get rid of some kitsch, he thought, but he didn’t say it. Marcia was researching a place where he could hire some decent antiques to make the place look firstclass.

Maybe Queen Vic could stay…

Queen Vic was in a plastic gilt frame. She’d been a cheap print and was a bit frayed around the edges. Keeping Queen Vic would be a dumb, emotional decision and he needed to stay tight here.

‘The castle books are in the hands of the executors,’ Susie told him. ‘Mr O’Shannasy’s the local solicitor but his office is always closed Fridays. That means you can’t start work until Monday. Which leaves the weekend free for fair opening.’

‘I have a path to dig.’

‘It’s my path,’ she said, almost belligerently, and then stopped. ‘I mean…’

No emotion. ‘It’s your path until you leave,’ he said hurriedly.

‘Which is today unless you open the fête.’

‘Why is it so important?’

‘I just don’t want the stage to be empty.’

‘It’s a sentimental gesture.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘I’m a businessman.’

‘You can be a businessman again when you leave here. Be Lord Douglas for a bit. It’s your title. Enjoy it.’

‘I would have thought lords enjoy themselves by…I don’t know, holding lavish banquets. Driving Lamborghinis.’

‘You can have porridge and toast for breakfast. We’ll put marmalade on top of the toast, banana on top of the porridge, and call it a banquet. And I’ll drive you to the fête in Angus’s old Ford. It has four wheels, same as a Lamborghini. What’s your problem?’

‘I don’t have a kilt,’ he said, backed against a figurative wall but still fighting.

‘No.’ Her face grew thoughtful. ‘And Angus’s would be too small. He was a much shorter man.’ She hesitated. He saw the telltale wash of emotion cross her face and he flinched. But she had hold of herself again. ‘My husband used to come here often before…before he went overseas and we were married. Angus had a kilt made for him from the family tartan. You’re almost the same size.’

Great. He’d go to a fête wearing the kilt of this woman’s dead husband.

But she’d read his expression.

‘I’m not asking for sympathy here,’ she told him, and there was suddenly anger flooding her voice. ‘You can stop looking as if you’re expecting me to burst into tears and tell you you’re just like my Rory.’

‘I never…’

He had.

‘I don’t need you,’ she snapped.

‘Of course you don’t need me.’

‘It’s just the town…so many of the old people…they’ll come tomorrow, and Angus has only been dead for a few weeks, and they’ll see the empty stage and it’ll stay with them and spoil their fête. If you get up in your kilt and open the thing and wander round for a bit and don’t tell people you’re selling, just say you’re not exactly sure what’s happening, then the locals will have a splendid talking point instead of a focus for grief. The fête was threatening to be dismal. You have it in your power to retrieve things.’

‘I don’t want-’

‘You want what’s right for the castle,’ she snapped. ‘You want the best monetary outcome. You told me yourself you can get that if I stay on until the assessor comes. So use your head and not your heart, Hamish Douglas. Where’s the sense in refusing?’

She had a point. But…

‘I don’t think I want to,’ he said weakly, and she cast him a look that contained pure triumph. She had him and she knew it.

‘I’ll go look out the kilt,’ she told him. ‘You’re skinnier than Rory. We may need to adjust it. And quit the digging. You have more blisters than you need already. Breakfast in half an hour?’

‘Er…yes.’

‘The first of your many banquets here, my lord,’ she told him. She grinned-and went to find her lord a kilt.

‘He’s like a fish out of water.’