The Heir's Chosen Bride. Marion Lennox
‘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