Scottish Billionaire's Unwanted Baby Page 9

  And yet, despite everything that had happened, despite everything he’d put me through… he was still my friend, and I couldn’t leave him alone in his grief. Not again.

  Perhaps if he was able to bring himself to face the pain of everything that had happened, he might finally be able to put the past away where it belonged and focus on the present instead.

  And so might I.

  ***

  “Stop here, please.”

  I stepped out of the old black Bentley. “You can go ahead back to the house,” I told the driver. “I’ll just walk back from here.”

  The old car headed up the drive in a cloud of dust, and I turned and walked into the woods. It was a long walk, but at last, the trees thinned, and I saw the family graveyard.

  The clearing was littered with dry autumn leaves, and the late afternoon sun shone weakly through high wintry clouds. The air was growing colder, but I walked amongst the stones a while, looking at the names and the dates. My ancestors were all buried here, going back hundreds of years. Some of the stones were so worn that they were no longer legible, and many of the others were so covered with moss that they were difficult to read. I stopped at last, in front of a stone that was still new and shiny, as if the elements hadn’t yet begun to touch it.

  My da would’ve never gone in for a fancy obelisk or anything like that, nor yet any bit of poetry or verse or Scripture to remember him by. He hadn’t been that sort of man. It was just a plain granite headstone, and the words cut into it read simply: James Fergus Scott, beloved husband and father.

  That was all, but it was enough. It said everything there was to say.

  I drew in a deep breath and spoke quietly to the cold and quiet air.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Da. I wish I’d come home before now. Or even just called you to talk, once or twice. I realized today…” I sighed. “Well, I realized the past belongs in the past. Even when it hurts. It’s not that we need to forget what happened in the past, and I won’t ever forget you, Da. I promise you that. But I realized that we can’t let what happened in our past make us afraid to live in the present.” I looked down at the stone and smiled wryly at myself. “Does that make any sense at all?”

  There was no answer, nor did I expect one. But even so, I stood there staring at the stone a long time, as if perhaps it might reply.

  But it didn’t and, at last, I heaved another sigh and said what I’d come here to say.

  “Goodbye, Da.”

  The dry leaves rustled in the cold wind as I walked away from my father’s grave, and headed back toward Braehaven.

  Chapter Twelve

  Isla

  I awoke to the golden light of dawn slanting through the ancient wavy glass of the window. Still half asleep, I reached out for Angus, but he wasn’t in bed with me any longer.

  I rolled onto my back, blinking against the sunlight, and smiled to myself, placing a hand on my still-flat belly. Last night, for the first time since I learned about Angus’ secret past, we’d made love. He’d kissed me for long moments, slowly, passionately, and then pulled me over on top of him. I’d sunk down onto his thick cock, torturously slowly, until he was deep inside of me and groaning with pleasure. His hands had gripped my hips, and I’d ridden him, watching the powerful muscles ripple beneath his sweat-slick skin, admiring the play of emotions across his face, listening to his low groans of pleasure until, at last, he’d arched up beneath me, and…

  Well, it had been a very nice night.

  I smiled sleepily, remembering. I’d wanted to make love again this morning, but Angus seemed to have had other ideas. I guessed he was out, walking around the house and making notes on how he wanted to improve it. Or perhaps…

  It occurred to me that it was entirely possible he might be at the police station again. He’d told me last night that there had been a break in the case, but he hadn’t wanted to discuss it until he knew more. For fear of giving you false hope, he’d said with a crooked smile. Fiona and I had exchanged looks, but we hadn’t pushed for more, understanding that he’d tell us more when he could.

  The windows were closed against the encroaching cold, but I heard a muted crunching sound outside and sat up to investigate. A police car was coming up the curving drive.

  I glanced at the clock and saw that it was barely eight. A police officer coming to the house so early in the morning seemed to me to be extremely ominous. I threw on my jeans and a flannel shirt, ignoring the now-familiar morning nausea, and fled for the stairs to warn Angus.

  As I ran down the wide oval staircase, I saw that a tall police officer was already making his way into the house, escorted by the butler. I ran after them, my bare feet silent against the ancient stone floors.

  Fiona and Angus were having breakfast outside, seated on a balcony overlooking the Firth. The butler disappeared discreetly into the depths of the house as the police officer stepped out to speak to them. I paused in the doorway to watch what might unfold, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth to hold back my defensive words.

  He didn’t do it, I wanted to blurt out. He’s innocent. But I knew that my words held no weight here and that there was no good reason anyone would take my word for it. I hadn’t known Angus back then.

  But no one knew Angus better than I did now. I was certain of it.

  As the police officer approached their table, Fiona looked up from her plate, and her eyes went wide. She glanced over at me, and our gazes met. In her blue eyes, I saw a reflection of my own emotions: paralyzing fear, and beneath it, the desperate hope that everything would somehow work out all right.

  Angus looked calm, as if police officers showed up at breakfast every morning. He rose to his feet.

  “This is Constable Buchanan,” he said formally, looking over at me. “Alastair, this is my fiancée, Isla Blizzard.”

  Constable Buchanan doffed his black cap politely. “Ma’am.”

  “And you know my mother, I believe.”

  Fiona rose to her feet. She no longer looked like the sweet, kind old lady I’d met, and the fear I’d glimpsed in her expression had vanished. Her eyes gleamed like steel, and she seemed to have suddenly grown several inches.

  “Alastair Buchanan,” she said in a ringing voice. “I still remember findin’ ye in the orchard stealing my apples, boy.”

  Constable Buchanan blanched. Despite his height, he looked very much like a ten-year-old boy being called on the carpet by the meanest old lady in the neighborhood.

  “You were a wild one, back in those days. And so was my son. But you’ve both grown into good men. I hope you’ve come to realize that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Constable Buchanan fumbled with the brim of his hat. “Actually, Mr. Scott, I’ve, er, come to let ye know that ye’re no longer a suspect in the case of Una MacKinnon. Our key witness has changed his story and admits ye were not with Miss MacKinnon prior to her death. That being the case, her death has been permanently ruled a suicide.” He put the hat back on his head. “Congratulations, Angus. And… I’m sorry.”

  I watched the two of them shake hands, and tears sprang to my eyes. I’d already known Angus was innocent, but now everyone else did, too. We could put this all behind us, and go forward. Angus would be free to live his life out in any way he wanted.

  And in two years, I thought grimly … he would live out his life without me.

  The tears rapidly shifted from tears of joy to sorrow, which I supposed wasn’t unusual for the hormonal storms of early pregnancy. At least, I told myself, the baby would tie us together, in a manner of speaking, but I didn’t want to only see Angus when we passed our child back and forth. I didn’t want our interactions to be limited to short, terse conversations about bedtimes and how long our child could watch videos and how much ice cream they could be allowed to eat.

  It occurred to me that once we no longer lived together, Angus might simply have his driver pick up the child. I might never truly see him again, once the two years were up.

  The tea
rs that had welled up threatened to overflow down my cheeks. I blinked hard in an effort to hold them back, and stepped out onto the balcony, letting the door close behind me. I looked up at him.

  “I’m glad for you, Angus.” My voice only wobbled very slightly. “I hope you’ll be very happy.”

  He reached out and took my hand in his.

  “Only with you,” he said softly, and to my shock, he went down on one knee, right in front of Fiona and Constable Buchanan. The morning sun lit his hair, turning it to flame, and his eyes were bright with unmistakable affection as he looked up at me. “I can’t be happy without you, Isla. I know that now. Will you marry me, and stay with me for always? For real, this time?”

  I swallowed, very hard.

  “Yes,” I said, and the truth that had been building inside me for weeks suddenly burst out of me, in words I couldn’t hold back any longer. “I love you, Angus.”

  Fiona applauded, and even Constable Buchanan looked like he might crack a smile. Angus slipped a ring on my finger—an enormous diamond in an old-fashioned platinum setting, which I was sure must be a family heirloom—and smiled up at me.

  “I love you too,” he answered. “I thought I was coming back home to deal with my past… but somewhere along the way, I realized I’d already found my future. That’s you, Isla. Only you.”

  “Not just for two years?” I whispered through a tear-clogged throat.

  “Not just for two years, or ten, or even twenty. Forever.”

  He tugged on my hand, helping me to my feet, and then bent and kissed me, softly but with great intensity. I clung to him for a long moment. Then we turned, our hands clasped together, and gazed out over the Firth, letting the rising sun warm our faces.

  And for the first time since I’d arrived, I saw that the great body of water that stretched out in front of us no longer looked gray or drab or ominous.

  In the morning light, it sparkled a brilliant and glorious gold.

  Epilogue

  Three years later…

  “Oh, he’s a wild one, he is. Just like his Da.”

  Fiona laughed in delight as our son ran in circles around her. Jamie was three now, and an endless font of energy. She had come to New York and was living with us while Braehaven was undergoing renovations, and a good thing, too. It isn’t easy to balance mothering an energetic three-year-old and an architectural career, not even when you’re married to the owner of the firm. Of course, we could afford to hire an army of nannies if we needed to, but Fiona had been lonely ever since James died and seemed to very much enjoy spending time with his namesake.

  She was better with him than any nanny could have been, and slowly, the relationship between her and Angus was growing warmer and deeper, the rift caused all those years ago slowly beginning to fade away.

  “Jamie,” I said, capturing him and pulling him toward me. I put him on my lap and ruffled his bright red hair, and he sat still for just a moment. “Calm down, sweetie. We’re going to have Thanksgiving dinner before long.”

  “Now,” he informed me and slid out of my lap to find someone more interesting to pester.

  He had his pick of laps today. The penthouse seemed full of people—my parents, my brothers, and Marnie were all there to share dinner with us. A penthouse might not seem the most ideal home to raise a baby in, and it’s true that when Jamie started walking, we’d had to babyproof the penthouse, not only covering up sharp edges and electrical outlets, but getting the more fragile pieces of art to higher ground as well. We’d had to hang the Pollock in a safer location, too, because Jamie seemed to think that he was just as much of an artist as Pollock, and around two years old he’d tried to add crayon scrawls to the canvas.

  Plenty of Jamie’s artwork hung on the enormous refrigerator in the kitchen, and Angus claimed his son had inherited the artistic talents of both his parents. Maybe he was right. They just looked like scribbles to me—but then again, Pollock looks like scribbles too.

  A penthouse, even an enormous one, wasn’t a perfect place to raise an energetic child. But we planned on visiting Braehaven once it was renovated, and Angus had also built us a vacation home in Virginia, based on the plans I’d drawn for my dream house. It was on two hundred acres near my parents’ house, overlooking Indian Creek, and I loved it. We visited there at least once a month, and he was talking about building me a stable and filling it with Hanoverian mares. (He’d wanted to buy Cassiopeia back for me, but after she and her rider took silver for the U.S. Equestrian Team at the Olympics, I insisted that he not make an offer for her. Cassie had gone on to bigger and better things, and I was proud of her.)

  We’d been gathered in front of the enormous television all morning, watching the Thanksgiving Day parade, while my mother (who still insisted on ruling the kitchen, even when it wasn’t her house) cooked the turkey and the stuffing and the mashed potatoes and everything else. She’d let me provide exactly one pie. One.

  Parents could be irritating, but I’d learned from Angus’ experience, and I tried not to get angry with my mom and dad. At least I tried never to stay angry. Besides, I hadn’t forgotten how much I owed them. Angus had paid off their mortgage when we got married, and they’d never have to worry about finances again. But I couldn’t ever forget that they’d risked losing their farm just to get me through college. No matter how annoying my parents could be, one of the things I would be giving thanks for today, very sincerely, was them.

  “The turkey’s ready,” my mom called from the kitchen, and I got up to help carry everything into the dining room. We rarely used the dining room ourselves—we still preferred to eat at the kitchen island—but with this many people, it was nice to have a formal dining room.

  Angus grabbed me as I went past, and pulled me into his lap for a kiss.

  “This is fun,” he whispered in my ear. “But I’ll be looking forward to later, when it’s just us, and we can have some fun of our own.”

  “Please. You’ll be too sleepy after you eat all that turkey.”

  He winked. “Wait and see.”

  But I knew my husband. After an enormous feast, plenty of red wine, endless conversation, and an afternoon spent alternating between chasing a tireless three-year-old and cheering for “American footballers” as he persisted in calling them, no one could reasonably be expected to stay awake.

  Sure enough, after I checked on our son for the last time that night, and finally climbed into bed beside Angus, he was already sprawled out on the bed, snoring.

  But I didn’t mind because I knew there would be other nights.

  After all, we had forever…

  THE END

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  Prologue

  Brandon

  My cock was as hard as granite when I unzipped my pants.

  Selena looked up at me with a half-lidded glance and licked her lips. Those perfect, pillowy lips that I’d been desperate to fuck since I’d first hired her. Hell, since the first time I’d laid eyes on her. I’d spent my life building an empire by taking what I wanted, and there was nothing I wanted more than her, nothing I was going to enjoy more than taking and savoring the fiery tiger before me.

  My office blinds were drawn, but I knew some interns and new hires still remained in the building despite the
late hour. They were no doubt desperate to make a good impression on me, but I couldn’t care less. The chance they might hear…. Well, maybe I liked that tiny fucking risk that we could get caught. The thought made the blood pound through my veins and my dick stand that much more at attention.

  “Why are you waiting?” I asked Selena, my voice gruff with need.

  She licked her lips again slowly. Deliberately.

  My cock jerked again, and I grasped exactly what she was doing. That damn tease wanted to make me beg for it; for the release that was mine.

  No. That was Selena’s mistake.

  There were many things I’d done in my life, not all of them legal in the continental United States, but I never begged. I was Brandon Duncan, one of the richest men on Earth, and I made women come screaming my name. Made them cry on all fours for me to fuck them hard in their dripping pussies. I don’t beg.

  I take.

  They give.

  That was the way it had always been; now was no different.

  I stroked her chin with my hand and shook my head. “I want you, Tiger. You know what you have to do.”

  She glanced up at me through her thick dark lashes, and I swore my balls contracted with need. I had to have her mouth around my cock soon; had to feel myself thrust into that perfect O of her mouth. She was a fucking goddess laid out before me, and I would take advantage of her every way I knew how.

  “But isn’t it fun if we stretch it out? Let me tease you.” She giggled. “I’m in control here.”

  I shook my head and let my hand stray lower, down the soft skin of her neck and to the curve of her breast. Snaking my fingers under her blouse and the lace of her bra, I stroked her nipple, loving the way it pebbled so readily under my touch. She shuddered under my touch and moaned a high mewling sound that made my dick pulse.