“I brought home a surprise!” Rose Buchanan threw her arms out wide as if embracing the world. From the stories she told to the way she entered the room, Rose was exuberant and entertaining and enjoyed being the center of attention.
Isabel Buchanan, who was perfectly content on the fringes, pushed her wavy hair off her sticky forehead with hands that trembled from the nightmare drive through Atlanta to the airport to pick up her mom. Her mom’s trip to Scotland had doubled as both research and vacation. The jammed stop-and-go traffic had left Izzy flustered and already dreading their exit from the airport.
Rolling her stiff shoulders, Izzy stepped around the bumper of the car, popping the trunk open on the way. Her mom had a beautiful plaid scarf of greens and browns and blues tossed over her shoulder and what appeared to be new earrings. Either purchase might inspire her mother to gush, and she would expect reciprocal gushing from Izzy.
Making an educated guess, Izzy asked, “Are those earrings your surprise?”
Without waiting for an answer, she hauled one of her mom’s giant wheeled suitcases closer and prepared to heave it into the back. The sooner they got out of Atlanta, the sooner she could get back to work planning the Highland festival. Or she might pour an extra-large glass of wine and escape into a book. A guilty pleasure, considering how much she still had to get in order in three scant weeks.
“Allow me, please.” A bearded man who had been rolling cases to the curb stepped forward with a grin and an accent Izzy couldn’t place.
She checked her pockets and winced. No cash to tip the man, and no hope her mom had thought of something so inconsequential.
“Do you like them? They’re hammered silver.” Her mom flipped her bobbed matching silver hair to the side and displayed one earring with her fingers. “And as a matter of fact, I did buy them from a lovely shop in Edinburgh, but I brought something bigger home. Something more exciting.”
“Your scarf? It’s lovely.” Izzy gave her mom limited attention while she watched the man load suitcase after suitcase into her trunk, fitting them together like a puzzle. More luggage than her mom had left with. She waved to catch the man’s attention. “Hang on. That’s not all my mom’s stuff.”
For the first time, Izzy really looked at the man. He was close to her mom in age, and good-looking in a bearlike way with a gleaming white smile highlighted by a salt-and-pepper beard. His full head of hair was a shade darker, but graying heavily at the temples. The expression on the man’s face when he looked in her mom’s direction—a mix of adoration and amusement—cleared the fog of confusion.
Lord have mercy, her mother had brought back a six-foot, two-hundred-pound-plus souvenir from Scotland.
Izzy stumbled backward, her heels catching on the curb. She stumbled and was on her way to a bruised bottom—not to mention ego—when her mom’s Scottish souvenir grabbed her arm and steadied her.
“Alright there, lassie?” His eyes were dark gray, not black but close, except for sparks of amber around the centers. He wore good-natured amusement like a comfortable sweater, and Izzy could imagine gathering around a fire and listening to him tell jokes and stories.
Izzy pulled out of his grasp and sidestepped toward her car. “Thanks for the save.”
The man turned to her mom and held a hand out. She notched herself under his arm, the two of them facing Izzy as a united front. Instead of wilting from jet lag, her mom beamed at the man with all the energy of a college graduate on spring break. With his dark good looks and her mom being a certified silver vixen, they made a striking couple.
“Name’s Gareth Connors.” The man held out his free hand, and Izzy took it automatically in a shake. “Your mum has told me all about you, Isabel. I feel as if I already know you.”
The burr in his voice was charming and attractive and friendly, yet Izzy couldn’t get over the fact her mom had brought a man home. A man she’d known less than two weeks. It was impetuous and irresponsible and unreal.
Was Izzy dreaming? She swiped at her forehead again. Nope, not a dream unless the house had caught fire around her. The heat radiating off the concrete had hit inferno-like levels.
“I’ve invited Gareth to stay with us at Stonehaven. I’m going to show him around Highland. Everyone is going to adore you, darlin’.” Her mom was too occupied straightening Gareth’s collar to catch Izzy’s pointed, panicked look.
A whistle blew and all three shifted to stare down the sidewalk toward an airport security guard stalking toward them. They were taking too long in a loading zone.
Izzy froze. Was she actually going to bring a stranger home to Highland with them?
Gareth shut the trunk and nudged his chin toward the guard. “We’d best be going, Isabel, before the wee, angry man reaches us.”
With one last glance at the security guard, Izzy made a decision she feared she’d regret in the dead of night with a strange man roaming the house with sharp cutlery laying around. “You might as well call me Izzy.”
She slipped into the driver’s seat, feeling like her sane, ordered—slightly boring?—world had skidded through an Enter at Your Own Risk sign. Even worse, her mom and Gareth had slipped into the back seat together.
“You should have warned her, Rosie,” Gareth said. “We’ve shocked her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Izzy loves surprises, don’t you, darlin’?” Her mother’s singsong accent was Southern old-school genteel.
Rosie? Izzy shook her head to clear her shock. Even her daddy had never used a pet name for her mom. It was weird-sounding and spoke of an intimacy that seemed impossible after so short an acquaintance.
Izzy couldn’t spare the attention needed to parse the new information coming fast and furious. She had to navigate out of the airport and back onto the interstate. Almost absentmindedly, she said, “You’re the one who loves surprises, Mom. I hate them.”
“Pish-posh. This is a good surprise though.”
“Is it?”
Izzy glanced in the rearview mirror to catch an apologetic grimace reflected on Gareth’s face. Her mom leaned close to whisper something in his ear, inspiring another of his merry-looking grins. If they started making out like teenagers, Izzy would pull over on the side of the road to separate them, life-endangering traffic be damned.
Cars and trucks weaved in and out of the lanes like in a video game. Her palms grew sticky on the steering wheel. The worst traffic jam in Highland, Georgia, had involved a standoff between old man Hicks and Mrs. Fortunato at the four-way stop in the middle of town.
As she exited the interstate for the two-lane road that weaved to Highland, her shoulders unscrunched and her fingers loosened on the steering wheel. The rolling green foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains worked their usual magic.
Now she could keep an eye on the couple in the back seat without the danger of rear-ending another car. Her mom and Gareth were close, but not on top of each other, thank goodness.
Her mom was busy playing tour guide. She pointed out such scintillating roadside attractions like the “big rock” that teenagers spray-painted as a rite of passage and the boiled peanut wagon set up next to the pickup truck selling produce in a gravel pull off.
“Do stop, darlin’. Gareth must try the peanuts.” Her mom touched Izzy’s shoulder.
Izzy didn’t say anything, but swung the car around on the two-lane road and pulled in next to the blue and white Ford truck with a bed piled high with summer produce. The farmer lounged on a metal foldout chair, fanning himself with a straw hat.
Izzy remained in the air-conditioning while Gareth and her mom took their time picking over what the farmer had to offer, coming back to the car with tomatoes, corn, and squash along with a steaming bag of peanuts.
“Izzy and I can whip up something delicious with the vegetables for dinner tonight, can’t we, darlin’?”
She was to be their cook along with their chauffeur? “Sure, why not.”
Her sullenness was a throwback to her awkward teenage years. Considering she still lived in the same town and in the same house—with her mother no less—the ghost of her doubt-riddled adolescent self took great pleasure in haunting her with regularity.
As the miles ticked down and while she had her mom and Gareth trapped in the car, she needed to ferret out what the heck was going on.
“Where are you from exactly, Gareth?”
“Cairndow. An estate in the Highlands. I’m the caretaker.”
“It’s simply gorgeous, Izzy. The views are to die for. Gareth lives in this quaint stone crofter’s cottage, but he snuck me into the castle when the owner was away and showed me all the fun parts.” Her giggle was shocking.
Shocking because her mom did not giggle. Or hadn’t since her daddy had passed away a decade earlier. Izzy gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“How did the two of you meet?” she asked.
“We bumped into each other my first day in Edinburgh. Literally.” Her mom tittered again, this time joined by Gareth’s deep, resonant laugh. They already shared inside jokes. “I had stepped into a church to escape the drizzle as Gareth was coming out. We shared tea and biscuits and that was it.”
“That was what?” Izzy asked.
“The beginning,” her mom said cryptically, her smile directed at Gareth. “We spent every day together.”
“When are you going home, Gareth?” Only after did her brusque tone register, and her face heated. Rudeness qualified as one of the deadly sins in her mom’s eyes, alongside boasting and double-dipping chips. Injecting a practiced, albeit fake, politeness, she added. “It’s a very busy time of year for us, and we need to be available to drive you back to the airport.”
Her mom whispered, “Isabel,” in the way she had when Izzy had disappointed her as a child. “We’re taking things day by day, so who knows. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”
Sweetie? Izzy stole another peek in the rearview mirror and tried to camouflage her dismay.
She slowed and pulled onto the narrow, winding drive that led to Stonehaven, their home. While Stonehaven might not be the biggest or grandest house in Highland anymore, it was certainly the most unusual. Built by her great-grandfather, who had emigrated with his parents from Scotland when he was a child, it payed homage to the castles of his homeland.
The stonework lent it a heavy, fortified feel from the outside with a turret in one corner, but it was only a façade. Inside, the house was warm and welcoming, and her parents had taken it upon themselves to modernize the electric, HVAC, and plumbing after they’d married.
From her first memories, her daddy had been the heart and energy behind the Highland festival hosted on the grounds of Stonehaven every summer. No one had expected him to die a week before his fiftieth birthday when she was only eighteen. Izzy had expected to have years—decades—before the weight of upholding the family traditions fell to her and her mom.
Instead, when she’d left Highland for college in Athens, Georgia, she’d carried with her the expectation of returning every summer to help and then moved home permanently upon graduation. She’d even given up the opportunity to study abroad one summer in order to come home, but had never laid her disappointment on her mom to bear.
The festival mimicked the traditional Highland games of Scotland. People from all over the southeast flocked to Highland to compete or watch men in kilts throw hammers and toss cabers. The traditional Scottish dancing, music, and foods were an even bigger draw.
This year’s festival was on track to be the biggest yet and kicked off in less than three weeks. Izzy’s job as a tax accountant slowed during the summer months, and she burned all of her vacation in order to plan and orchestrate the festival with her mom. It wasn’t by luck. She’d put aside her dream of majoring in creative writing to pursue something practical. She hardly even thought about the might-have-beens anymore. The festival was her birthright, her burden, and her joy.
“What about the festival? You won’t have time to take Gareth sightseeing, Mom.” Izzy forced her voice to remain steady and adultlike when it began to dip into a childish whine. Pea gravel crunched under her tires as she pulled up to the front door of Stonehaven.
Her mom clapped once then linked her hands under her chin. “That’s what makes this so perfect. Gareth can help with the festival.”
“What?” Izzy performed an unintentional brake check.
“He’ll bring a real authenticity to the games.” Her mom was fairly batting her lashes at Gareth. It was like she’d been possessed by a debutante on the prowl.
“Wonderful. Excellent. Just peachy,” Izzy muttered to hide her sarcasm. While not as egregious as rudeness, sarcasm and irony would earn her one of her mom’s looks. The kind that still had the power to make her feel gauche.
“Your home is lovely, Rosie.” Gareth’s rumbly brogue was charming and warm, and fired mistrust in Izzy.
What was his angle? Izzy considered herself more worldly than her mother, whose last first date had been thirty-five-odd years earlier. As far as Izzy knew, her mom hadn’t so much as looked at another man romantically since her daddy’s death. Men like Gareth didn’t leave their lives behind unless they wanted to … or had to.
Izzy glanced up to catch the reflection of him kissing the back of her mom’s hand like a knight of yore. A blush pinkened her mom’s cheeks, making her look younger and almost innocent. Izzy’s insides performed a blue ribbon–winning jig, and her throat closed to nothing. Was this more than an extended vacation fling?
Darth Vader’s theme song rang out from Alasdair Blackmoor’s mobile. He whispered a prayer and gathered his strength before answering his mother’s call.
“Hi, Mum.” He kept his voice artificially chipper even though he was exhausted from a jam-packed workweek in New York City along with a banging case of jetlag.
“Don’t ‘Hi, Mum’ me. Have you arrived at your destination yet?” The formality in her voice was nothing new. When he was four and home from his first day at preschool, his mum hadn’t asked him if he’d made friends or had fun. She’d asked him whether his day had been “satisfactory.” He’d answered yes, even though he hadn’t spoken to anyone except the teacher, and the conversation had been over.
“Not yet.” He checked the navigation screen in his rental car. “Looks like another thirty miles.”
“What could Gareth be thinking?” His mum’s disappointment made him clutch the steering wheel tighter even though she was an ocean away and her disappointment wasn’t directed at him. “Why isn’t he answering his mobile?”
Gareth was probably thinking he was relieved to have escaped his sister-in-law’s wrath by mere hours. Alasdair didn’t say that aloud, of course. He’d learned from an early age not to actually express his anger or frustration or hurt. An Englishman’s stiff upper lip dammed his Scotsman’s passion.
“His mobile probably doesn’t work on this side of the pond.” Or he’d turned it off, which is what Alasdair had done more than once to escape his mum’s well-intentioned meddling. He loved her dearly, but to label her as “high-maintanence” was an understatement.
“But why would he run off with an American tart?” His mum’s derision gave the impression the American War for Independence had taken place in her lifetime. “What if she manipulates him into marriage, and she bears him a son?”
“Then we offer our sincere congratulations.”
“Men can do that, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Father a child in their dotage. Then, he would become the next Earl of Cairndow. When you see him, I want you to tell him that—”
“You’re breaking up, Mum. I’ll be in touch when I can.” He hit the End button before she could get another word in and tossed his mobile onto the passenger seat.
He shifted and tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. Driving on the wrong side of the road took concentration he was having trouble mustering.
His uncle’s disappearing act worried Alasdair for different reasons than his mum. He didn’t care if Gareth fathered a dozen sons as long as he was happy, but Alasdair refused to stand by and watch his uncle being taken advantage of. Despite the falling out they’d had a decade ago, Alasdair cared about Gareth more than he could put into thoughts, much less words.
For all of Alasdair’s childhood, Gareth Blackmoor had been more than just his uncle. He had been a surrogate father and a friend and a general port in the storm. Alasdair had spent summers with Gareth while his parents traveled, and he’d chosen to retreat to Cairndow for many of his school holidays. Cairndow had been peaceful and grounding, and as much as Alasdair loved his parents, he’d hated navigating the chaotic mess his parents had created when they were together.
His parent’s marriage had been tumultuous to put it mildly, ending when his father had lost control of his car on a curve and was killed on the road from Cairndow to Glasgow. Alasdair had been almost eighteen and headed to Cambridge, lacking the maturity to process the unearthing of his da’s secrets and lies. Raw and shocked and overwhelmed, Alasdair had exchanged harsh words with Gareth. Words Alasdair had wished back a million times in the intervening years.
While they still talked sporadically—Alasdair was the heir to the title and the Blackmoor family estate—their once-easy relationship had acquired a patina of polite distance Alasdair hated but didn’t know how to break.
How would Alasdair’s sudden appearance to fetch his uncle back home like a wayward sheep be received? Would he be welcomed, or would their fractious family dynamic crumble? Would Gareth accuse him of only being interested in safeguarding his inheritance, or would he recognize that Alasdair cared about the man more than the title?
In fact, although he hadn’t admitted as much to his mother, Alasdair didn’t want the title anytime soon. Or at all, if he had the choice—which he didn’t because of Britain’s rule of primogeniture. The estate, however, could be willed to anyone, and Alasdair’s mother was adamant Alasdair inherit it.
The estate, centered around the imposing Cairndow Castle, was striking and magical—and a money pit. Between repairs and modernizations, Gareth was forever brainstorming and implementing new strategies to bring in funds. Alasdair, on the other hand, lived in a no-maintenance flat in London and traveled monthly to New York for his work as an investment analyst. Even a houseplant had proved too much responsibility for him to handle.
Perhaps Alasdair should encourage Gareth’s liaison with the “American tart,” especially if he was happy.
Alasdair slowed, his mouth gaping as he took in the Welcome to Highland sign. It was a piece of art. Three to four meters square, the wood sign was hand-painted, the words in white calligraphy and set off with two men in Highland dress playing bagpipes while performing a jig (a near impossibility of lung capacity). Curlicues and scrollwork in greens and reds framed the picture. The detail was impressive, the colors vibrant, and he wondered at the time, energy, and cost it took to maintain the rustic masterpiece.
A horn tooted behind him, as polite and unassuming as a horn could be, and he pressed the accelerator, continuing into Highland, but slowing once more as he tried to take in the town. He sent a mental apology to the car behind him, but it pulled into a parking place in front of MacLean’s Drug and Dime Store. Mimicking the look of the welcome sign, the Drug and Dime sign was wooden and old-fashioned, but not rundown. It was quaint, he supposed, if one appreciated such things. His flat in London embraced the black-and-white modernity of minimalism.
Baskets full of colorful flowers spilling over the sides hung from black wrought-iron light fixtures that sat at intervals on both sides of the street. Tartan ribbon circled the posts like a dozen maypoles, the tied off bows fluttering. The Scottish Lass restaurant graced one side of the street while the Dancing Jig pub caught his attention from the other. A placard out front announced live music on the weekends. A huge banner was strung from the top of a storefront to the opposite side of the street, announcing the upcoming Highland Games. Authentic Scottish food, dancing, music, and athletics were promised. The banner rippled in the slight breeze. The date listed was two weeks away. He’d be well gone before the fun started.
Tartan patterns of various hues were on signs and posters and used as bunting in most windows. Tartan was plastered on anything not moving—strike that. He spotted a man wearing tartan red trousers. It felt like a storybook street or perhaps even a movie set—he wondered for a moment if he was being filmed for an internet prank—but the people bustling along the sidewalks and ducking in and out of the businesses seemed real enough.
Highland was more Scottish than any village in Scotland.
Although it was a weekday, cars and trucks filled most of the slanted parking spots on both sides of the street. A coffee shop tucked into the row of shops called like the promised land. Alasdair wedged his rented sports coupe into a parking space between two massive four-by-four trucks.
The thick air made him feel like he was moving in slow motion, and a heat mirage wavered on the pavement like a portal to another land. He shook the fanciful thought away, stretched himself out of the car, and slipped off his suit jacket. The heat made it difficult to take a deep breath.
The air-con in the Brown Cow Coffee and Creamery veered toward arctic, giving him a shot of energy that he planned to boost with an espresso. Bagpipe music provided background noise, and the décor could best be described as Scottish kitsch.
With an obsession of all things Scottish on display, surely locating an actual Scotsman wouldn’t be that difficult. Gareth would be a tourist attraction. The image of his uncle on a pedestal in the middle of town for all to admire plucked Alasdair’s sense of humor. He would begin the search as soon as he had caffeinated himself.
The shop had a split personality. Along the left wall was the creamery, manned by a teenage boy bent over and scooping cones for a family of four, consisting of harried-looking parents, a young boy bouncing in anticipation, and a girl staring down at her phone and twirling her hair. The coffee bar took up the right wall across from the ice cream. Hot and cold.
He veered toward the scent of freshly ground coffee, weaving through the round white tables dotting the middle of the shop. A half dozen were occupied by either pairs chatting or singles hunched over laptops.
A twentysomething woman with pink streaks in her hair sat behind the counter and eyed him around a customer she was helping, chewing gum with a slightly open mouth. He smiled and stepped forward when his turn came, rubbing his hands together. “Hullo, miss, I’m desperate for an espresso. Could you oblige me, please?”
“Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit.” Her words drawled out like stretched taffy.
“Pardon?”
Americans might speak a corrupted version of English, but it was still English even if her string of syllables didn’t make sense. What did butter and butts and biscuits have to do with espresso?
She turned her head but never took her eyes off him. “Izzy! ’Nuther one of them foreigners has showed up.”
A woman he hadn’t noticed rose from a small table tucked to the side of the counter. An open laptop, papers, and a white coffee mug were strewn about. Her brown hair was twisted into a messy updo, tied back with a green and blue tartan scarf, wisps coming out in every direction in the back like a bird’s nest. Finely arched brows framed eyes of indistinct color.
The woman approached, and the closer she got, the prettier she became, like a picture coming into focus. Her movements exuded a barely contained energy that reminded Alasdair of a brown wren.
“Are you acquainted with Gareth Connors?” the woman asked in a drawl that was more honeyed than the barista’s but made about as much sense.
Alasdair uh’ed and ah’ed a few times to cover his confusion. Connors? Why had his uncle Gareth assumed the surname of the Cairndow groundskeeper? Presuming he had a good reason for the deception, Alasdair wouldn’t rat him out to this stranger, but his hesitation at locating his uncle disappeared. Fair or foul, something was afoot.
“I do. He’s … a mate of mine. I’m popping in for a visit actually. I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to give me his direction?” Alasdair deepened his brogue and smiled his most charming smile, reserved for receiving homemade jumpers from great aunts and his mum’s surprise visits to his London flat. Americans usually ate it up. Especially American women.
The American woman in front of him looked not only unimpressed but as if she’d tasted something bitter. “Did he invite you?”
If he had to pinpoint her expression and tone, he would guess she suspected he was a thieving murderer. Not good. What was Gareth up to? “I’m in the States on business and heard he was here. Thought I’d look him up.” Not a lie, although his loop from New York City to Atlanta to Highland was quite the detour to drop in on a “mate.”
As the woman continued to stare at him as if he were the bearer of the bubonic plague, his smile faltered. He stuck out a hand. “I’m Alasdair Blackmoor.”
Although he registered a split-second hesitation on her part, she took his hand. “Isabel Buchanan.”
Her handshake was firm and no-nonsense, but her palm was soft and her hand small in his. On closer inspection, her eyes striated into all different shades of brown and amber, and freckles dusted her cheeks. He hung on to her hand for too long, but couldn’t seem to pry himself away.
Breaking the spell, she wrested her hand from his, pulling it into a fist. Was she planning on throat-punching him? He rubbed his neck and took a step back, out of the radius of her magnetic energy, and her reach. On her approach, she’d seemed birdlike, insignificant even, but up close, he was having a hard time not staring like a first-class prat.
He was punch-drunk with exhaustion. It was the only logical explanation.
She stuck her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, stretching her red V-neck T-shirt tight. His gaze dipped instinctively and then stuck around to read the print on the pocket over the soft curve of her left breast: Highland. The Heart of Scotland in the Blue Ridge.
She cleared her throat. His gaze shot to hers, and he blinked to try to refocus his thoughts. “I was admiring … I mean, reading your shirt.”
“It’s not a novel.”
His face heated. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d blushed this hot and fierce. “Did Gareth secure a room at the local inn?”
“He secured a room at my house.” There was a dry sarcasm in her voice that he might have found appealing in other circumstances. He’d always found women with a bite more challenging, and therefore more attractive.
As it was, Alasdair did his best to hide his consternation. While he couldn’t fault his uncle’s taste—Isabel was exceptionally pretty in a wholesome all-American way—imagining Gareth with her made his stomach stage a revolt. If his mum was correct, this woman was trying to seduce Gareth into proposing marriage.
“Are the two of you”—he made a leading hand gesture,—“serious?”
“Serious?” Isabel’s confusion morphed to a combination of outrage and embarrassment. Pink rushed into her cheeks as she put a hand to her throat. “We’re not together. Why would you think that?”
“He’s staying with you.”
“At my house. Not with me. Not like that. Actually…” Her eyes narrowed on him, but instead of finishing her thought, she said, “I can take you to see him. I don’t think they’ve left yet.”
He was only slightly chagrined at the relief coursing through him. The source couldn’t be the fact that Isabel Buchanan wasn’t exercising her considerable wiles on his uncle, but the fact that he’d found Gareth with very little trouble. “Thank you. I’d be most appreciative.”
With her gaze constantly darting up to make sure he hadn’t escaped—or maybe hoping he’d disappear?—Isabel retreated to her table to shove the papers and the laptop into a canvas bag.
“You still want that coffee, mister?” The woman behind the counter had watched their interaction as if they were starring in a reality show.
As Isabel didn’t seem inclined to be sympathetic to his caffeine-deficient plight, he shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to pass. Perhaps another time.”
“Sure thing, handsome.” The woman grinned around her gum. “You come on back and see me sometime.”
Alasdair did a double take at her slightly salacious tone, but he didn’t have time to worry over her intentions. With papers poking out of her satchel, Isabel swept by him on her way to the door. Something she’d said earlier gave his addled brain a kick in the hippocampus: I don’t think they’ve left yet. Who was they?
He lengthened his stride to catch up with her, reaching the door the same time she did, their hands landing on the handle, his overlapping hers.
She pulled to open the door, but he held fast. The position put them close. He took a deep breath, the scent of honey and wildflowers distracting him from his questions. Did her morning routine include rolling around in sun-warmed flowers? If so, he’d like to watch.
“We’re not going anywhere until you let go of the door, Mr. Blackmoor.” In contrast to her sweet scent, her voice was tart.
He shoved his thoughts of flowers and fields and Isabel aside. Focus. Where was his legendary focus? “You said ‘they.’ Who is Gareth with?”
Her mouth thinned, her displeasure and disapproval radiating like shock waves. “My mother.”