The Heir's Chosen Bride. Marion Lennox
need a laird.’
‘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.’
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