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The Journey Home
Fiona Hood-Stewart


They met in the wilds of Scotland, as a winter storm approached. Complete strangers, they were uncannily drawn to one another.India Moncrieff, grief stricken over her mother's sudden death, a woman desperate to hold on to Dunbar House, the majestic family estate. And Jack Buchanan, the American tycoon enchanted by the land, who sees the house as a business opportunity.Business and passion soon unite them. But shocking revelations will alienate the two lovers in their desperate battle over a legacy neither will surrender. Family secrets and a murder spanning 200 years have left too many souls lost and alone. Now it's up to the heart to illuminate the way home.







India moved to the window and looked through the frosty panes at the fresh snow covering the lawn and at the Dunbar oak, standing regal and alone.

William, the first Dunbar to settle here, had planted the tree in 1280, and had made the pledge that had been handed down from generation to generation: While this oak tree stands, a Dunbar will always walk the land. India drew her eyes away sadly. If the property were sold, William’s vow would be broken.

As she was about to leave, India caught sight of the small writing desk her mother had used for her private correspondence. An uncapped fountain pen lay on a sheet of half-written writing paper. She crossed the room and picked up what appeared to be an unfinished letter, realizing with a start that it was addressed to her.

My dearest India,

I am sending this off to you today, for I am most distressed. I am suffering from a dreadful dilemma and need to speak to you urgently. Please come to Dunbar as quickly as you can. I’d call, but I’m afraid I will be overheard. You need to be aware—

The letter was cut short, as though Lady Elspeth had been interrupted. India frowned, glancing at the date. The letter had been written on the day of her mother’s death.

“MIRA means star. This is a writer definitely shining.”

—New York Times Bestselling Author

Heather Graham




The Journey Home

Fiona Hood-Stewart





www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


To

my darling boys,

Sergio and Diego,

and

in loving memory of Mummy,

my Lady Elspeth.

For all she was, and always will be to us all.




The Tears of Scotland


Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn

Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn.

Thy sons, for valor long renowned,

Lie slaughtered on their native ground;

Thy hospitable roofs no more

Invite the stranger to the door;

In smoky ruins sunk they lie,

The monuments of cruelty.

The wretched owner sees, afar,

His all become the prey of war;

Bethinks him of his babes and wife,

Then smites his breast, and curses life.

Thy swains are famished on the rocks,

Where once they fed their wanton flocks:

Thy ravished virgins shriek in vain;

Thy infants perish on the plain.

What boots it, then, in every clime,

Through the wide spreading waste of time,

Thy martial glory, crowned with praise,

Still shone with undiminished blaze?

Thy towering spirit now is broke,

Thy neck is bended to the yoke:

What foreign arms could never quell,

By civil rage and rancor fell.

The rural pipe and merry lay

No more shall cheer the happy day:

No social scenes of gay delight

Beguile the dreary winter night:

No strains, but those of sorrow, flow,

And nought be heard but sounds of woe,

While the pale phantoms of the slain

Glide nightly o’er the silent plain.

O baneful cause, oh, fatal morn,

Accursed to ages yet unborn.

The sons against their fathers stood;

The parent shed his children’s blood.

Yet, when the rage of battle ceased,

The victor’s soul was not appeased:

The naked and forlorn must feel

Devouring flames, and murdering steel.

The pious mother doomed to death,

Forsaken, wanders o’er the heath,

The bleak wind whistles round her head,

Her helpless orphans cry for bread,

Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,

She views the shades of night descend,

And, stretched beneath the inclement skies,

Weeps o’er her tender babes, and dies.

Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,

And unimpaired remembrance reigns,

Resentment of my country’s fate

Within my filial breast shall beat;

And, spite of her insulting foe,

My sympathizing verse shall flow,

“Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn

Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn.”

—Tobias Smollett, 1746

This poem was written by the poet and satirist Tobias Smollett shortly after the Battle of Culloden, and expresses Scottish rage at the treatment of the vanquished Jacobites.




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Many thanks to all those wonderful friends who have been there all along the way. Emilio Lopez, for lending me my first laptop, David d’Albis, for his patience and long suffering teaching me about computers, and Simon di Rollo, for his Scottish legal expertise. Special thanks to Heather Graham Pozzessere, Sally Fairchild and Joan Johnston, whose encouragement and faith in me have been so precious. Thanks also to the lovely ladies at MIRA: Dianne Moggy, Amy Moore-Benson and Martha Keenan. Last but not least, my deepest thanks to Jean Marie Grimsley, for her tireless assistance, and Sondra Schneider for helping me see more clearly.




Contents


Prologue (#u1041d5f9-e34f-5afd-8d2f-64c2a937b366)

Chapter 1 (#u45fcb0b4-7109-5c38-b21b-0cd6990108bf)

Chapter 2 (#ue00dbe2b-f195-5070-a0e2-162ff473ae9f)

Chapter 3 (#u811c8470-231f-5329-83bf-9f61335b4b75)

Chapter 4 (#udb1c9d9d-1fd1-5ea8-8ded-a523b78f44f0)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


The Lowlands, Scotland

1746

Rob Dunbar held his young bride, Mhairie, close. They huddled by the smoking peat fire, hungry and exhausted after their harrowing journey from the Highlands. The small band consisting of Rob, his gillie, Hamish, and Mhairie and her mother had made their way south, disguised as drovers driving their cattle to market in Falkirk. They had avoided the Redcoats, and the only stops taken were in smoky bothies of other loyal Jacobite supporters, or outside, in the clachans, where Rob had tenderly laid his plaid on the heather and bracken for them to lie upon.

He gazed longingly at his lovely young bride, his heart full. Words seemed pointless now that so little time remained, and he raged at destiny for tearing them so cruelly apart when all they wanted was each other. How fortunate that they had married despite their parents’ opposition. Not that they had disapproved the match, but as Struan, her father, had remarked in his dour Highland manner, “What use is there te’ take a wife ye’ll nae have by yer side nor in yer bed, ma’ boy? Better fer both of ye te’ wait till all this warring is behind us.”

A sad smile touched Rob’s lips and he straightened the dirk stuck firmly in the heavy leather belt that secured his twelve-foot kilt and plaid. Wistfully he realized that those nights of love among the heather would be their only comfort in the dark days of separation to come.

He gazed at the fire and thought of the Colonies. They seemed so very far. Rob sighed and covered Mhairie tenderly with her plaid, wondering if she would ever return. Enemy troops were everywhere. Edinburgh Castle was in the hands of the Hanoverians, and many Lowlanders had turned traitor and joined German Geordie’s men. Even if Bonnie Prince Charlie won the battle that was brewing, hope of Mhairie’s return was faint. And if he lost, their fate would be a dismal one. The Prince’s followers would be vanquished men, stripped of their weapons, their estates forfeited to the English crown, and the whole uprising would have been for naught. Things had changed considerably since the uprising in 1715. Now Highland lairds were finding it hard to rally their men, and only the crois tara, the cross made of two charred sticks covered in blood which demanded on pain of death that a man follow his chieftain into battle, succeeded in persuading them.

Rob stroked his beloved Mhairie’s locks. He’d faced the agonizing choice of going home to his lands in the south or rejoining the Prince. But even as he hugged his wife, he knew a man could not shirk his duties. His loyalty lay with his sovereign. Whatever the outcome, he must head back North and fight the last fight.

Still, the thought of Mhairie’s departure in a few hours was devastating. He saw her shiver and held her closer. “Are ye cold, ma’ beloved?” he asked tenderly.

“’Tis not the cold in ma’ body but the chill in ma’ heart that ails me, Rob,” she whispered, shuddering.

He placed more peat on the fire before seating himself down beside her once more and cradling her head gently in his lap. He caressed the soft auburn curls that flowed, long and thick, about her heart-shaped face, wondering when, if ever, he would see them again.

Jamie, his dear and faithful friend, entered the low-beamed room, silently handing him a tumbler of pungent whiskey. They sat, Rob embracing Mhairie, Jamie brooding before the fire, the hours passing all too quickly. Rob’s heart ached as dawn drew nigh and separation ever closer.

Soon they had mounted and were on their way to Leith where the ship lay at anchor, the seashore and brine sharp reminders of what little time remained. Rob whispered in Gaelic to his gillie, sending him ahead through the thick damp haar with the prearranged signals.

They stood, a silent group of ravished souls, listening with heavy hearts as the waves lapped the hull of the tiny craft, coming silently across the water to take them to the vessel, her sails rigged and ready to sail.

“That must be Captain MacPherson himsel”’ Jamie whispered. “I’ll gae’ ahead and have a wee word wi’ him.” He disappeared into the early-dawn mist, leaving the young couple a few precious moments for their last farewell.

“Och, ma’ Mhairie. Never forget how deeply I love ye.”

“Nor ye, ma’ beloved,” she whispered, then gazed up at him, eyes pleading. “Come wi’ us, Robby, there is still time fer ye te’ come awa’ wi’ us. Dinna’ return te’ that godforsaken lot. Have ye not seen yersel’ that ’tis a fruitless venture?” She grabbed his face between her hands, supplicating.

“Ye ken that a’ canna’ gae wi’ ye, Mhairie. Ma’ duty lies wi’ the Prince. A’ canna’ let him doon. A’ wouldna’ be able te’ face ma’ ain sel’ if a’ did.”

She sighed, resigned, knowing full well he would return, just as her father and brothers had done.

“I have something te’ tell ye afore a’ gae awa’, Robby.”

“Speak te’ me, ma’ Mhairie, open yer heart while there is still time,” he begged, holding her close, his heart ready to break.

Tears filled her eyes and she clung to him, burying her head into the front of his vest. “A’m wi’ child, Rob. A’m carrying yer bairn.”

Wonder and joy overwhelmed him and he drew back, gazing down at her in awe, his hand moving to her belly, happiness piercing his misery like a shaft of bright light. But this was quickly replaced by the realization of his double loss.

“Och, ma’ darling, ma’ very ain Mhairie. When all this is fore’ by and better days come, ye’ll return to me and take up yer place as ma’ lady, and our bairn as ma’ rightful heir. But Mhairie—” His voice took on a sudden urgency as he glanced through the rising mist at the tiny boat reaching the shore and saw Captain MacPherson alight. With a sigh he faced bleak reality and opened his sporran, taking out a folded letter. “If a’ canna’ reach ye…If when ye return a’ should be in hiding, or worse. Ye must gae te’ Jamie and read what’s in this letter. A’ve told him what te’ do, and ye can trust him as ye would yer ain brother. And, ma’ beloved wife, tell our bairn—” The words caught in his throat. “Tell the bairn how close a’ hold ye both within ma’ heart. Keep the marriage papers and this letter safe and close te’ ye. They are the proof that ma’ son is ma’ rightful heir.” He handed her the letter carefully.

“Yer son?” She took it, slipping it silently into her bosom, then gazed up at him, a tremulous smile on her tearstained face.

“Aye, ye’ll see. ’Twill be a boy, as old Granny Bissett predicted our first born would be. And a fine one at that.” He held her close, his lips lingering on hers, his hand caressing her belly as he etched her in his heart forever.

Then it was time. He kissed her, bidding his love a last long farewell, tears welling in his eyes as she climbed weeping into the small rowing boat that slipped silently away from the shore, the captain anxious to set sail before the day broke.

Rob gazed out to sea, anger and rage battling as his eyes locked with hers for as far as they could reach. As the ship set sail, he watched the vessel head into the wind, carrying aboard his heart and soul, following her trajectory to the open sea, until she was nothing but a dot bobbing on the frothy swell on the horizon.

“’Tis time te’ gang awa’, Rob.” It was only then he realized Jamie was standing next to him, silently sharing his grief. He cast one last look at the choppy gray waters, his soul desolate as he turned on his heel, kilt swinging in the wind, and walked with Jamie to where the horses neighed restlessly, their nostrils flaring. Hamish handed him the bridle.

“Awa’ wi’ ye, Rob, afore German Geordie’s lads awake. ’Tis a lazy lot they are but, nevertheless, ’tis wiser to be on the safe side.”

“Aye, ’twould be foolish te’ die at the end of a rope instead of meeting ma’ maker at the point of a sword,” he answered, hoisting himself into the saddle.

“Och, I’ve nae fear fer ye, Rob. Ye’ll be back anon. Yer time’s not sae nigh as ye think. Are ye sure of what yer doing?” Jamie asked doubtfully.

Rob donned his blue bonnet, the eagle feather placed at a cocky angle, and straightened his shoulders proudly. “As sure as any man can be when his duty and his sovereign are calling,” he replied with a smile.

“Then sae be it. God speed te’ ye both.”

On Tuesday the fifteenth of April, they crossed the Spey River and headed toward Culloden where Murray had set up his camp. Rob arrived with a sinking heart, for all he’d seen for the last few miles were exhausted Highlanders lying strewn by the wayside, their eyes hollow with hunger and despair.

As he stood at the entrance of Murray’s quarters, the war pipes ringing in his ears, and saw the drawn faces of the earl and his men seated glum around the table, his heart sank.

He stopped before entering, filled with sudden foreboding, and gazed up at the heavy clouds of defeat bearing down upon them.

Then, with a heavy heart, he stepped inside and took his seat, the bleak countenances around the table telling their own tragic tales. Each man knew what destiny lay before him. Savage anguish pierced Rob’s heart as the harrowing truth sank in and the hope he’d harbored of one day being reunited with his beloved wife and child withered.

A never-ending death knell would ring throughout the Highlands. Blood would pour as never before in all of Highland history, and Scotland, his beloved homeland, would be changed forever.




1


Midlothian, Scotland

1999

By the time he’d missed his third pheasant, Jack Buchanan was in a foul mood. It did not improve when, instead of falling to the ground with a satisfying thud, the last bird fluttered into the gray Scottish sky, unscathed.

He lowered the shotgun, irritated. Pheasants did not fly away. They fell obediently, just as junior executives and the other members of his entourage jumped into action when they were supposed to.

He entered the glen briskly, realizing he was having a bad day. He knew to expect it, for this particular day was always bad. Each year he thought he’d get the better of the pain that still rose to the surface, as boldly now as it had then, and every year it got the better of him. He cocked the gun in preparation, willing his mind to concentrate fully on the task at hand. The next bird would not escape him.

He didn’t have long to wait before catching sight of his prey, and he aimed carefully before slowly squeezing the trigger.

A split second later he stood frozen to the spot, his gut clenched, cold sweat breaking out under the heavy shooting jacket. He’d just missed a figure who’d walked straight into his line of fire.

Missed, by an inch of fate.

Thank God for the reactions he’d learned years ago that enabled him to deviate the shot, sending it ripping into a tree trunk a few degrees to the right.

“Are you okay?” he shouted anxiously, trying to make out who it was. There was a moment’s silence followed by the echo of his own voice. Horrified, he slung the shotgun through his arm, the dogs following close to heel. Bracken crackled noisily under his boots as he strode quickly toward a tall slender woman standing motionless among the trees, her ashen face surrounded by long chestnut hair.

“Are you all right?” he asked, eyeing her anxiously. Slowly tension gave vent to annoyance as he realized she was unhurt. “Don’t you know it’s not safe to walk in the woods in the middle of the shooting season?” he asked accusingly.

“Hey! Wait just one minute. You nearly killed me,” she exclaimed, suddenly coming to life with a shudder. “Plus, if anyone has no business being here it’s you. This is private land.”

“I’m well aware of that, but I have the owner’s permission to shoot every darn grouse or pheasant that happens to cross my path,” he answered sarcastically, irked by her sudden self-assurance. “I’m sorry I scared you, but you’re to blame for this incident, you know. You should keep your eyes on the ground, not up in the clouds, and be aware of where you’re walking. Sit!” he snapped curtly, for the pointers were still scuffling in the undergrowth, trying to pick up the scent of the bird their master had missed.

“What nerve!” she exclaimed. “This land belongs to the Dunbar estate, and you’re trespassing.” She glared at him, steadying herself against the tree as she spoke. Jack looked at her properly now, suddenly struck by the strange color of her eyes, a grayish-green that reminded him of the North Sea on a windy summer’s day. They also held a very determined look, and he was in no mood to argue.

“See that tree over there?” He pointed to his left. “That is where this property, namely Dalkirk—” he began patiently.

“Rot and rubbish. You’re on my land, and if you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call the authorities,” she said, cutting him short.

“And just how do you plan to do that?” he demanded, his tone as challenging as hers.

“None of your business. If you don’t know how to use a gun properly, you shouldn’t be carrying one. You’re careless.”

He bristled. No one called Jack Buchanan careless. “Look, miss. I’m a houseguest of Sir Peter and Lady Kinnaird. As I’ve already told you, I have their permission to shoot on their property.”

She straightened, drawing her tall, slim figure to its full height, and cast him a withering look.

“Maybe in America being a houseguest gives you the right to invade other people’s property, but let me assure you that in Scotland it doesn’t. Now, I’d like to get past, please.” She took a step forward, then halted. “By the way, for future reference, that fence over there is the boundary between the two estates.”

Jack’s eyes followed her gloved finger over the dogs’ heads to a dilapidated fence, barely visible among the foliage and bracken.

Seeing it only made him more exasperated. He bowed in mock surrender as she strode past him, her head held high, and watched as she started down the incline, her shoulders ramrod straight in an old green jacket worn over a pair of faded jeans.

Feisty, he remarked to himself with a spark of grim amusement, then whistled to the dogs. The incident had unsettled him. He knew he was at fault. Not entirely perhaps, but he should have been paying more attention instead of brooding over the past, as he had done on this day each November for the last twelve years.

He was about to leave when something on the ground caught his eye. He stooped. It was a solitary diamond pendant glistening on the bed of dead leaves and broken twigs. Scooping it up, he called after the woman as she reached the clearing.

“Hold it, I think you dropped something.”

He watched her stop, sway for an instant as though trying to maintain her balance, then crumple silently to the ground, like a limp marionette. Dropping the pendant into the depths of his pocket, he raced down the incline to where she lay, prostrate on the dank earth.

Habit made him prop the gun against a tree trunk, sheer discipline keeping him from allowing emotion to cloud his mind. He banished all feelings of remorse and self-recrimination to the nether regions of his brain, and assessed the situation.

The raw November afternoon was fading fast, the sky heavy with clouds, and a chill in the air announced snow. Gently lifting her limp body, he gazed at her lifeless face. All at once, past images sprung before his eyes, a shaft of uncontrollable anguish tearing through him like a bullet, ripping his heart and piercing his gut as another face, a face so beloved and yearned after, replaced the one of the woman lying still and pale in his arms.

That this should have happened today of all days was the cruelest twist of fate. For a brief moment pain slashed into him, as rampant now as it had been then.

He forced himself to breathe deeply before heaving the woman carefully into a sitting position against his chest, her head propped against his shoulder. He sent up a silent prayer when she moved ever so slightly. Thank God she was going to be okay. When she finally stirred, he caught the fleeting whiff of her perfume. It lingered in the sea breeze that blew inland from the Firth of Forth and could still be felt, even here, in the heart of Midlothian. Her eyes twitched and he leaned closer, trying to catch the gist of her whispered words as she drifted back to consciousness. Then he set himself to the task of seriously reviving her.

India Moncrieff came to with a splutter. Something strong and pungent was burning in her throat. She struggled to sit up farther, but was restrained by a powerful hold.

“Drink some more,” a firm, masculine voice ordered.

Before she could answer, more liquid was tilted down her throat. Finally she found her voice.

“Please stop,” she begged, choking, her disjointed thoughts slowly taking shape. All at once she remembered. She’d been shot at. She hadn’t been hit, but the shock and fear of the moment must have caused her to faint. She felt suddenly ridiculous. She’d never fainted in her life. Then she realized, to her dismay, that the arm behind her head must belong to the obnoxious American, the one responsible for this whole mess.

“Just do as you’re told and stop arguing,” the deep voice continued. “The alcohol will get your blood moving. I’m going to move you over there.” Before she could protest, India was scooped up by a pair of strong arms, lifted as though she were a featherweight and deposited gently on a large tree stump.

“Where do you live?” he demanded, his hands still securing her arms in a firm grip.

“It’s really none of your business,” she muttered, wishing he would shut up. Perhaps then her head would stop spinning.

“You’ve made it my business. Whether I like it or not, you’re my responsibility.” He loosened his grip and stood up.

“Responsibility? I’d hardly call leveling rifles at people responsible. I’ll be fine on my own, thank you very much.” She passed a hand over her eyes and sat up straighter. Then, pulling herself together with an effort, she eyed the stranger, taking in the thick dark eyebrows that loomed ominously over a pair of piercing blue eyes. Eyes that held concern and, to her irritation, a touch of amusement.

“Do you think you can walk?” he asked doubtfully.

“Of course I can,” she lied, attempting to rise. “I’ll be perfectly all right. You can go now.”

“I won’t leave you here.”

“Oh, please just go. You’ve caused enough trouble already. I’ll be fine.” But he stood his ground, looming over her, tall, dark and scowling, as confident as though he owned the place.

“All you’ve done from the moment I’ve met you is complain,” he exclaimed, his mouth breaking into a smile that lit up his handsome face. “Now please. Stop arguing and be reasonable. If we don’t get moving we’ll be stuck out here in the dark, and I don’t have a flashlight.”

India eyed him with suspicion. “Who are you anyway?” she asked.

“My name’s Buchanan. Jack Buchanan. Like I told you, I’m staying at Dalkirk with the Kinnairds. Are you their neighbor?”

“I suppose so.”

“What’s does that mean?” he asked, puzzled. “Either you are or you aren’t.”

“Yes, I am the neighbor—in a way. Though I fail to see what that has to do with you,” she added, noticing the shadows flitting eerily to and fro in the failing afternoon light. She found the idea of being stuck by herself, with no light and little notion of how to get back to the house, rather daunting. She reluctantly swallowed her pride and rose.

“Since you’re determined to come along, we’d better go, though I’m sure I could manage. Thank you all the same,” she added as a grudging afterthought.

“Okay. Let’s get moving. By the way, what’s your name?”

“India Moncrieff,” she replied, cross that she couldn’t just walk off and dump him.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he replied, making no effort to conceal the cynical glint in his eyes.

India straightened her jacket. If he was a friend of Peter and Diana’s, there couldn’t be much harm in letting him take her back to the house. Except for the damage it was doing to her pride, she realized ruefully, watching him pick up his shotgun and whistle to the dogs, his dark hair tousled by the wind.

They emerged from the glen and headed toward the burn. At the first blast of biting wind whipping her face, India’s mood changed, as suddenly, all her reasons for being here today came to mind. She trudged on, thinking bleakly of what awaited her back at the house. She’d gone to the glen to flee reality, to try to find some peace, if only for a little while. But it had been a short-lived reprieve.

They crossed the rickety wooden bridge, the dogs splashing through the ice-cold water of the shallow burn, then shaking themselves vigorously on the other side.

As they began the short trek up the steep hill that led to the gardens and the lawn, India thought of the future, and what it would hold for her now that she was alone. Serena, her half sister, was her only close family now; she barely knew her cousins. A stab of loneliness made her catch her breath, but she pushed the thought aside, and directed her focus to the man beside her. His presence was rather forbidding, despite his rakish American good looks and determination to escort her home.

She quickened her pace and reached the top of the hill ahead of him, exhaling small white wisps into the cold wind. She leaned against the huge trunk of the ancient oak tree that stood tall and alone and gazed over at Dunbar. To her astonishment the sight filled her with an unexpected feeling of expectation rather than gloom.

All was not lost, some unknown voice seemed to say.

A sudden surge of new strength coursed through her, followed by a mantle of peace that descended strangely upon her from out of the mist. The tight knot that had been in her stomach ever since she’d arrived at Dunbar slowly began to unwind, and for an instant she could have sworn someone was next to her.

But the moment passed, disappearing into the penumbra so fast she wondered if she’d been dreaming. It was all too easy to be entranced by the mysticism of the place. Too easy to sigh, too easy to hope, too easy to dream dreams that could never, would never, come true.

Scotland had a soothing effect on Jack. Ever since his first visit four years earlier he’d loved it. The rough natural beauty, the unspoiled landscape and heather-covered hills bathed in soft shades of white and purple had enchanted him, and he’d felt an immediate connection. Now the auburn tones of autumn were fading into winter, as the trees bared their branches, and frost sparkled, a fairylike blanket covering the fields. Damp leaves were being burned nearby and the smell brought back childhood memories of Tennessee, of his parents, both dead long since, and Chad, his little brother, running, kicking leaves up in the air to the sound of their mother’s laughter.

He reached the top of the incline shortly after India and stopped, lowering his shotgun, drinking in the magnificence of the sight before him.

Across a vast stretch of manicured lawn stood Dunbar House, stately and majestic, its clean architectural lines softened by the gentle pink hue of the local stone, still visible among the fading shadows. A herd of Highland cattle, barely discernible through the mist, grazed peacefully in a field to the right of the east wing. Not a sound disturbed the magic tranquillity that reigned, serene and timeless.

It was an awesome sight, one that sent shivers running through him. “Does this place belong to your family?” he asked at last.

“Yes.” Her eyes, like his, were fixed on the house. “There have been Dunbars here forever. At least since the late 1200s. They were baron raiders then, roaming the countryside in hordes, stealing their neighbors’ sheep.”

“The house is amazing. When was it built?”

“The mid-1700s. William started it, building on to a previous smaller structure, but it was finished by Fergus Dunbar, a cousin who inherited when William’s son Rob was killed at the Battle of Culloden.”

“What was the old house like?” he asked, suddenly curious.

“I think it was a small hunting lodge, but I’m not quite sure.” She seemed anxious to go, but Jack stood still, entranced.

“It would make a fabulous hotel,” he remarked thoughtfully.

“Hotel?” Her head shot round, her expression horrified. “What a dreadful idea. I can’t think of anything worse. Dunbar has always been a home.”

“It was just a thought,” he countered apologetically. “Tell me more about Fergus.”

“Fergus did rather well for himself,” India said, moving toward the lawn. “During the uprising in 1745 he supported the English, and made lots of money. Since the rightful heir, Robert Dunbar, was conveniently dead, Fergus inherited and added on to the house. There’s a picture of him in the portrait gallery. I can’t say I like the looks of him, though. He’s always given me the creeps.”

“Why?” Jack asked, amused. “What did he do that was so bad?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged as they walked. “Some say he was a traitor. Lots of people around here were Jacobites, although they couldn’t admit to it. But even though they didn’t fight for Bonnie Prince Charlie, they never would have done anything to aid and abet the English.”

“Is that what Fergus did?”

“According to legend.” Again she shrugged and smiled. “I suppose stories get enhanced as the years go by. But he certainly made enough money to hire Adam to complete the house.”

“One of the Adam brothers?”

“Yes, the most renowned architect of that period.”

“He did a fine job.”

India glanced at him, her eyes softening. “I think so, too. It’s so serene, so…I can’t quite explain it.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

Their earlier antagonism seemed to have dissipated mysteriously in the cloak of gray mist surrounding them. By the time they reached the house and headed for a small door in the east wing, it was nearly dark.

Jack shuddered again for no reason and turned, glancing back across the lawn at the huge oak tree etched majestically on the dim horizon. Then his gaze moved to India, who was twisting the stiff brass doorknob on the heavy oak door.

“I guess you’ll be okay now.” He hesitated, catching a sudden glimpse of welcoming light that gleamed from behind the half-open door. “I think I owe you an apology,” he added reluctantly. “I didn’t think there would be anyone else out there today. My mistake.” He hadn’t meant it to sound so stiff, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt obliged to apologize to anyone. “I guess I’ll be on my way. Would you mind if I call a cab? I don’t know if I’ll find my way back through the glen now that it’s dark.”

He glanced up at the sky. Evening was closing in fast, and all of a sudden he wanted to stay. He saw a flash of irritation cross her face followed by distant politeness. It increased his desire to remain and he was now determined to go inside and see the house.

Usually, when Jack decided he wanted something, he made sure he got it. Now, for some perverse reason, he wanted to stay at Dunbar. This woman, this amazing house and the aura of peaceful mystery he instinctively sensed here intrigued him. She’d walked into his life on what, for the last twelve years, had been its worst day, and in some inexplicable fashion she’d marked it.

“Come on in. The telephone’s in the library.”

As India waited expectantly in the doorway, shrouded in a halo of pale light, her thick mane of chestnut hair glinting softy, Jack found himself thinking of mythical knights and princesses and of Gaelic lore.

Then she stepped aside and he entered the cluttered cloakroom filled with old mackintoshes and Wellington boots. The dogs scampered inside. India sent them scuttling down a passage, then closed the door quietly behind them.

He laid his gun down on a wooden bench and slipped off his jacket, hanging it next to hers. Then he followed her up the worn carpeted staircase and along a wide passage lined with ancient volumes. He glanced up, fascinated by the carved bookcases. The coat of arms seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Nor could he explain his sudden sense of anticipation. He’d felt it before on two previous occasions in his life, both of which had been momentous. But perhaps it was just the mist and the enchantment of the place that were juggling his senses. This was Scotland, after all.

He smiled to himself as they reached the end of the corridor, realizing that, whatever the feeling was, it felt good. He stepped forward and opened the door for India, allowing her to pass through into the library, and was immediately struck by the room’s warm, inviting atmosphere. The fire burned nicely amid seventeenth-century blue-and-white Delft tiles surrounding the grate, and, as in the passage, ancient volumes covered the walls from floor to ceiling. It was another example of that delightful shabby chic—as Diana Kinnaird referred to it—that enchanted him in Scotland and at which the British excelled.

“You Brits have a wonderful way of making everything feel as though it’s been around forever,” he remarked with a smile as they moved into the room, glancing at the tea tray strategically placed on a huge ottoman that stood between two sofas upholstered in bottle-green velvet. Some fringed paisley cushions and a cashmere throw were strewn on one, and a huge English sheepdog snoozed peacefully in the corner of the other.

“It’s in our genes.” Her eyes sparkled with sudden amusement. “Good quality, well-worn, not necessarily expensive but always comfortable. The phone’s over there by the way,” she added, pointing to a partner’s desk that dominated the wall on the opposite side of the room. It stood alone between two high windows framed by sagging drapes whose faded pattern melted lazily into the shadows. All of the pieces blended congenially. The faded chair covers, the books, the mahogany furniture and even the threadbare Kurdistan rug before the fireplace appeared undisturbed by the passage of time.

“The number should be on that blue pad next to the phone,” she remarked, moving toward the fireplace and rubbing her arms. “It was really getting freezing out there.”

“Lying on damp ground in mid-November isn’t going to warm you up,” he remarked, picking up a somewhat wilted pad with numbers scribbled all over it. He narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the writing. Some of the figures had been crossed out, others written over. The whole thing was so indistinct he wondered how on earth the inhabitants of this place knew where they were calling.

“Can’t you find it?” India asked.

He looked up and grinned. “Sorry, but this writing is pretty hard to make out. Maybe you know which number it is.”

“It should be about the third one down.”

“That says old MacFee, I think,” he said doubtfully.

“That’s right. He’s the local taxi driver. There is only one in the village.”

“I see.” Jack picked up the old-fashioned black telephone and dialed the rotary numbers, his fingers unused to the holes. There were several double rings, but no answer. He watched India, perched on the arm of one of the sofas, her long slim legs extending from below an oversize Aran sweater. He let the phone go on ringing, enjoying the sight. There was something composed and graceful about her, yet coupled with it was a restrained energy, rather like a thoroughbred ready to shoot out of the gate. To his utter discomfort he suddenly imagined what her eyes would look like when filled with deep emotions, such as pleasure.

He gave himself a good mental shake and hung up abruptly.

“It seems old MacFee isn’t home. If you don’t mind, perhaps I could try again in a few minutes.”

“Of course. In the meantime, would you like some tea?” The invitation lacked enthusiasm.

“Thanks. That’d be great.” Truthfully, he didn’t like tea, but perversely he accepted.

“Mummy’s writing is awful,” India remarked, reaching for the pad, a sad little smile curving her lips as she sat down on the sofa near the blazing fire. “Shove over, Angus, you take up far too much room. There’s a perfectly good rug for you to lie on.” She gave the dog a gentle nudge and Angus slid reluctantly to the floor, where he stretched out lazily before the fire.

India scrutinized the phone pad. “I’m afraid the other taxi service from Pennickuik isn’t on here. Anyway, I can’t remember the man’s name.” She looked up and raised her shoulders in a shrug. “If worse comes to worst I’ll drive you back. It can’t be far.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” He settled back comfortably into the sofa and laid one leg casually across the other knee, in no hurry to leave, determined to discover more about this fascinating house and it’s beautiful inhabitant.

India poured carefully from the large silver teapot and cast a surreptitious glance at the man sitting opposite, wondering how long she’d have to entertain him when there was so much she needed to deal with before tomorrow. He looked far too at ease, as though he planned to stay for a while. She tried to think who he reminded her of. Perhaps a taller, broader, American version of Pierce Brosnan. She laid down the pot, conscious that the pale yellow cashmere sweater and olive cord pants suited him rather well, and wondered how old he was. Mid-thirties, she reckoned, handing him a cup and looking at him full face.

Maybe it wasn’t Pierce Brosnan after all, she decided, reaching for the milk, but his face seemed somewhat familiar.

“How long are you staying at Dalkirk?” she asked, wishing she’d rung for the taxi herself. Maybe he’d dialed the wrong number.

“A few more days. I come here from time to time. Peter Kinnaird and I are partners and friends.”

“I suppose you must be in the hotel business, then?”

“Yes, I am. Say, I’ll take some more of that tea, it’s very good.” His fingers touched hers lightly as he handed her back the cup. “Peter and I merged some of our interests a few years ago. Asia and South America mainly. Instead of competing we’ve joined forces.”

“How productive.”

“Yes, it is. I also happen to like Peter quite a bit, so we have a good time doing business. What do you do?”

“I’m an interior designer.”

“Really? Private or commercial?” Jack asked, giving her his undivided attention, the force of his gaze making her shift her eyes quickly to the tray.

“Both, but mainly hotels. I did one of Peter’s, actually. The Jeremy in London. Perhaps you know it?”

“I sure do. I was at the opening, but I don’t recall you being there.” His eyebrows came together in a thick dark line over the ridge of his nose, giving him a severe look, and India got the feeling he’d be a difficult client.

“Unfortunately I couldn’t go. One of my closest friends chose that same weekend to get married.”

“Most unfortunate.” He shot her a quick smile. “You did a great job on the hotel. That statue in the hall, so linear and sleek in such a traditional setting, created an amazing effect. I like that look of understated luxury. You salvaged all the original architectural quirks, too, yet behind the scenes you created a modern hotel running like clockwork. That’s a hell of a challenge.”

India blushed under his gaze, aware that, for some strange reason, his praise meant something to her. Carefully she stirred her tea before answering. “I enjoy it. I could get lost in it if I’m not careful. There’s always a new challenge, and the fine line that has to be maintained when placing modern elements in classical surroundings is half the fun.”

“Peter told me the design company was out of Switzerland. Do you work for them?”

“No, I live in Switzerland. La Dolce Vita is mine.”

“I thought you lived here.” He raised a surprised eyebrow.

She hesitated a moment, then decided to tell him. “Dunbar belongs—rather, belonged to my mother.” For the last couple of hours she’d managed to put the strain and sorrow of the past few days aside. Now it returned in a torrential rush, reality pounding her once more.

“How come you say belonged? Has she sold it?”

“No.” India looked away. “She died, four days ago.”

In the silence that followed she folded the small linen napkin deliberately, determined to wink away the tears that pricked her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his expression dramatically altered, “I shouldn’t have asked—” The nonchalance was gone, replaced by deep consternation and compassion.

“It all happened very suddenly. She had a heart attack. Mercifully she didn’t suffer or have a long illness, and I’m awfully thankful for that,” she added, trying not to think how much she would miss Lady Elspeth.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated again softly.

For a short while they sat, the silence broken only by the crackling of a log shifting in the fire and Angus snoring faintly before the hearth.

Then India rose, her face shielded by her hair as she kneeled down next to the fire and removed the fireguard. She reached blindly for a log, trying desperately to hide the tears she could no longer hold back.

Jack moved swiftly to her side. “Let me do that.” He reached out, placed his hand over hers and took the log gently from her.

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” she mumbled, her voice quivering, tears trickling slowly down her cheeks.

After placing the log down on the hearth, Jack reached out his thumb and gently brushed away the tears. “You’ve had a rough day. I’m sorry I bothered you. I’ll leave and let you rest.” For an instant their eyes met and sorrow gripped him at the intense pain he saw written in hers. “It’s hard to lose someone you really love. It takes time,” he said quietly.

She nodded. “Thank you. I’m so sorry, I just…”

“You don’t need to explain, I understand.” He slipped a hand over hers, squeezing it before getting up. Then he took a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her silently before leaning forward and placing the log on the fire. He picked up the poker and prodded the fire, the flames picking up again. “It took me a very, very long while to recover,” he murmured, as though speaking to himself.

India rose and stood next to him, her face pale. “Was it one of your parents, too?”

“My wife.” He gave a vicious jab with the poker. A log fell at an odd angle and the flames rose higher once more. “She died twelve years ago today.” He placed the instrument carefully back on its stand, and for a while they stood next to each other, staring into the flames, each lost in their own world, but bonded by their grief.

The magic of the moment receded into the shadows when she turned away and sat down. He sighed, understanding her inner battle to come to grips with her feelings. He wished there was something he could do to help, but knew only she could come to terms with her own grief.

Then she looked up and gave him a small determined smile. “Would you like to see some of the house since you’re here?”

“Certainly. It’d be a pleasure,” he answered, returning the smile, relieved. Then he followed her out of the library into the large and drafty stucco hall.

He was agreeably surprised when an hour later it seemed as though only moments had passed. He was more than a little enchanted by India’s company, intrigued by her knowledge and what appeared to be her complete unawareness of the effect she had on a man. They’d wandered through endless rooms, turning lamps on as they went, while she told him stories, some amusing, others sad, about the ancestors who stared down at them from the Raeburn and Gainsborough portraits on the walls. With each tale her expression changed and watching her had become a fascinating diversion in and of itself.

They talked of hotels they knew, places they enjoyed and books they’d both read, and by the time they returned to the library, Jack was perplexed. He could not recall having established such an easy intimacy, in such a short time, with anyone.

“Gosh, it’s seven already,” India exclaimed as the hall clock chimed in the distance. “Would you like a drink before you go?”

“Sounds great,” Jack replied, old MacFee and the taxi forgotten.

“Go ahead,” she said, pointing to a silver tray laden with decanters that stood on an eighteenth-century Boule desk in the far corner of the room.

“Beautiful desk,” he remarked, pouring himself a whiskey. “What can I get you?”

“It is lovely, isn’t it? It’s said to have been bought at auction during the French Revolution. I’ll have a glass of sherry, please.”

Jack brought the drinks over to the fire and handed her a glass. “What are you working on now?” he asked.

“I have to be in Rio for the opening of La Perla, a hotel I finished a couple of months ago. There are still some last-minute touches to go over before the grand opening.” She leaned forward and stroked Angus’s head between the ears.

“That’s the Cardoso Group’s new place in Ipanema, isn’t it? Nelson Cardoso’s a friend of mine. That’s a big job,” he added, impressed.

“Yes, it was. I’m glad it’s over, though I enjoyed it. Nelson’s easy to work for, but the going back and forth got a bit trying by the end.”

“How long will you be in Rio?”

“Actually, I’m going to Argentina first. I promised Gabby O’Halloran—she’s an old friend from boarding school—that I’d redecorate the casco on her family’s estancia. It’s about an hour and a half out of Buenos Aires. I’ll probably stay there for Christmas.”

“You be careful in Rio. Last time I was there all the safes in the hotel were burgled. It’s incredible the things that happen in that city. They have to be seen to be believed. Funny you should mention Buenos Aires. Astra’s just bought into a partnership in a hotel down there.”

India sat up and looked at him. “Astra?”

“Yeah, my company.”

“You own the Astra Group?”

“Uh…yes. Is that good or bad?”

“Neither, it was just a comment.” She seemed embarrassed at having shown surprise.

“We’ve gone into partnership with the owners of the Palacio de Grès. Are you familiar with it? It was a private residence that had already been partially restored. They’d begun building the hotel behind it. Then the funding went dry and they realized they’d need experienced management as well, so they came to us. We liked the deal, and what do you know? Off on another venture.” He laughed, hoping to distract her.

“As a matter of fact, I visited the house once as a little girl,” India remarked. “The owners, Señor and Señora Carvajal y Queiroz, were friends of my parents. They must be very old now if they’re even still alive. I remember being fascinated by its beauty. It’s a unique example of its kind in South America.”

“Hernan Carvajal is the present owner. He told me he was left the property by his grandparents. I guess they must have been your parent’s friends.”

“What a treat to have the opportunity of working with such a wonderful setting. Are you going to preserve the house as the common area?”

“Exactly.”

“But tell me, how has the new hotel been conceived?” She leaned forward, eyes alive with sudden interest.

“As I said, we’re building vertically behind the house.” He put down his glass and leaned forward, pushing the tea tray aside. Then he began drawing with his forefinger on the velvet surface of the ottoman. “Let’s say this is the main house, okay?” She nodded. “When you go in, you have the black-and-white marble hall—”

“Which will be your perfect reception area!” she exclaimed, finishing the sentence for him. “You know, the old salon overlooking the gardens would make a perfect setting for tea. Even a bar,” she added thoughtfully. “Something in the style of what they have at the Alvear but—”

Her sentence remained in midair as the library door flew open, followed by a draft of cold air. Jack watched in astonishment as Lady Serena Hamilton marched into the room. What on earth would she of all people be doing here? he wondered, watching as she threw her suede jacket carelessly over a chair and walked toward the fire.

“I’m exhausted,” she exclaimed, rubbing her hands. “The weather’s simply foul and that wretched man at the funeral home is utterly incompetent. Ah, tea. Just what I need.” Jack saw India stiffen. Then, glancing at Serena, who’d turned abruptly toward him, he rose reluctantly from the sofa.

“Jack!” she exclaimed, smiling archly. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Hello, Serena,” he countered. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Her arrival couldn’t have been more unfortunate. As had been their one-night stand, he reflected grimly, wondering how she was going to play out the scene.

India watched, intrigued, as Jack and her half sister sized each other up, like two opponents, waiting to see who would strike first. She noticed that under the urbane surface Jack’s eyes had turned hard and unyielding. Like chips of blue ice, she realized with a shock. The relaxed individual of moments before had become a formidable adversary.

“You two know each other?” she asked, looking from one to the other, disconcerted by the underlying tension.

“In a manner of speaking.” Jack glanced at her. “I made Lady Serena’s acquaintance at a cocktail party the Kinnairds gave a while back.”

“Acquaintance?” Serena lifted a shapely eyebrow and threw him an arch smile before flopping onto the sofa next to where Jack had been seated. He remained standing and moved close to the fire. “You still haven’t told me what brought you here today.” She made a moue with her well-defined crimson lips.

“He brought me home from the glen,” India interjected, wishing at once that she hadn’t.

“The glen? What were you doing there?”

“I went for a walk,” she answered curtly, annoyed that she had to explain. She watched Serena stretch out her long legs, encased in black leather pants and boots, toward the fire. Angus stirred and turned over before the hearth.

“I took a potshot at her.” Jack smiled ruefully and glanced at India. “Since I nearly killed her, the least I could do was walk her home.” He leaned back against the mantelpiece and assessed Serena as he might a potentially dangerous situation. “Now you tell me. What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” she answered smugly.

This, India reflected, wasn’t strictly true. Serena lived—or was supposed to be living—at her flat in Edinburgh, though, according to their mother, she and her dreadful boyfriend, Maxi von Lowendorf, had been frequent visitors of late. It was strange, for Serena and her mother had never got on too well. India sighed, wishing she herself could have been here more often. Her mother had sounded troubled the last time they’d spoken on the phone, and India wished Lady Elspeth had told her more of what was preying on her mind. Now it was too late.

“Oh, now, about that tea…” Serena reached forward, then gave a tight, disappointed smile. “Oh, it’s cold and there’s no cup, of course. Never mind, I’ll just do without,” she said with a long-suffering sigh.

“I’ll get another pot,” India replied, glad of an excuse to escape. “And I’ll grab an extra cup, too.”

“Would you, darling? That’s awfully kind,” Serena murmured with a condescending smile.

India left the library and walked smartly along the corridor to the pantry. One never knew if Serena meant what she said or if she was being sarcastic. She grimaced, wishing she could like her half sister more.

In the pantry she removed a cup and saucer from the cupboard and then passed by the kitchen, drawn by the delicious smells of fresh baking that had reached into the corridor.

“Mmm,” India exclaimed. “That smells wonderful, Mrs. Walker.” Laying the cup down on the counter, she went over to the kitchen table where the housekeeper was wielding a wooden spoon in a large enamel bowl with zealous determination. “What are you making?” she asked, switching on the kettle.

“Preparing fer tomorrow,” Mrs. Walker answered with a sad shake of her gray head, her hazel eyes bright in a face creased with kindly wrinkles. “I wouldna’ want yer poor dear mother te’ feel ashamed, bless her soul.” She cast her eyes heavenward. “It’ll be quite a gathering. Lady Kathleen called earlier te’ see if we needed anything from the village before she comes back. Always thinks she has te’ be doing something, ye know. She’s awf’y upset about yer dear mother, but so are we all.” She laid the bowl down on the gnarled wooden table, and scraped the remains of the sponge cake batter off the sides of the spoon with a spatula. “Waste not, want not. That’s my motto and I’ve always lived by it.” She gave a satisfied last scour. “Well, as I was saying, Miss India, I said to Lady Kathleen, dinna’ you worry. Thirty years I’ve served the Dunbar family, first yer uncle, Sir Thomas, and the Lord knows he was no easy man, and then yer dear mother, may she rest in peace. It’d be a fine thing, I told her, if I wasna’ able te’ see te’ our ain guests.” There was an audible sniff.

“I’m sure she meant well. Kathleen’s always so thoughtful,” India said tactfully before leaning over the table and surreptitiously passing a finger around the edge of the bowl.

“Och, Miss India! Away with those fingers now!” Mrs. Walker swiped at India’s hand with a dishcloth.

“Scrumptious, Mrs. Walker, you haven’t lost your touch,” she answered mischievously, licking the tips of her fingers.

“Dearie me, when will ye ever grow up.” Mrs. Walker shook her head, smiling fondly. “I dinna’ like te’ think what yer poor mother would say.”

India grinned, picked up the cup and the steaming teapot and headed for the door. “I have to get back with Serena’s tea. We have an American guest in the library. By the way, he ate four of your scones, plus jam and clotted cream.”

“Would that be Sir Peter’s American? I’ve heard there’s one staying over at Dalkirk.”

“One and the same.”

“Aye, I thought so.” She nodded knowingly. “There’s nae too many of them about these parts. Mr. Hunter, the butcher, told me personally that Miss MacGregor had heard from Mrs. MacC.—the housekeeper from Dalkirk, ye know—that the American gentleman’s an awf’y nice-mannered young man. He brought her a special bottle of perfume all the way from America, and he never forgets te’ leave a wee something for the staff.” She gave another firm nod. “There was a lot of talk in the village when Sir Peter went into business with him, but it seems it’s all worked out fer the best.” Mrs. Walker began piling dirty dishes, and a plate slid dangerously from her arthritic grip. India stopped herself from rushing to the rescue and pretended not to notice, knowing Mrs. Walker’s pride would be sorely hurt.

She left the kitchen with a bright smile and heavy heart, dreading what the morrow might bring. She hoped desperately that the estate could afford to keep Mrs. Walker and the others on. There was old Tompson, and Mackay, the gardener. And the tenants. What would happen to them if—She pulled herself up short. There was no use worrying, she reflected, reaching the library. She heard voices just beyond the door and realized she’d completely forgotten about Jack and Serena, her mind so taken up with other things. She hesitated before entering and felt a pang of inexplicable disappointment. Somehow Jack hadn’t struck her as Serena’s type. She paused to gather her composure and heard Serena’s smug voice.

“I suppose India was terrified. She probably didn’t realize she was getting in the way. She’s not used to our way of life, poor thing.”

“The whole incident was entirely my fault,” Jack replied in his pleasant American drawl. “It was my careless behavior, not hers, that caused the incident. I should have been paying more attention.” His was a voice used to giving orders and not being thwarted, she noted, amused despite her anger at Serena’s snide comment.

She entered the library and lay the cup on the tray, surprised that he’d admitted the blame so frankly, and feeling a glimmer of satisfaction at his deft handling of Serena.

“Thanks, darling.” Serena smiled benignly. At thirty-six she looked good, the slim figure from her modeling days in London still intact, and though her clothes were too flamboyant for India’s taste, she could carry them.

India wondered suddenly just how “acquainted” they actually were. Serena’s arched eyebrow and Jack’s discomfort, though quickly disguised, had not escaped her.

And what did it matter anyway? She sat down heavily, suddenly exhausted, the emotional stress of the last few days finally catching up with her.

Serena was telling a long, drawn-out story about the Kinnairds, herself and some of her aristocratic connections. India listened with half an ear to the monotonous monologue, and tried to take a polite interest. But when she caught Jack looking surreptitiously at his watch, she realized it was time to intervene.

When Serena paused for breath, India grabbed her chance. “It’s getting quite late. Please tell me when you feel we should get going.”

“Get going? Where?” Serena demanded, her voice imperious. “Have another drink, Jack, there’s really no hurry.”

“No thanks. I’ve had quite enough.”

The most unobservant person would have picked up the dryness of his tone. But not Serena. India was embarrassed despite herself. “I’m taking Mr. Buchanan back to Dalkirk,” she said formally. “There’s no cab available.”

“You have to be joking. You? You wouldn’t know your way to the end of the drive, let alone to Dalkirk.” Serena gave her a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Why not? I’m perfectly capable of getting in the car and following some directions. I’m sure you can tell me the easiest way to get there.”

“No, no. I can’t possibly allow it.” Serena turned to Jack. “She’s so kindhearted, poor thing, always doing things for others, but I can’t possibly let her go out on a night like this when she barely knows the way.”

“Stop being ridiculous, Serena,” India retorted, trying to mask her anger, writhing inwardly when Serena smiled patronizingly, as though she were explaining something to a very small child.

“I’ll just call the cab again. Maybe old MacFee will be home by now.” Jack stepped toward the desk.

“Good heavens, you won’t find him in at this time,” Serena interjected. “Old MacFee will be on his third round at the Hog and Hound by now. Don’t worry, Jack darling. I’ll take you. I know my way about like the back of my hand. I’m not likely to get lost.”

Jack hesitated, obviously not too pleased. Suddenly India gave up the fight, realizing it was pointless to have a quarrel, and decided to let Serena take him if she so wanted to. Not having to go out in the dark, on a road she didn’t know, and in what looked as though it might develop into a nasty snowstorm, would be a welcome relief. Her head was throbbing, her feet were killing her and all she wanted now was to get some rest. For a fleeting moment she wondered what Serena’s motive was for wanting to go. Maybe they knew each other far better than she suspected. If so, it was none of her business, and the sooner they left her in peace, the better.

Jack opened the door to allow them passage into the hall. Serena grabbed her jacket and barged through, heading straight for the porch, and down the stone steps to the heavy oak front door.

“See you later, India. I’ll lock up when I get back,” she threw over her shoulder.

Jack turned. Serena’s footsteps still echoed between them as they stood face-to-face under the high dome of the dimly lit stucco hall. There was a sudden lull, each waiting for the other to speak.

“You take care,” he said finally, taking her hand, and, to her surprise, raising it to his lips.

She blushed despite herself, thankful for the shadows. “Thanks for bringing me back.” She wanted to say, “And for being so understanding,” but instead she hastily retrieved her hand and tucked it in her pocket. “That’s Serena hooting in the car. The weather seems to be worsening by the minute. You’d better go.”

“Right.” He paused, lingering. “When are you leaving?”

“After the funeral. I have to get back home to Switzerland and work.”

“I guess that’s it then. Who knows, perhaps our paths will cross one day. Thanks for the tea and the tour of the house. I really enjoyed it. Goodbye for now, and good luck.” He seemed to hesitate, then smiled. India wasn’t sure if it was the light or her imagination, but all at once his eyes seemed alight once more with depth and understanding. As though he cared. She told herself to stop imagining things, and watched him head down the stone steps.

Halfway down he turned back, his eyes finding hers through the darkness. “And by the way, just to set the record straight, my name’s Jack, not Mr. Buchanan.”

Her mouth broke into an involuntary smile. “I’ll remember—Jack. By the way, don’t forget your gun and the dogs—and your jacket. Tell Serena to stop at the side door. It’s open.”

“Thanks, I will.”

He disappeared, leaving her to the haunting emptiness of the night and the echo of the front door closing loudly behind him. India shivered, pulled the cashmere cardigan closer about her shoulders, and wandered over the ancient Persian rug, its hues mellowed by the passage of generations of Dunbars. She stopped at the drum table standing alone in the middle of the vast hall and looked down at the vase of roses set there. Once more her heart filled with grief.

They were the flowers her mother had been arranging at the time of her death.

They remained, just as Lady Elspeth had left them. She had placed the last delicate rose in the Waterford vase, then been struck by a massive heart attack, dying as gracefully as she’d lived. India decided to take the roses and dry them. They would be a tiny part of her mother that would remain with her always.

Wandering over to the grand piano, she smoothed the surface of the instrument and sat down, gazing through the shadows at the keys. Slowly her fingers reached out to the keyboard and she began playing, the strains of Chopin enveloping her as she drifted into her mother’s favorite nocturne. India played in the dark, paying a last, solitary tribute to her mother, a woman she loved, yet who’d been somewhat removed from the realities of life.

The notes lingered, reaching up toward the high-ceilinged dome. Outside, snow fell, heavy and silent. The sitting-room lamps flickered, and shadows danced eerily on the stucco walls as India poured her feelings into the music. Love, vexation and anger mingled with a deep, abiding sense of loneliness. Finally her tears flowed unimpeded.

As nocturne came to a close, and the last resounding chords echoed, she lifted her hands from the piano and her tears flowed unimpeded. It was a precious moment she would always remember.

India rubbed her eyes thinking now of the problems ahead—debts, tax issues and God only knew what else. Lady Elspeth had always skimmed over the subject, uneager to dwell on anything disagreeable, and India had no clue how the estate had been left. It was another subject non grata. In a way it might be easier if Serena inherited the lot. As for her mother’s house in Switzerland, India had learned only the other day that it was mortgaged to the hilt. Poor Mummy. If it hadn’t been for the Marchese, her old and faithful admirer who’d helped her take charge of her affairs during these last few years, she would have ended up penniless.

But there was no point in dwelling on the negative.

India closed the lid of the Steinway, then trod wearily up the stairs, the strain of the last few days finally taking its toll.

On reaching the bedroom she flopped onto the faded counterpane of the four-poster bed, but the room was chilly, so she crawled under the covers, relieved that it would soon be all over.

The more she thought about it, the more sense it made that Mummy would have left Dunbar to Serena. After all, she herself hardly knew the place. Tomorrow, by this time, the funeral and the reading of the will would be over. Then she could leave, back to Chantemerle, her house by Lake Geneva, and to sanity.

She huddled sleepily under the quilt, wishing she’d brought a hot-water bottle. Turning on her pillow, she remembered her conversation with Jack. He’d struck her more as a big-business sort of man, yet he’d seemed genuinely enthusiastic and knowledgeable about his new project, the Palacio de Grès.

For a while she lay there, half-asleep, too tired to undress. She listened to the still night, broken only by the lonely hoot of an owl, thinking of all she had to do in Switzerland before leaving for Buenos Aires. But her mind kept returning to the look in Jack’s eyes when she’d told him about her mother. There had been true concern there. Something had occurred in that serene moment, as they stood, side by side, before the crackling flames. Something she couldn’t explain.

Strange, she reflected as sleep finally came, that the only true moment of peace she’d achieved since her arrival at Dunbar had been found in the company of a stranger.




2


The Range Rover progressed at a snail’s pace, as snowflakes pelted the windshield relentlessly

“What a dreadful night,” Serena remarked, eyes narrowed. “I hope it clears for the funeral tomorrow, or it’ll be damn difficult for the hearse to get up to the house.”

“I was sorry to hear about your mother,” Jack said, remembering India’s sad expression.

“Oh, that,” she replied vaguely. “Mmm, it’s rather a nuisance really. Such a tiresome time of year to be plodding outside in this dreadful weather. What’s going to be even more of a bore is getting everything ready for the sale.”

“What sale?”

“Dunbar.”

“You’re selling Dunbar?” Jack asked, surprised. When he’d commented to India that Dunbar would be an ideal setting for a hotel, her eyes had darkened, and she’d replied in such withering tones he’d felt like a jerk for allowing the thought to cross his mind.

“Yes, I’ve pretty well decided,” Serena continued. “I’ve no desire to keep it. It’s far too big. The heating bill alone is outrageous, and quite frankly, I’d rather have the money.” She slowed as they slid on a patch of ice. “Whew! That was close,” she remarked. “Awfully slippery out here.”

“When is your mother’s funeral?” he asked casually.

“Tomorrow at two. The burial will be afterward at Cockpen. We’ll probably all freeze to death while the minister blabbers on. He’s such a long-winded old bore.”

Jack tried to conceal his rising disgust. During his life, he’d crossed men and met with situations he’d rather not remember, but rarely had he come across a more self-centered, callous woman. Serena showed none of the sadness India obviously felt at her mother’s passing. Apparently all that concerned Serena was her own well-being, and how she could profit. He glanced sideways at her. The fact that he’d actually slept with this woman—brief, inebriated fling though it had been—filled him with abhorrence.

He tried to forget Serena, and considered the idea that had been taking shape hazily ever since he’d set eyes on the property, and that her words had reignited. He couldn’t help it. He was always picturing places as hotels. His hotels. If Dunbar could be acquired, it would be the perfect addition to the small group of upscale establishments he and Peter were investing in.

“Is your sister interested in selling the property, too?” he asked, casting Serena another sidelong glance. His eyes had gotten used to the dark now, and he tried to distinguish her expression. Something didn’t fly in all this for the two sisters to have such different views on the subject.

“It’s none of her business.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Mummy’s surely left the estate to me. India couldn’t possibly have any interest in it. She’s never spent time there. She already had the property in Switzerland, of course, which is actually worth more and is probably a damn sight easier to sell. It would have been out of the question for her to live at Dunbar.”

“Really, why’s that?” he asked, surprised, remembering India’s rapt expression as she’d shown him the house. She’d seemed enchanted with it, as though it was an important part of her existence.

“You weren’t brought up here so you probably wouldn’t understand. It’s rather difficult to be accepted in these parts if you’re not born into the right milieu. Of course, a foreigner’s very different,” she added, casting him a suggestive smile, “especially a wealthy, eligible one. In America you’re far more understanding of these things, aren’t you? Too understanding if you ask me. That’s why you have all sorts of riffraff mixing with their betters.”

Jack didn’t respond, still wondering what could possibly have induced him to end up with this woman in the Kinnairds’ second guest bedroom a few months back. That’d teach him not to mix his drinks, he reflected somberly. She’d been conveniently there, sexy, in a slinky black dress that did wonders for her figure, and before he’d known it they were on the carpet, Serena pulling off his clothes. And, he had to admit, doing a pretty damn good job. Lady Serena was a pro.

India’s face flashed to mind, and he experienced a sudden burst of discomfort. Two more different women would have been hard to find. On the one hand, India, poised, natural and beautiful—with something more Jack couldn’t put his finger on, but which further acquaintance might reveal. On the other, this obtrusive female who, although she was attractive and sexy, clearly lacked her sister’s quality.

“Are you going to list the property with a broker?” he asked, his mind jumping back to the possibility of acquiring Dunbar.

“Why? Would you be interested?” she asked archly.

“I could be…if the numbers were right.”

Serena glanced at him. “Why don’t you come over one day before you leave and take a look around.”

“Okay. Sounds like a good idea. If you could have some specs on hand—you know, information about the property, plans and so on, it’d be helpful.”

“Of course, I’ll see to it. When are you leaving?”

“I’ll be away for a couple of days, but I’ll be back on Saturday.”

“Fine. I’ll give you a ring or you can call me. Do you have the number?”

“I’ll find it.”

“When did you say Peter and Di are getting back from Perthshire?” she inquired, the wheels of the Range Rover crunching the freshly fallen snow as they rolled slowly up the drive.

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Good. Give them my love and tell Di I’ll be giving her a buzz.” They stopped at the front door. “You know, we should get together for dinner one night. I make a jolly decent soufflé, and we could think up something terribly exotic for dessert,” she purred, looking him over greedily.

Jack gave an inner shudder and opened the door of the vehicle. “Good night, Serena. Thanks for the ride. How do I get the dogs out?”

“It’s unlocked, just press the button,” she said, revving up the engine crossly.

Jack went to the back of the car, opened the hatch, letting the dogs loose, and picked up his gun. The snow was falling so thick that by the time he reached the front door he was covered.

Jack realized he was hungry after his day in the fresh air, even after the scones at tea. He cleaned his gun, then changed into more comfortable garb, all the while pondering the possibilities of Dunbar. He had a strange feeling about the place. Deep down, he just knew it could work. If the numbers were right and the specs were what he imagined they might be, this could be the gem he’d been searching for.

He slipped on a pair of loafers and wandered down the passage to the kitchen in search of Mrs. MacClean, the Kinnaird family’s housekeeper for over twenty-five years. Dunbar could wait; dinner, on the other hand, could not.

He opened the door and watched as Mrs. MacClean bustled happily about her business, unperturbed by the old-fashioned kitchen, not bothered by drawbacks that, by American standards, would be considered archaic. Jack guessed she’d probably protest vehemently if any changes were suggested.

She glanced up from the oven with a broad smile. “Och, here ye are, Mr. Jack. I was about to call ye fer yer dinner. It’ll be ready in just a wee while. I’ll get the table set.”

Jack stopped her. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. MacC., I’ll just eat in here tonight. Will you keep me company?” he asked with a winning smile.

“Lonely are ye, dearie? Well, all right. I’ll set the table in here fer ye. I won’t be half a tick.” She laid her oven gloves on the counter and extracted a table mat with a faded hunting scene and heavy silver cutlery from the cumbersome drawer below the kitchen table.

Jack leaned against the counter, savoring the delicious smell of roast lamb that filtered from the large Aga oven, and relaxed, enjoying the scene. He usually ate in restaurants or in one of the hotels. And when he was home at the penthouse in Miami—which was rarely—he ordered takeout. He recalled a time when he’d enjoyed eating in, way back in the days when Lucy was alive and they were two kids, playing at keeping house. She’d loved French cooking. It was ironic that, at the present stage of his existence, he’d eaten enough fancy French food to last him a lifetime.

He sighed. The memories and the what-might-have-beens were so present today. Time had not faded her image or blotted out the sweet moments of his early youth. He rarely allowed himself to unlock the safe within his soul, because when he did, the thoughts of Lucy were still so vivid they hurt. He could almost reach out and touch her soft golden hair, and lose himself in those blue eyes he’d loved so well.

Sometimes, but not often, he let himself think about their life together, how they’d fought to get married when everyone had told them they were too young, and how glad he was that they had. There had been so much young love, so many hopes and expectations. Ironically he had fulfilled most of them. Alone. Now he owned all the material things they’d dreamed of possessing, had traveled to all the places they’d conjured up as they cuddled under the covers in the little frame house that Jack had proudly put the down payment on with money he’d earned working nights and summers while his friends were goofing around or dating girls. But for him it had always been different. Ever since fifth grade he’d known he wanted to marry Lucy, just as she had him.

Then in one horrifying instant everything had changed. Lucy never saw the truck speeding toward her on the icy snow-covered road. And from then on his life had become an empty place. At twenty-two he had stood by her grave, a devastated young widower bereft of his child bride and the baby she was carrying. Overnight the boy became a man, bearing pain that only years of determination and discipline would teach him to handle.

“There ye go. We’re just about ready. Sit yersel’ doon, Mr. Jack, while I get the roast out of the oven fer ye.”

Jack snapped back to his present surroundings, startled by Mrs. MacC.’s voice.

He sat down at the table and thought of India, with her exotic name, her high-bred British accent and her green eyes that changed constantly, like a kaleidoscope. She’d seemed so vulnerable perched on that tree stump, with her knees tucked under her chin, staring at him warily and wrinkling her nose at the whiskey. She’d made him think of a woodland elf, yet that same instant, he’d envisioned her draped on a sofa in a black evening dress, diamonds around her throat and a glass of champagne in her hand.

The differences between India and Serena were really quite striking. But Serena’s oblique references to her half sister’s background had left him curious, and he wondered if Mrs. MacClean could be induced to shed some light on the matter.

He knew Dunbar was very special. His intuition never failed him when it came to choosing sites for hotels. In his history as a hotelier he’d made only one mistake, and that was ten years ago, when he was twenty-four and just beginning. Even then he’d salvaged his money.

The possibility of perhaps acquiring Dunbar was increasingly enticing, and he looked forward to getting his hands on the specs and an in-depth look at the property. Of course, the place would need a tremendous overhaul if anything did materialize, but the advantages far outweighed any drawbacks of that nature. Being so near the airport, a half hour’s drive at most, made it easy to include in luxury packages to London.

He wondered if Peter, who was involved in local politics, might think it was too close to home. The locals might be sticky about a hotel. Worst-case scenario, he could go it alone. But it seemed a great fit with everything they already had going, including the Buenos Aires project.

“Here ye go, Mr. Jack,” Mrs. MacClean said, whisking the roast onto the table. “Have yer supper afore it chills. There’s nothing worse than half-cold food. I brought ye the bottle of Burgundy Sir Peter opened. He says it does the wine good te’ be open fer a wee while.”

Jack snapped out of his reverie, picking up the white linen napkin from the old pine table, its patina softened by years of elbows and beeswax. “Sir Peter’s right,” he said, picking up the bottle, reading the label, impressed. “Good red wines usually do benefit from being uncorked for a few hours before they’re consumed.”

“Well, that’s what Sir Peter always says.” Mrs. MacClean looked pleased as she padded back and forth with different items. “Now, are ye all set?” Her small eyes scanned the table critically from above ruddy, weather-beaten cheeks.

“Yeah, thanks, this looks great.” Jack carved a large portion of lamb and poured himself a glass of the Chambertin ’61, raising it reverently to his nostrils, appreciating the strong body yet delicate bouquet. “Sir Peter sure chose a fine bottle, Mrs. MacClean.”

“Och aye, just like his father afore him. Old Sir Peter was one fer knowing the wines.”

Jack toyed with his glass appreciatively. He’d acquired a taste for good wines, and his wine cellar in Miami held some interesting acquisitions, mostly bottles and lots picked up at auction. He hoped when the time came to consume them they would still be drinkable. The bottles were supposed to have been recorked at the château of origin before maturing to twenty-five, but you could never really be certain.

Remembering his objective, he cut to the chase. “Mrs. MacC., tell me about the lady who died over at Dunbar House. The Dunbars sound like an interesting family.”

She held a dishcloth in midair and looked thoughtful. “Aye, I suppose they are, in their ain way. Poor Lady Elspeth, they say she had a lovely death.” She sighed dreamily, folding the cloth and laying it down. “She was arranging the roses in a vase—och, she was a beautiful flower arranger, Lady Elspeth was—when Mrs. Walker, she’s the housekeeper at Dunbar, came to bring her the secateurs. And what did she find but poor Lady Elspeth lying dead on the floor next to the table.”

“She must have had a massive heart attack.”

“Aye, that’s what Dr. MacDuff said when he came from the village. Gone before she knew it, he said. It was a terrible shock for poor Mrs. Walker, her wi’ her heart an’ all,” she added, shaking her head.

“Was Lady Elspeth married?”

“Twice widowed, poor soul. Her first husband, Lord Henry Hamilton died, oh…over thirty years ago. Then she married a Mr. Duncan Moncrieff.” She lowered her voice and pursed her lips. “The family was most upset, him not being of the same ilk, if ye know what I mean.”

Jack pricked up his ears. “No, actually I don’t. What was wrong with the guy?”

“It wasna’ anything wrong exactly, he just wasna’ from their world. He was a wealthy shipbuilder from Glasgow—not at all what the family was used to,” she added with a conclusive shake of her head. “He and old Sir Thomas had words, and Mr. Moncrieff wouldna’ set foot at Dunbar after the quarrel. Old Sir Thomas told him he wasna’ good enough for the likes of his sister, and Mr. Moncrieff left very angry. ’Twas a good thing they went te’ live abroad. People were talking, and it would have been awf’y tricky. When old Sir Thomas died a bachelor and Lady Elspeth inherited Dunbar, she was already widowed for the second time. My, how time flies.” She sighed, pouring some thick, butter-colored cream for Jack’s apple pie into a jug. “It seems as if it were only yesterday.”

“Yes, it does fly,” he agreed wistfully, thinking how the years had flown. If Lucy and the baby had lived—He banished the thought, having learned long ago to discipline his mind.

“Did they have children?”

“Aye, a wee girl. Miss India.”

“India. That’s a strange name.”

“Aye, but ye see, that’s where Lady Elspeth was born. Old Sir William, her father, was in India wi’ the Scots Guards, ye know. She must be twenty-five or -six by now.”

Jack reflected on this as he savored the succulent lamb, beginning to better understand the roots of Serena’s contemptuous attitude toward her half sister. So this was why the Dunbar inheritance had been left the way it had. No wonder those boys back in 1776 had taken the reins into their own hands—and a damn good thing, too.

To him, an American, earning money and rising from poverty to riches was commendable. It seemed absurd that India’s father had been ostracized merely because he wasn’t born into the same social class as her mother.

Surely things couldn’t be as old-fashioned as that. This was the ’90s after all. He wondered if this was the general attitude, or if perhaps Mrs. MacC. was part of a dying breed. Diana and Peter certainly didn’t come across as being in the least bit snobbish or narrow-minded. Maybe they would be, though, if one of their daughters wanted to marry out of the mold.

“Tell me more about the Dunbars. They’ve lived there forever, haven’t they?”

“Och aye. The Dunbars have been in these parts fer as long as anybody can remember. So have the Kinnairds, mind ye. Now they say that Sir Jamie Kinnaird—”

“But haven’t the Dunbars been here even longer?” He interrupted, regretting it the minute he’d spoken.

Mrs. MacClean drew herself up to her full four foot nine and looked him straight in the eye. “The Kinnairds, Mr. Jack, are the oldest family in these parts. It’s a known fact that Sir Peter’s ancestor fought wi’ Robert the Bruce himsel’, and they were here long, long afore that,” she said, waving the dishcloth and making the Battle of Falkirk sound like a recent event.

“Of course. I remember Peter telling me that,” Jack lied.

“As for Lady Diana’s family,” she continued, warming to the theme, “it goes sae far back they canna’ even tell nae more. The Dunbars have been here almost as long, but the Kinnairds were definitely here first.” Her tone left no room for contradiction. “There’s the legend of Rob Dunbar, of course—that was back in the rebellion in ’45. He went to fight fer Bonnie Prince Charlie, although most of the Dunbars were loyal te’ Wee German Geordie.”

“Most interesting, Mrs. MacClean. You know, this pie is fit for Bonnie Prince Charlie himself!” He grinned at her in a shameless bid to return to her good graces.

“Och, yer a flatterer, Mr. Jack. I’m sure ye’ve eaten much finer dishes in those fancy hotels ye and Sir Peter are forever running around in. It seems to me neither of ye ever sit doon te’ breathe.”

“Fancier perhaps, Mrs. MacC., but certainly not finer.”

She shook with laughter and then stood still, listening. “Is that a car I hear? Who the de’il could be coming here at this hour?”

The dogs were barking near the door. “I’d better gae and see. You get on wi’ yer pudding.”

“I’ll come with you. I’ve just about finished anyway,” he said, laying the napkin aside, not liking the idea of her going alone.

Mrs. MacClean laughed. “Och, dinna’ worry, I’ll be fine. There’s nae criminals in these parts, Mr. Jack. This isna’ America.”

A knock sounded at the side door. Whisking off her apron, she hurried to answer.

“I’ll be off, then. Good night, Mrs. MacC., and thanks. That was one great dinner.”

Jack headed down the corridor to Peter’s study. He pushed aside some papers and brochures on the desk, making space for himself. His eyes wandered around the busy room filled with old relics, faded photographs and ancient weapons that lay strewn amongst the paraphernalia and stacks of books. Peter was a hoarder, he remarked, smiling to himself as he watched Felix, the older of the three retrievers, scratching the threadbare hem of the drapes. “Hey, don’t do that, Felix, that’s destruction of property,” he chided. Felix paid no attention.

He suddenly remembered that evening five years ago, in Hong Kong, when he’d sat with Peter at the bar of the Penn, celebrating their partnership. The two men had liked each other from the start. There was something frank and straightforward in Peter’s ruddy face. The man stood straight as a ramrod when he was on the job, his military days in the Black Watch not forgotten. Jack’s instinct had told him he was dealing with a straight shooter, and time had proved him right. Both their business and friendship had prospered.

Jack rose and poured himself a brandy from the decanter before selecting a Cohiba from the humidor. He gently rolled the tip in the amber liquid, Cuban style, before lighting it. The smoke spiraled up, climbing slowly on its narrow path toward the ceiling as he recalled their dinner at Gaddi’s and the strange atmosphere of the evening. Both men had been subdued rather than elated, as though aware they were stepping into a new era. Suddenly Peter had turned to him and said, “Why don’t you visit us at Dalkirk, Jack. I think you’d enjoy Scotland. We’ve some fairly decent shooting and fishing, and I’d like you to meet my wife, Diana, and the girls.”

Jack’s thoughts were brusquely interrupted when the door burst open and Chloë entered, wrapped, like a snow queen, in a three-quarter-length sable coat and hat.

“Hello, Yank. I didn’t know you were here.” Diana’s lovely young sister threw her Vuitton tote on the leather armchair, and removed her coat, then came over and gave him a hug.

“What brings you here out of the blue?” he asked, watching, amused, as she slowly wound down. Chloë was like a fashionable pixie, short and dark-haired, with bright blue eyes that sparkled mischievously in a pert face. It always surprised him how someone so small could have so much energy. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“Oh lovely! G and T please, I’m exhausted. I’m here on an emergency,” she added, her expression suddenly sad. “Where are Peter and Di?”

“At your mother’s for the girls’ half-term break.”

“That’s right, I forgot. Why didn’t you go?” She eyed him curiously.

“I didn’t feel like it.”

“Sorry, I just asked. I had a rotten journey by the way. There were no taxis at Turnhouse, so finally I rented a car, which I’ll have to leave at the airport on the way back. But I had to come.” She gave a heavy sigh.

“I’ve gathered that, but you still haven’t told me why,” Jack said patiently, handing her the drink before retreating once more behind the voluminous desk.

“Funeral.” She grimaced, looking distressed. “My best friend’s mother died. We’ve always been there for each other since boarding school. I popped up on the shuttle, and I’ll leave tomorrow night or early the next day.”

“Do you mean India’s mom?”

“Yes…but how do you know that?” Chloë asked in astonishment.

“We’ve met.”

“You didn’t!” She laid the glass of gin and tonic down and leaned forward, herself once more. “You must tell me all about it.”

“Nothing much to tell. I met her in the glen. She almost got herself shot. Should have been paying more attention.”

“Are you telling me someone almost shot India?”

“I’m telling you I almost shot India.”

“What on earth would you want to do that for?” She frowned blankly.

“Jeez, Chlo, it was a mistake, dammit.” It irritated him even to think about it.

“Golly. What on earth did you do? What did she do?” Her bright blue eyes sparkled, rampant with curiosity, her romantic streak clearly at work.

“Threw her on the ground and raped her,” he replied sarcastically.

“Don’t be so rotten-tempered. Tell me the truth. I’ll bet she was livid.”

“She was—told me to get lost, said I was trespassing.”

“That’s India for you. Very much the grande dame when she sets her mind to it. Go on,” she egged, her sadness momentarily swept aside.

“You’re too darn nosy.”

“No I’m not, I’m a journalist,” Chloë replied with dignity. “It’s my business to acquire information and relay it truthfully to the public.”

“Chlo, you’re a society gossip columnist, for goodness’ sake. Next, you’ll even have me believing you.”

She ignored him and frowned. “So India left in a huff, I suppose, and then what?”

“And then she fainted, and I took her back home. How’s that?”

“India, fainting?” Chloë shook her head in amazement, then said sadly, “It’s probably due to all the strain she’s going through, poor darling. But isn’t she gorgeous?”

Of course she was, Jack acknowledged privately, but he was darned if he was about to admit it. “She’s okay,” he replied casually. “Not my type though, so don’t start scheming. I don’t need complications in my life now—or ever, for that matter. I’m fine the way I am,” he said, pushing back his chair with a shove. For some reason, he didn’t want to talk about the moments he’d spent with India—he was still trying to figure them out for himself.

“Poor, darling Indy. I can’t believe you don’t think Indy’s gorgeous, all men do. She keeps them at arm’s length, though.”

“What’s she doing with a best friend like you then?” he asked, taunting.

Chloë eyed him darkly and shook a finger at him. “Now I know why you’re not married. Nobody could stand that obnoxious streak of yours. I’m getting myself another drink.”

Jack grinned in response and gazed into the fire while Chloë poured herself a generous gin and tonic. He felt good at Dalkirk. It was perhaps less perfect in style than Dunbar, the house having been added to over the years with more attention paid to comfort than aesthetics, but it was very homey. There were lots of nooks and crannies where the little Kinnaird girls loved to play hide-and-seek. Diana’s presence and good taste could be felt throughout in the small details, like the bowls of heather-scented potpourri or a small vase of flowers on a Chippendale table.

The house was just untidy enough to feel truly at ease in. Not like the penthouse, he realized gloomily, where everything stood dusted to perfection on the gleaming marble floors and glass shelves. He’d bought it for its spectacular view, its proximity to his office and because it was a great real estate opportunity. But a house was a house, he reflected, feeling suddenly nostalgic.

Scotland seemed to have carved a special niche in his heart, and ever since that first spontaneous visit, he’d become a regular guest here. Dalkirk was the closest thing to a home he’d known in years, for the Kinnairds had adopted him as part of the family, with Chloë teasing in a sisterly fashion and Diana hovering, her maternal instincts aroused.

As he watched Chloë climb back into the large leather sofa, curling her small legs beneath her, he realized how much he’d truly come to care for them all.

“A penny for ’em,” Chloë said, watching him closely from under her thick dark lashes.

“Just thinking about you Kinnairds. You’ve been real friends to me,” he said, pulling on the cigar.

“Jack, darling, we adore you. The old place wouldn’t be the same without you!” She lifted her glass, smiling at him affectionately. “And I have someone to tease whenever I come home. Anyway, why wouldn’t we be real friends?”

“You’d be surprised.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Most people only invite me to their homes when they want something. They can’t cut straight to the chase, so they go through the BS of having me to their home, wining and dining me, before getting to the point. But the first time Peter invited me here, he genuinely wanted me to come, and I felt it. You guys have made me feel at home ever since.”

“Well, you are rather a decent chap. If you weren’t so odiously overbearing, I’d have a go at you myself,” she said teasingly.

“Forget it. I’m a rolling stone.”

“You pretend to be but I don’t believe you are at heart. You can be quite sweet at times, when you want,” she added perceptively.

“Chloë, give me a break. I’ve had a long day. I only got back from Dunbar a couple of hours ago. Serena drove me.”

“What, that horrible creature?”

“No shit!”

“Swear away, don’t worry about me!” Chloë said blithely. “Though I agree with you about Serena. Behind all that elegance and class, India’s a very lovely, sensitive person. And a lot of fun, too, when she wants,” she continued as though the subject hadn’t changed.

“She seems to know her business back to front.”

“We have been observant, haven’t we?” she teased. “What was Serena doing there anyway? Getting ready for the spoils, no doubt.”

“Looks like it. Apparently she’s inherited Dunbar.”

“That’s very possible. Lady El may have left it to her. Maybe she thought Serena might as well have Dunbar. After all, Indy’s never really been attached to the place. I’ll go over early tomorrow to give her moral support. She’ll need it with Serena around. By the way, that brings something to mind,” she said, a mischievous grin replacing the sad look of seconds earlier. “What happened that night at the party in September? I saw the two of you slipping upstairs.”

“That’s none of your business. I will only say that it was a regrettable incident that I’m not proud of. Anyway, a nice girl like you shouldn’t be talking these things over with guys.”

“It’s not guys, it’s only you,” she said disdainfully.

“Thanks a lot. Just don’t you start opening your big mouth to Peter and Di.”

“Promise.” She crossed her heart, looking pensive all of a sudden. Jack watched as her eyes turned misty, and she gazed into the flames.

“New man in your life, Chlo?”

“How did you know?” she exclaimed, almost spilling her drink.

“It’s written all over you.”

“Jack,” she said, eyeing him seriously, “I think this time it’s the real thing.”

“Shoot.”

“He’s…different, you know, not like the other chaps I meet.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “That’s what you said about the last three.”

“There! You see? I knew I shouldn’t have said anything, now you’ll be horrid,” Chloë exclaimed crossly.

“He’s bought the magazine. He’s diversifying his interests,” she added grandly.

“And what are those?”

“He’s in oil and all sorts of things. He’s from Texas.”

“What does he want with a gossip magazine?” Jack asked, curious.

“He wants to expand it. In fact, he’s offered me the job of chief editor in New York,” she said casually, knotting the fringe of the cushion. “I don’t know, though. I love London, but everything is happening over there. Lots of Brits in the business on Madison Ave., you know.”

“Do you come in the package with the paper?”

“What a horrid thing to say,” she exclaimed, aiming the cushion at him. He dodged it. She brooded for a second then asked, “Did Indy look miserable? I talked to her yesterday, and she sounded pretty down in the dumps. Not her usual self at all. Lady El was so super, we’ll all miss her.”

“I don’t know.” He replied, his tone noncommittal, “I learned about her mother’s death by pure fluke. If I hadn’t put my foot in it, she probably wouldn’t have mentioned it. She was the perfect hostess.”

“Typical!” Chloë exploded. “I wish she’d loosen up. It was that marriage to that prick, Christian, that made her clam up like that.”

“She’s married?” He felt an inexplicable stab of disappointment.

“Not anymore, thank God,” she added darkly, taking a long, thoughtful sip of her drink.

“How long were they married?”

“A couple of years.”

“What happened?”

“Now who’s being nosy?”

“Mere curiosity.”

Chloë frowned. “He dropped her like a hot potato for a German heiress, a Princess von something-or-other, when he found out that Lady El had pretty well got through Indy’s father’s fortune. Hopeless with money, poor Lady El. I can’t think why India’s father didn’t leave it in trust for them, but anyway, he didn’t. So that was that as far as the dashing Comte de Monfort was concerned.” She looked up, her eyes full of anger. “The coward didn’t have the guts to tell her outright. He wrote her a long rambling letter—he even had the bloody nerve to say he owed it to his family to preserve the family fortunes and the purity of their lineage. Can you believe it?”

“What a jerk,” he said, feeling unaccountably angry on India’s behalf.

“Yes, and now all she ever does is work. I could murder Christian for what he did. It was the last straw. It affected her more than she’ll admit. That’s why she’s thrown herself into La Dolce Vita so intensely. That and the fact she needed to make money or she would have lost Chantemerle.”

Jack listened intently, dying to ask more, but knowing it would only excite Chloë’s curiosity.

She yawned. “I’d better go and phone Indy, poor darling, then I’m off to bed. I’m exhausted.”

“Good night, brat.” Jack rose and handed her the fur coat.

“Brat indeed,” Chloë sniffed as she picked up her bag.

“You need a guy who can keep you in line, young lady.”

Chloë stuck her tongue out at him and left.

Jack turned back into the room, smiling. He picked up a book left open on the table next to the sofa and glanced at it. It was the latest Grisham. That should keep him busy for the evening.

Making sure the fire was out, he turned off the lights. Then he walked into the hall and slowly up the main staircase, his mind straying back to India. By the time he reached his room, he’d persuaded himself there was nothing unusual about his interest. It was just an interesting set of circumstances and frankly, he’d feel sorry for anyone in her situation—it was only natural.

He glanced at the book wryly. It was a long time since he’d needed anything to keep his mind from straying to a woman. Don’t get involved, Jack. It’ll only mean trouble, a little voice inside him warned. But his gut told him otherwise, and Jack always followed his gut.




3


The visceral attachment to Dunbar that India was experiencing had caught her wholly by surprise. Considering she’d never lived or spent any long periods of time here, she was unable to fathom why everything felt so strangely familiar. She hadn’t been back much since her childhood, yet she felt at home, as though part of her being had remained fettered here all these many years. It was like a colorful tapestry and she a silken thread, woven into the intricate pattern that reached deep into Dunbar’s soul.

She wandered through the picture gallery and gazed up at the portrait of Lady Helen, her great-grandmother. Something in the soft hazel eyes spoke of wisdom and understanding, as though Lady Helen were telling her not to worry, to go on her way in peace. India found herself smiling back.

Moving silently in the early-morning hush, she went from room to room, etching each detail to memory. This was a special moment, possibly one of the last she would ever spend here.

The thought of the estate being sold made her cringe. Walking through the house with Jack yesterday had brought home just how much Dunbar really meant to her, and she wondered for the umpteenth time what its final destiny would be. Even if Serena inherited, would she be prepared to keep up the property, to put in the time and work it would take? She considered her half sister for a moment and sighed. Probably not. If the past was anything to go by, Serena would sell and be out of there before she could say Jack Robinson.

She reached her mother’s bedroom, gently twisting the handle of the large oak door. The tranquillity within the lavender-scented room remained intact, as though Lady Elspeth were merely out for a while. The bottle of Yardley’s scent she’d perfumed her handkerchiefs with stood on the skirted dressing table. Beside it stood the Charles of the Ritz face creams, next to the crystal container of cotton wool.

India trailed her fingers nostalgically over the chintz counterpane, stopping to gaze around the room, reliving for a heartfelt moment the ever-present images of her mother. Then she looked through the frosty panes at the fresh snow covering the lawn. The white blanket shimmered under the silver rays of winter sunshine, playing a silent game of hide-and-seek with the ponderous clouds traveling south toward the hills beyond. It was a peaceful sight and she stood for a while gazing at the Dunbar oak, standing regal and alone.

William, the first Dunbar to settle here, had planted the tree in 1280. Suddenly she remembered her mother repeating his pledge, which had been handed down from generation to generation: While the oak tree stands, a Dunbar will always walk this land.

India drew her eyes away sadly. If the property were sold, William’s vow would be broken. The scene reminded her of the Constables and other paintings hanging on the drawing-room walls. One in particular came to mind, and she wondered how many of them would have to be sold to cover the taxes and death duties she knew would be crippling.

As she was about to leave, India caught sight of the small writing desk Lady Elspeth had used for her private correspondence. An uncapped fountain pen lay on a sheet of half-written writing paper. She crossed the room and picked up what appeared to be an unfinished letter, realizing with a start that it was addressed to her.

My dearest India,

I am sending this off to you today, for I am most distressed. I am suffering from a dreadful dilemma and need to speak to you urgently. Please come to Dunbar as quickly as you can. I’d call, but I’m afraid I will be overheard. You need to be aware—

The letter was cut short, as though Lady Elspeth had been interrupted. India frowned, glancing at the date. The letter had been written on the day of her mother’s death. What could possibly have been troubling Lady Elspeth so deeply? What was this fear of being overheard? India took the note and, folding it carefully, slipped it into her jacket pocket, frowning. She couldn’t allow herself to think about this now. Later, after the funeral, she’d try to piece things together.

The house was still quiet as she descended the main staircase and headed to the breakfast room, trying to shake off the troubling sensation the note had left.

Reaching the door, she took a deep breath and straightened the skirt of her black Chanel suit, hoping Serena was still in bed, and that she might have the place to herself before the onslaught later that morning.

But no such luck awaited her. Serena lounged at the table, one leg flung carelessly over the arm of the next chair. She looked up as India entered.

“Good morning.” She waved languidly to a chair at the table and lit a cigarette. “Have some breakfast, God knows we’ll need it. Kathleen was in here a few minutes ago bumbling on about Ian and that lawyer Ramsey being here at ten. You know, I don’t know how Mummy stood Kathleen around her the whole time. She can be such a bore. The way she goes on, you’d think she owned the place,” she added resentfully.

India murmured good morning, then sat down, listening to Serena with half an ear. She wasn’t hungry, but the last thing she needed was her tummy rumbling throughout the reading of the will.

She opted for toast and went to the sideboard, placing two pieces of bread in the toaster. Serena seemed preoccupied, but over the years India had become used to her sudden changes of mood. One minute Serena could be effusive, the next sarcastic. Now she seemed far away.

India watched the toast pop up, thinking how odd it was to have the same parent, yet feel so distant. It made her suddenly sad, especially now that only they remained.

“Toast,” Serena exclaimed suddenly, making India jump. “Not a bad idea. Pop in a piece for me, will you?” She stubbed out the last of her cigarette in an empty glass of orange juice, and reached down her leg. “I tripped on that wretched carpet in the hall. It’s all ragged at the edge. Almost broke my leg. In fact, I think I’ve twisted my ankle.” She grimaced and rubbed her shin gingerly. “Funny finding Jack Buchanan here,” she continued as though the subject were one and the same. “Do you know he hardly even thanked me when I dropped him off at Dalkirk? I thought it was damn nice of me to go out on such a filthy night. Some people are thoroughly bad-mannered—but I suppose they’ve never been taught otherwise. By the way, what did you think of him?” She glanced at India. “He’s Peter Kinnaird’s partner, you know. Stinking rich, of course. I’m surprised someone hasn’t nabbed him yet.”

“Perhaps he’s involved,” India remarked, returning to the table and handing Serena the silver toast rack.

“Not him! He’s very much the ladies’ man. That I can assure you,” she said with a sly smirk. “Not your style though, I shouldn’t think. He’s more the let’s get straight to it type, which I’m sure you’d disapprove of.”

“It’s nothing to me what or who he is,” India replied indifferently.

“Just don’t get your fingers burned, darling. I saw the way he was eyeing you. He’s tough as nails, you know, but between you and me, he’s a damn good fuck.”

India set her teacup back in the saucer with a snap. “Serena, I don’t care if he’s God’s gift to women. All that concerns me right now is Mummy’s funeral and what’s happening later on this morning. I think you might show a little more respect.”

“Oh, la-di-da. Excuse me for offending your sensibilities.” Serena cast her a sarcastic look. “Anyway, what matters now is getting the will business dealt with,” she exclaimed in a very different tone.

“Do you have any idea how things stand?”

“No. Ramsey keeps harking on. He says we mustn’t mention the difficult straits the estate’s in. As if I would. I’m the last person to want a rumpus. I’d be out on the street if it weren’t for the bank loaning me money because I stand to inherit Dunbar.” She lit another cigarette and mused. “I’m going to have enough to do here as it is without a bunch of panicked tenants and staff on my hands.” Serena flicked back a strand of her long blond hair with a disdainful sniff.

India said nothing. She knew very little about the intricacies of running an estate, but imagined they must not be easy. Serena spoke as though she already owned the place, and India wondered with a pang if she’d be a good caretaker. It would make sense if Serena inherited. After all, she was a part of this closed little social enclave, where she herself was—or at least had been made to feel—an outcast.

“The home farm has to be dealt with. As for the shoot—But I shouldn’t be boring you with things that you know nothing about. I’ll just have to get on with it, I suppose—unless I decide to sell,” she added casually.

“Sell?” India asked, dismayed despite herself. “But there have been Dunbars here for over seven hundred years, Serena. I gather things aren’t in great shape financially, but surely everything should be done to try and hold on to the property. I think that’s what Mummy would have expected.”

“I don’t know if I’m prepared to go to all the trouble and expense of keeping the place. Plus, think of the money I’d make. You don’t have to worry about that sort of thing, do you?” Serena raised a haughty eyebrow.

Up until that morning India hadn’t thought seriously about the will, her mind too consumed with the shock of her mother’s death, but her hackles rose at Serena’s blithe disregard for the estate she apparently already assumed was hers. “If you mean, can I get by with what I make? Yes, I can. It’s taken me a few years but things are running pretty smoothly at La Dolce Vita, and this last job in Brazil finally got rid of the mortgage on Chantemerle. But that has nothing to do with this. I don’t know that I want to sell Dunbar.”

Serena looked astonished. “Who says you’ll have anything to do with it? You don’t really think Mummy would expect me to share Dunbar with you?”

“I see no reason why not,” India answered levelly. “You seem to forget that I have as much of her blood as you.”

“Yes, unfortunately. Mummy was a traitor to me and to her class. She had no business marrying your father, and much less having you. She owes me Dunbar.”

India controlled her temper with an effort, finally understanding Serena’s veiled sarcastic comments over the past years. She stood up and went to the fireplace.

“It must be lovely to waltz through life so completely convinced of one’s innate superiority, Serena, but forgive me if I don’t curtsy and kiss your ring. You have no right to speak to me like that,” she said, her voice controlled.

“I’ll tell you exactly what gives me the right. I was born before you and my father was a nobleman. You are nothing but a bad mistake, one that Mummy regretted but was too proud to do anything about. I suppose you think that if you inherit Dunbar you’ll become one of us. But you won’t, you know. You’ll always be an outcast.” She gave a short, harsh laugh.

“Surely you don’t think I care what society thinks of me?” India gave an astonished laugh. “I stopped worrying about fitting in years ago. What I’m worried about is Dunbar, about the land and the people, like Mrs. Walker and old Tompson, who’ve worked here for thirty-some years and now have nowhere to go. Surely that must mean something to you, Serena?” India struggled to master her fury, swallowing the bile that rose bitterly in her throat and clenching her fists till her knuckles turned white. “And as for rights, I am as much a part of this family as you, whether you like it or not. This is the home of my ancestors, too, and there is no reason why I shouldn’t have exactly as much say when it comes to Dunbar’s future.”

“You’re either nuts, India, or you simply don’t understand these things.” Serena shook her head pityingly and reached for more coffee.

“Good morning, ladies.” The sound of a guttural male voice made India spin on her heel. Maxi, Serena’s German boyfriend, stood in the doorway, pasty and stiff with his formal bow and immaculate dress. His blond hair was cut short, with geometrical precision, and slicked back from his forehead. He’d obviously had his ear glued to the door, she realized angrily.

She looked him over, studying the supercilious twist of his lips, the watery blue eyes void of expression, wondering, not for the first time, what Serena could possibly see in him. And she refused to discuss their family affairs in front of strangers.

“I’m going upstairs,” she announced, not bothering to conceal her dislike.

“Temper, temper,” Serena murmured as India prepared to leave. She turned to Maxi, laughing. “India actually thinks Mummy might have left her Dunbar,” she exclaimed with an amused smirk as he moved over to the table and sat down.

At least he had the grace to appear uncomfortable, India noted. But she didn’t like the ease with which he settled at the table, looking for all the world as though he owned the place.

“Don’t be late for the reading of the will,” Serena threw at her. “A mere formality I’m sure, but one that has to be gone through. Then we’ll know exactly how things stand, won’t we, India dear?”

“Yes, we shall,” India replied curtly, staring Serena straight in the eye. “But let me make one thing perfectly clear. He’s not to be here for the reading of the will. This is a family affair.”

“How dare you speak like that to poor Maxi, when he was so kind to Mummy.” Serena’s voice rose angrily.

“Hmm. Tell me, Serena, why was Mummy so anxious for me to come here? Why did she write to me, requesting I come in person?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, India. But I’ll have whoever I want in this house.”

“Not until we know whose house it is.” She turned and faced Maxi, who stared at her with undisguised disdain. “I think you’ve both been trying to pressure Mummy to sell Dunbar, and that’s why she was so upset.”

Serena rose abruptly, and the two women faced each other. “Don’t you dare speak to me or any of my friends like that. Pressuring Mummy indeed.” Serena leaned forward, blond strands falling wildly about her face. “You say one more word and—”

“I’ve taken about as much rudeness from you as I’m prepared to stand, Serena,” India replied, knowing she was losing her temper, but beyond caring. “I won’t have you insulting Mummy’s memory on the day of her funeral with your abominable behavior. At least you could pretend you care.”

“How dare you? How dare you speak to me in that tone?” Serena’s voice rose to an even higher pitch.

“I should have spoken to you like this years ago, but I never did because I didn’t want to upset Mummy, and I had the misbegotten idea that someday we might actually get on together.”

Serena cast India an angry look and returned to her seat at the head of the table.

“Serena, darling, calm down, my dear.” Maxi walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sure you understand that this is a family affair and that you have no business here. It’s nothing personal,” India said, addressing him as calmly as she could.

“He’s not leaving. I have every right to have him here. We’re getting married, after all. At least I can hold on to a man.”

“You’re wasting your time, Serena. I refuse to rise to your bait.” India turned on her heel and walked from the room, closing the door loudly behind her.

She sighed with relief, unclenching her fists, and headed quickly up the stairs and along the passage to her bedroom. There she lay down on the bed, determined to calm down before the reading of the will, careful not to wrinkle her clothes. The Chanel suit was special, a gift from Lady Elspeth a few years back when money had been no object. India smiled. Her mother had always been so chic, she’d want her to look her best today.

She thought suddenly of Jack and what Serena had said, wondering if he had slept with her. And what did it matter if he had? It was really none of her business. Today she had vital issues to deal with, issues which could change her life, and the lives of those who had served her family so faithfully. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, conscious that all she could do was wait and prepare to deal with the worst.

Mr. Ramsey, the gray-suited family solicitor, put on his tortoiseshell glasses and addressed the room at large.

India sat on the sofa next to her cousin Kathleen, who, over the past few years, had been Lady Elspeth’s faithful companion. At forty-seven, Kathleen was plump and cheerful, her rosy cheeks wide and round below a pair of twinkling hazel eyes. Her hair was short, nondescript and graying, and the faded tweed skirt and jacket she wore were as threadbare as the sofa they were sitting on. Mrs. Walker sat on India’s left, sniffing now and then into a large handkerchief. Ian, India’s second cousin, sat opposite, his thin frame stiff, his dim blue eyes glancing disapprovingly at Serena, who sat next to him looking bored with the whole proceeding. She obviously considered this a triviality in the bigger scheme of her taking possession of Dunbar. Thankfully, there was no sign of Maxi.

When the family arrived, Kathleen had assumed the role of hostess, warmly welcoming Mr. Ramsey and suggesting suitable seating arrangements. She’d asked Mrs. Walker to bring out some of her famous scones, and then busily set about pouring tea for everyone. Serena had sulked in the corner of the sofa, pretending India didn’t exist. Not that it mattered, she reflected impatiently. After the morning’s scene, she hardly wanted to acknowledge the relationship herself.

After the tea and scones had been consumed, a hush fell over the room as the solicitor cleared his throat.

“We are assembled here today for the reading of the last will and testament of Lady Elspeth Caroline Moncrieff, formerly Hamilton, nee Dunbar.” Mr. Ramsey’s voice droned on for several minutes as he read through the legal formalities.

Some special bequests were made to Kathleen and Ian, and also to the old family retainers, Mrs. Walker and old Tompson.

India wondered if Mrs. Walker would want to stay on now that her mother was gone. She’d been very fond of Lady Elspeth. India glanced down at the gnarled hands clutching the hankie and her heart sank. It would kill Mrs. Walker not to be fussing around the kitchen, scolding, making scones and worrying about what was happening in the village.

When the main section of the will had been reached, Mr. Ramsey peered at India and Serena over the rim of his glasses.

“To my daughters, Serena Helen Hamilton and India Dunbar Moncrieff, I bequeath my entire estate, to be divided equally between them. Dunbar House, and the property pertaining to it, shall be owned and operated by them both. In the event one of my daughters wishes to retain ownership of the aforesaid property, she will acquire the other’s share at fair market value.”

Serena sat up with a jerk. Rising abruptly, she interrupted Mr. Ramsey. “What do you mean both? You’ve read that wrong. Here, give it to me!” She rushed forward, grabbing the will from the astonished Mr. Ramsey’s hand.

“Serena!” Ian jumped up. “Control yourself, for goodness’ sake!”

“My, this is quite an unexpected turn of events,” Kathleen said distractedly, her face very pale. She stared shrewdly at Serena and then laid a hand on India’s knee. “I’ve always thought she had a loose screw, but this…”

India sat perfectly still, oblivious to Serena’s ranting, letting the information sink in. She owned Dunbar—albeit in co-ownership with Serena—but it was hers. Elation ran through her as the full meaning of Mr. Ramsey’s words registered. She did belong here after all.

“I’ll contest it, I tell you! I’ll get it revoked, do you hear?” Serena waved the sheaf of papers wildly. “Mummy would never have left Dunbar to her!”

Mr. Ramsey spoke up. “Lady Serena, this is a legal proceeding, I must ask you to be seated so that we may continue in an orderly fashion. These matters can be discussed at another—”

“Oh, shut up! You connived this with her. You’re to blame, you—”

“Serena, that’s quite enough. Control yourself.” Ian took a firm grip of her arm. “If you can’t get a hold on yourself, I think you’d better leave. Your behavior’s deplorable,” he added in a low voice as he conducted her back to the sofa. “I’m sorry about this, Ramsey. But I think we may proceed without further fear of interruption.” He cast a meaningful look at Serena as she sat down, disgruntled.

The reading of the will continued with the disposition of special items of jewelry Lady Elspeth had been particularly fond of.

India’s eyes watered as her mother’s final bequests were made. “To my dearest daughter India, I leave my Van Cleef & Arpels diamond necklace and bow brooch, the sapphire and diamond Chaumet ring given to me by her father on the occasion of our engagement…” Everything had been very fairly divided between the two girls. India wondered how her mother had been able to hold on to such expensive jewelry. The Marchese probably, she realized fondly. Giordano, Lady El’s longtime friend and admirer, would have died twice rather than allow Mummy to part with her jewelry.

The forbidding look on Mr. Ramsey’s face told her there was bad news to come. Maybe the necklace and the brooch would have to be sold, however much it would hurt her to part with them. She knew Mummy would understand. Dunbar and its retainers were more important than anything now.

Kathleen was talking rapidly, her face somewhat strained. “Serena’s livid at the way things have been left,” she commented in a loud whisper. “Silly girl, to think she deserves Dunbar all for herself. Now she’s joint owner with you and doesn’t have the money to buy you out. Serves her jolly well right. Are you in a position to buy her portion?” she inquired casually.

India shook her head. “No. We’ll have to make do as best we can.”

“You can count on me for any help you may need, my dear. As you well know, I was very fond of your dear mama. I feel dreadful that I wasn’t here when she died. Of all the silly times to have been visiting Great-Aunt Moira.” She shook her head sadly. India noticed that she seemed even paler than before. What a shock her mother’s death must have been for Kathleen.

“Thanks.” India turned and smiled, genuinely grateful for the kind offer. “Of course, you will stay on here, won’t you, Kathleen?”

“That’s so sweet and generous of you, India.” Kathleen squeezed her hand fondly, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I hope I’m not being too proud when I say I know the place better than anyone. I believe I may be of some help to you. Of course, it’s no easy task to run an estate. God only knows what I would have done if my father had lived and I’d inherited,” she said with a sigh.

Mr. Ramsey finished speaking and Serena began grumbling again. “She had no right to leave things this way. I mean, let’s face it, we all know India isn’t one of us. She can’t possibly want Dunbar. She wouldn’t have the slightest clue how to manage it. She shouldn’t even be here in the first place!”

“Stop making a bloody fool of yourself, Serena,” Ian exclaimed, his face white with anger. “Aunt El had every right to leave things however she pleased, as Ramsey here will tell you. Whether you agree or not is irrelevant.”

“That’s correct, Sir Ian. By Scottish law Lady Elspeth could leave her property to whomever she pleased, for there is no entail on the property any longer. That ended when the late Sir Thomas died, and there were no more male heirs alive to inherit. Now, if Lady Kathleen’s father had outlived Sir Thomas, then things would have been different and the entail would have ended with her.” Mr. Ramsey shook his head. “To think he died only three days before his poor brother. A terrible thing it was.” He hesitated an instant, then continued. “This will was rewritten only a few days before Lady Elspeth’s death. I came here myself to make the changes.”

“I knew you were responsible for this,” Serena said, turning on him again angrily. This time Ian grabbed her by the arm and marched her from the room.

A general sigh of relief followed Serena’s departure.

“Well! That gets her out of the way. So much for the theatrics. Pay no attention to her, India. The will is perfectly legal, as Mr. Ramsey has said. She’s just jealous,” Kathleen said decisively. “All the Hamiltons are mad as hatters. Serena’s no exception, believe me.” She pressed India’s hand again in a kindly fashion and smiled bravely.

Kathleen’s forthright remarks helped alleviate the tension in the room, and India was thankful for her cousin’s support. It was true that Kathleen knew as much as anybody about Dunbar, and her assistance would be invaluable in the months to follow.

Ian came back, and the screeching of wheels on gravel confirmed his next words. “She’s gone to Edinburgh to consult a solicitor. Shocking behavior, I’m afraid. The poor girl’s lost it,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, Ramsey, I don’t know what’s come over her. The way she spoke to you was scandalous. I shall see to it she apologizes.”

“Och, don’t worry, Sir Ian, I’ve seen this kind of thing before. It’s very sad really. People create expectations they never should have had in the first place, and are upset when faced with the truth.”

“Very true, Ramsey. I think Serena already considered herself Lady of Dunbar. A dashed nerve, really, when you think of it,” Kathleen commented dryly.

“I agree. And don’t you let yourself be jostled around by her, young lady,” Ian continued, pointing at India. “You have every right to be here and she knows it.”

India smiled at him, appreciating the kindness and solidarity that her cousins were showing. She realized, with a touch of regret, that perhaps her father’s prejudice had kept her from developing some wonderful family relationships.

But she was an outsider in their world, and realistic enough to know that finding the true roots and home she’d always longed for was an illusion. It was a society that would not easily accept her. She might not like Serena’s words, but there was a disturbing ring of truth to them that made her doubly appreciative for Kathleen’s and Ian’s offers of support.

“Thanks, Ian, and you, too, Kathleen, you’ve both been wonderful. But, in a way, Serena’s right. Maybe Mummy should have left Dunbar to her. She probably is far more able to deal with matters than I am.”

“Hogwash! All she wants is to be able to say she owns the place or to sell it. She doesn’t give a damn about the estate or the people on it. Serena is only interested in one person and that,” Ian said flatly, “is Serena.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Kathleen agreed. “For as long as I’ve known her she’s been a selfish, egocentric you know what. I think the whole thing goes deeper. The Hamiltons are an ancient family, but they’re poor as church mice. Serena lived off her father’s trust and Lady El’s generosity, and hasn’t done a day’s work since she stopped modeling. I think she planned to sell Dunbar. Now that India’s involved, that won’t be the case, will it?”

“You may be right,” Ian agreed thoughtfully. “If that fellow she runs about with had any say, she’d be up and selling like a shot. The von Lowendorf family never got back on their feet financially after the war, and Maxi seems to have a taste for wealthy, single women. Kath, you remember that rich widow from Manchester he was chasing before he hooked up with Serena?” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Well, if you do decide to sell, India, she’ll have to content herself with half the proceeds.”

“I hope that won’t be necessary. I feel we should do our utmost to keep Dunbar,” India murmured.

“I don’t understand how she ever got this insane notion that Dunbar belonged to her in the first place,” Kathleen exclaimed.

“Wishful thinking,” Ian replied grimly.

The party got up and headed to the drawing room, where a cold luncheon was being served. The meeting with Mr. Ramsey concerning practical matters would have to wait till after the funeral, which was to be conducted later in the hall. Afterward, they would drive Lady Elspeth to her final resting place in the little graveyard on the hill, and India would be left to deal with the future as best she could.

“I won’t have it,” Serena exploded, steering her old Volvo along George Street at a spanking pace.

“Calm down, Serena. This isn’t a time for nerves. It is a time for thinking,” Maxi replied soberly. Things were not going as planned.

“What do you mean, calm down? Something has to be done about this, dammit.”

“We’ll find a solution, my dear,” he said in an even tone. “There is always a solution. Remember, revenge is a meal best eaten cold. And so it shall be.” He gave a crack of cheerless laughter.

Serena took her eyes off the road and glanced at him crossly. “Well, I hope you’ve got some bright ideas, because except for contesting the will outright—and from all I’ve gathered it’s legal—there’s not much I can do.”

“You’d be surprised. Let things take their course. It’s still early. Things need to fall into place. In the meantime, we’ll be thinking, watching, observing. The secret to success lies in the details, not in the obvious.”

His quiet voice calmed her, and she began to think that perhaps he was right. “Stupid creature. It’s not fair—”

“Hush. Be very careful what you say. Even moving cars can have ears.” Maxi took a surreptitious glance around, as though some device might be hidden in the ancient upholstery of the Volvo.

“Oh, come on, Maxi, do stop being ridiculous. This is Scotland, not a spy movie.” She veered down Frederick Street, annoyed with the traffic. “I suppose I’ll have to get back for the funeral. And you’re jolly well coming,” she added. “I’m damned if I’ll have her dictating who comes and goes from Dunbar. Who the hell does she think she is anyway?”

Maxi stayed silent for a few moments as they drove along Prince’s Street and past the Scots monument, where Serena was obliged to come to an abrupt halt for a group of tourists in bright anoraks, waiting to cross the road.

“I think it would be wiser to placate her for the moment,” Maxi said thoughtfully.

“What do you mean?” Serena almost rear-ended the car in front as they passed Marks & Spencer. “I’ll have whomever I choose in my own house. I—”

“I know, I understand,” Maxi soothed, “but you can’t antagonize her. Let her think you’re playing her game. Make up the quarrel with her. Remember, you need her agreement if you’re going to sell. Don’t overdo it, though, or she’ll suspect something,” he added. “Just enough to let her relax. She will, you’ll see. She’s that type, stupid and unsuspecting. It’s often so among the bourgeois class. If you’re intelligent about this, meine liebe, you can wrap her up nicely.”

“What about Buchanan? What if he makes an offer? We’ll need her to agree.” Serena ground her teeth audibly, furious at the situation. “I can’t believe Mummy did this behind my back.”

“A mere contretemps,” he said with a disdainful flick of his long smooth fingers. “Nothing that can’t be dealt with, my dear. I think you should go to the funeral and play the game. Be indifferent but not unpleasant. After that, we’ll see.”

“Are you sure?” Serena queried doubtfully, casting him a resentful glance. “You said everything was going to work out fine and look what a pickle that’s left me in,” she finished bitterly.

“You’ve lost a small battle. What matters is who wins the war. As long as she believes she has the upper hand you’re fine. As for the American, you’ve already set things in motion by suggesting he come and visit the house. Just make sure you have all the information he requested on hand. Americans like to work fast and efficiently, which could be to our advantage if you play your cards right. He won’t suspect anything since you made it clear you’d inherited the property. By the time any concrete offer is made—if he makes one—the solution will have presented itself, believe me.” He squeezed her hand with a reassuring smile.

“It goes against the grain but so be it.” Serena shrugged and shifted gears without pressing her foot down properly on the clutch. Maxi grimaced. “I’ll drop you off at the hotel, and go back to Dunbar.” She glanced at her watch. “I haven’t much time if I’m going to make the funeral.”

“Excellent. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be waiting—and thinking.”

“Yes, well, you’d better do a lot of that. The whole thing’s most unsatisfactory, and damn inconvenient.”

“Serena, again, I have to warn you. You can never be too careful,” Maxi urged her anxiously. “The less said, the better.”

“Oh, all right,” Serena mumbled irritably. Everything was getting on her nerves today, including Maxi. She waited impatiently as he got out of the car, not bothering to wave goodbye as she weaved her way back into the midday traffic, her mind set on her plans. He was probably right. It would be unwise to make decisions in the heat of the moment.

The image of India, all natural grace and determination, made her swear under her breath. The girl’s very existence was an insult, and she hated her mother for it.

India sat at the dressing table, pulling the hairbrush through her hair, a wan face staring back at her from the oval mirror.

Dunbar. She’d never actually thought of owning it, yet now the remote piece of her mother’s world had become an integral part of her existence, one whose future would have to be decided.

Only when she’d met with Mr. Ramsey after the funeral would she know the truth of how things stood.

“Indy?” Chloë peeked round the door, and then rushed across the room. The two girls embraced, holding each other tight.

“Thanks for coming, Chlo.” India smiled at her through eyes filled with unshed tears.

“You didn’t think I’d stay away, did you? I’m so sorry, Indy. We’ll all miss Lady El,” Chloë said, a quiver in her voice. “Here, take this.” She handed India one of the glasses that she was balancing precariously.

“Oh, thanks. I can use this.”

“I don’t think Lady El would mind, do you?” Chloë asked wistfully.

“Not in the least. She’d be the first to recommend it,” India said with a sad smile, taking a long sip of the gin and tonic before sitting down again on the stool. “God, Chlo, what a mess this whole thing is.”

Chloë sat down on the bed and threw off her shoes. “Tell me what’s been happening. Have they read the will yet?”

“Yes. Serena and I have inherited everything fifty-fifty. She’s livid, of course. Thinks she should get the lot. She seems to believe that her noble origins give her special rights.”

“I thought she—” Chloë stopped abruptly and frowned.

“You thought what?” India swiveled on the padded chintz stool and looked questioningly at her friend.

“No, nothing. I just thought perhaps Lady El might leave Dunbar to Serena and you all the Swiss stuff. You’ve never been very connected here.”

“You’re right, but it’s the oddest thing, Chlo. Ever since I’ve been back, I’ve had this feeling. I can’t quite explain it, but I feel as though I’m a part of the place.” She shook her head and glanced at her dear friend. “It’s uncanny.”

“What about Switzerland?” Chloë asked, her expression serious.

“Pretty well gone as far as I can gather. Mummy’s house is mortgaged to the hilt—apparently to pay for debts here. I think all that’s left is her jewelry.” India shrugged sadly. “And that’ll probably have to go, too, if we’re going to keep this place up.”

“Are you seriously thinking of keeping Dunbar?” Chloë asked, looking at India curiously.

“I don’t know yet.” India frowned thoughtfully. “I haven’t a clue how things stand. After the funeral we’ll have a talk with the solicitor to find out the true state of affairs, but I don’t think they’re good. By the way, keep that to yourself. We don’t want a panic.”

Chloë nodded soberly. “Indy, you’d better think this one over very carefully. It’s a huge responsibility to take on, you know. I see Peter and Di. God knows what things would be like if Peter weren’t so successful. Any money that comes out of the estate seems to go straight back in, and more.” She sighed, meeting her friend’s eyes, her own filled with sympathy. “It’s rotten for you, darling. I just wish there was something I could do to help.”

“You being here today is enough, Chlo. You’ve no idea how alone I’ve felt the last few days, though Ian and Kathleen have been absolutely super.”

“That’s something at least,” Chloë answered gloomily. “I can’t believe you’re thinking of keeping Dunbar though. I don’t think it’s very realistic.”

“Probably not, but I’m sick of always being realistic, Chlo. My life seems to consist of being practical, always doing what has to be done. Anyway, this is more a gut thing. When Ramsey read the will and told me I had inherited half the place, I felt all warm inside.” She smiled sheepishly at her friend. “You’ll probably think I’m crazy, and maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I have the feeling that I’m meant to be here.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. You’ve always had a mystical side to you, Indy. And I wish you good luck if it’s what you think you should do. By the way, I saw Jack last night. He told me he’d met you.”

India met her gaze and smiled. “We had a bit of a run-in, did he tell you?”

“Sounded quite exciting to me. He’s rather good-looking, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so. A bit full of himself though. Acts as though he’s the bee’s knees.”

“Oh, come on, Indy, it’s me you’re talking to, remember?” Chloë looked at India and made a face.

“Okay. On a scale of one to ten, I suppose you could say he’s an eight. Satisfied?”

“Eight? You must be balmy. The man’s an Adonis, as rich as Croesus, plus dreadfully sexy.”

“If he’s so great, why don’t you have a go at him yourself then?” India inquired.

“I love him dearly, but like a brother. We’ve become very fond of him over at Dalkirk. A bit like that stray Diana picked up in the village…”

“Really, Chlo, how can you compare the man to a stray dog?” India laughed weakly and shook her head.

“Well, he is, in a way. Alone, if you know what I mean. He lost his wife twelve years ago. It must have been awfully sad, though he never talks about it.”

“Actually, he told me about his wife.”

“He did?” Chloë raised a quizzical eyebrow and climbed off the bed. “He’s usually pretty closed about that.” She glanced at her watch. “I suppose I’d better go back downstairs. Don’t be long, Indy, will you? After all, you’re the hostess now.” She put her shoes back on and went over to give India a kiss. “You’re not alone, you know. We’re all worried about you.”

The two girls hugged again. “Thanks for being here. You’ve no idea how much it means to me. Better take this glass with you, Chlo. I don’t know if Mrs. Walker would approve of us imbibing under the circumstances. And tell Kathleen to hold the fort, I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.”

“Right.” Chloë gave her a peck on the cheek, picked up the glasses and left the room.

For a while she stared dreamily into the long mirror, seeing much farther than her own reflection, thinking of Dunbar, her life and her future. Then all at once a picture formed of the lawn on a fresh summer’s day, children running across it and—She turned abruptly away, for the image of Jack, hoisting a child on his hip, had suddenly appeared in the vision. She must be delusional to be thinking of a man she’d met only yesterday and whom, in all likelihood, she would never see again. But the daydream lingered.

She grabbed the long mink coat she would wear to the burial, then left the room and made her way slowly down the main staircase, wondering if the ancestors who gazed down at her so severely from the heavily framed portraits were reading her mind. Perhaps they were already expressing their disapproval at the possibility of the property being sold. Yet keeping Dunbar was not something she could easily work into her life. It was not a house you merely moved into. With it came a world of responsibility and deep personal commitment to all those who were inextricably part of the house and the land.

As she glanced up at the wall, a pair of twinkling blue eyes seemed to peer down at her from one of the paintings on the stair. They belonged to a little boy of about seven or eight, with thick dark hair and a mischievous curve to his mouth. He stood in a satin outfit—resembling the Blue Boy—next to a fair, rather pudgy child, who appeared older. There was something oddly familiar about him.

For a moment India stood perfectly still, experiencing the same electrifying sensation she had felt yesterday by the oak tree. She tried to identify it, to capture it in some shape or form. She glanced at the lower right-hand corner of the canvas. The date read 1730. Once again she could have sworn that she wasn’t alone, and that she knew that face.

For an instant she listened intently, but the only sounds were the muted voices of the guests mingling in the oak room. Deciding it must just be her imagination, she continued down the stairs, bracing herself for the hours ahead. But the feeling lingered, warm and reassuring, and she reached the hall strangely comforted.

The funeral service began at two o’clock sharp. The guests stood silently round Lady Elspeth’s coffin, which was lying, covered in wreaths, in the center of the vast stucco hall.

India listened to the ceremony in a daze, soothed by the beauty of the flowers Lady Elspeth had loved so dearly. She felt her mother’s presence, as though Lady Elspeth had come to say her final goodbyes, her spirit hovering above, giving India a feeling of peace.

Serena had returned and made an effort to be polite during lunch, although she seemed uninterested in the proceedings.

“It’s an awf’y sad day, Miss India, but the flowers do her proud. That one in the middle came from Edinburgh this morning,” Mrs. Walker said, pointing to a particularly lovely wreath standing before the coffin.

Chloë, who was standing next to her, stepped forward. White lilies intertwined with baby’s breath were set delicately within the foliage, but the gold lettering on the white satin ribbon was hard to distinguish.

“India, look,” she said in a hushed whisper. India stepped forward and read the inscription.

Thinking of you. Jack Buchanan.

She felt her heart quicken. He’d remembered. She looked around, as though expecting to see him, but of course he wasn’t there. It was a private service. Perhaps the wreath wasn’t even meant for her, but for Serena’s benefit. She took a surreptitious glance at her sister, wondering if she’d seen it.

“He didn’t say anything to me last night or this morning,” Chloë whispered.

India’s eyes wandered back to the wreath, and she was reminded suddenly of her father’s funeral, and of how lonely she’d felt. But today was different. Here people lived and died watched over by their ancestors, each generation assuming the responsibility of preserving and bettering that which was bequeathed them, and which they, in turn, would pass down to their heirs.

Yet if Dunbar fell into the hands of strangers, almost eight hundred years of history would end. She remembered Jack’s words—It would make a fabulous hotel—and shuddered inwardly. The mere thought of Dunbar becoming some sort of hotel or institution was unbearable.

She took a last glance at the wreath. There was definitely something appealing about Jack. Perhaps it was his air of self-assurance, or his devil-may-care look, as though he was accustomed to wielding power without abusing it. Whether or not it was meant for her, the wreath had been a thoughtful gesture and his kindness touched her.

The mourners stepped back to allow the pallbearers through. They raised the coffin to their shoulders and carried it reverently down the wide stone steps, following the piper who had begun his lonely Highland lament.

Chloë took India’s arm and together they followed in silence to where the family and other friends were getting into their cars. The funeral cortege made its way sedately down the drive. They would accompany Lady El on her last journey, through the Midlothian countryside, past the hills and meadows she had loved so well, to the small graveyard on the hill where she would finally be put to rest.

The day was sunny but cold. A wintry nip could already be felt in the air, and the trees were fast losing the last of their wilting foliage. Small gusts of wind scattered the dead leaves across the patched remains of last night’s snowfall.

Then they were walking, the piper leading them down the narrow cemetery path, his tartan plaid blowing in the blustery wind, the mournful lament bringing hot tears to the mourners’ eyes. Then, with Kathleen, Ian and Serena, India lowered the coffin into the ground in a medieval act of ritualistic finality.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. From this earth they had come and to it they would return. And sudden loneliness gripped her as the rope went limp in her hand.

After a while they made their way back among the ancient moss-covered tombstones, India grateful for Chloë’s support, knowing it would have been so much worse without her.

It was then she saw him. A tall dark figure in a black cashmere coat standing at the cemetery gates.

India hesitated, thinking perhaps he’d come for Serena. But as she approached and he walked toward her, she knew why he was there.

He was there for her.

As Chloë and she passed through the wrought-iron gates, he reached silently for her hands.

“Are you okay?” His voice was low and concerned, his thick dark hair ruffled by the wind, his tan incongruous among the pale British faces surrounding them.

“I’m fine. Thanks for coming,” she whispered, keeping a grip on herself.

“I wanted to.”

She realized that Ian and his wife, Francesca, were watching, uncertain whether to approach. But Chloë smiled at them.

“Let me introduce you to Jack Buchanan, Peter’s partner.”

“Nice to meet you. Sorry it’s on such a sad occasion.” Ian shook hands with Jack. “I hope we’ll have the chance to meet again. India, are you coming with us or are you—”

“Yes, I’m coming with you,” she replied, glancing at Jack.

“I’ll walk you to the car.” He drew her arm into his. India was bewildered, her thoughts as muddled as her feelings. Here she was, at her mother’s burial, her pulse racing because of a man she barely knew. It was almost sacrilegious.

The others had moved away but Jack’s eyes never left hers.

“I’m on my way to the airport, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Thanks, it was awfully kind of you.”

“Take care of yourself,” he said, leading her to the car where Ian, Chloë and Francesca were waiting. He opened the door and for a moment they faced each other, eyes locked.

Then India felt her throat constricting. “Thanks for coming, Jack, I—Thanks.” She tried to smile, not knowing what else to say, and got quickly inside.

Slowly the cars began the return journey, followed by the haunting strain of the pipes. India could still feel the warmth of Jack’s comforting grasp. Suddenly the tears she’d been holding back fell silently down her cheeks, loss and loneliness overwhelming her as she gazed blindly through the window. The vehicles moved gently down the country lane, off toward Dunbar.

Jack watched the rain streaming down against the plane’s windows, drenching the tarmac as the Gulfstream readied for takeoff. He’d removed his coat and taken out the papers he’d be working on. As usual, Jonathan, his steward, had brought him a Glenfiddich on the rocks.

He stretched his legs as the plane picked up speed, reflecting upon what could have prompted him to go there this afternoon. Why had he gone to a cemetery—a place he avoided on principle—to see a woman he barely knew, and whom he might never see again? He smiled to himself. It was rare that he acted out of sheer impulse. Would they ever meet again? Possibly. There were a number of places their paths could cross. He might even be in Buenos Aires at the same time she was. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. She’d looked so sad, he’d felt like taking her in his arms and holding her close. The thought made him jerk his head up.

The plane took off, rising swiftly into the leaden sky, the rain beating harder as they gained height.

Soon they were traveling south. Jack looked down at the countryside below, peering closely, trying to distinguish through the blur what he was sure must be Dunbar, standing like a dollhouse below. Excitement stirred in his veins. Dunbar was quite distinct now, even through the rain. It was magnificent. He could hardly wait to get hold of the specs Serena had promised him.

Taking a sip of whiskey, he began making some ballpark estimates of what the renovation might cost. By the time he reached London he was in a fair way to having a game plan together, and his determination to acquire Dunbar increased. Something deep inside told him he couldn’t let it go. And all at once Jack knew he’d go every inch of the way to making it his own.




4


Jack spent Christmas as he usually did—on a plane. Chad, his younger brother, and Marilyn, his sister-in-law, had invited him to spend the holiday with them at their cabin in Aspen. As usual, he’d found an excuse not to go. Though he adored his niece and goddaughter, Molly, it was easier to avoid situations that reminded him of the past.

In the early new year Peter flew to Bangkok and began a month’s tour of all their Asian establishments. Jack headed down to Buenos Aires to meet with his partner, Hernan Carvajal, whom he’d met only briefly during their negotiations in London some months earlier.

After four days he was familiar with the Palacio de Grès project, and discovered Hernan to be both a smart businessman and an excellent host. By the fifth afternoon they’d gone through a long list of remodeling issues, building costs, future projections, and had finally—after various interruptions from engineers and foremen—reached some final decisions.

Jack stretched, ready to go back to the Alvear Palace. It had been a sweltering afternoon, and he was ready for a long cold shower. The old-fashioned air-conditioning unit in the improvised offices of the Palacio de Grès still hadn’t been replaced, and had finally given up its battle with the torrid sun.

He leaned back in the old leather chair and looked over at Hernan. The other man stood gazing at some blueprints, his elbows propped on the huge trestle table that stood perched in the middle of the room, a strange contrast to the ornate chandeliers and gold-leaf wall sconces.

“I guess we’re pretty well set.” Jack gave a final glance at the notes he’d been scribbling. “Of course, there’s still the issue of the interior design to be resolved.” He left the question in the air.

“Mmm—” Hernan was still absorbed by the plans before him. “You know, I’m worried about this garage entrance. I’m just not sure the way it’s been designed is going to be the most functional. Perhaps if we moved the plants a couple of feet over to the left—” He sighed and looked up with a smile. “Oh well, there’s not much point in worrying about it now. You were saying?”

“The interior design. We still haven’t decided who we’re going to hire.” Jack laid down his notes, twiddling his pen thoughtfully.

“You’re right, it should have been done months ago. We’re already running behind schedule. There are various possibilities but none of them quite fill the slot. You see?” He raised his hands. “Another problem. I tell you, it’s never-ending. Of course, it’ll require someone with a deep understanding of art history and a good knowledge of period furniture.” He frowned, blond hair falling over a bronzed forehead. “I wish we could spirit in David Hicks,” he added, grinning, and opened the refrigerator door.

Jack sat up abruptly. He’d been tossing an idea around for some time and sensed that now was the right moment to broach it. India kept popping into his thoughts at unexpected moments, and a few days ago he’d realized why. She was the ideal person to do the interior of the Palacio de Grès. He had already made some discreet inquiries, and discovered that she was here. It was as though fate had placed her in his path.

“Have you heard of the company La Dolce Vita?” he asked.

“The name rings a bell.”

“They did Peter Kinnaird’s hotel in London, the Jeremy.”

“Of course, the one in Belgravia. It was a fabulous job.”

“I was pretty impressed by it, too,” Jack said, casually twiddling the pen between his fingers. “I met the owner when I was last in Scotland, a gal called India Moncrieff. Her family owns the neighboring estate to the Kinnairds’.”

“Really? I thought Peter said something about a Swiss company, but I must have been mistaken.” Hernan took a bottle of chilled Quilmes beer out of the refrigerator. “Want one?”

“Sure.” Jack raised a hand and caught the bottle tossed his way, wiping the frost off on his worn jeans. “She’s here.”

“Who is?” Hernan asked, his eyebrows coming together.

“India Moncrieff, the owner of La Dolce Vita,” Jack replied patiently. “She’s staying with an old school friend of hers, Gabriella O’Halloran.” As he pronounced India’s name, Jack realized how good the words felt. Too good. But he was relieved to know why she’d been on his mind lately. He must have known subconsciously that she was the perfect person for the job. He took a long satisfying draft of beer, thinking it would be nice to see her again. And if she accepted the job, being with her every day in a work setting would help dispel any misguided fantasies he might have inadvertently conjured. The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him. He watched Hernan carefully, gauging his reaction.

“Gabby O’Halloran?” he exclaimed. “She’s my second cousin, once removed—or something like that. We’re such a large family it gets hard to remember what the exact relationship is. I think my mother’s father and her grandmother are—”

“Spare me the details. I’d never remember anyway.” Jack laughed.

“I know.” Hernan grinned back at him. “But now I also understand why my great-aunt Dolores has been so insistent I come for a visit to the estancia. Tell me, is this India tall, beautiful, talented, and wealthy to boot?”

Jack felt a stab of irritation. “As a matter of fact, now that you mention it, she is. Beautiful, I mean. I don’t know about wealthy though. From what I’ve heard, her dad’s fortune has pretty well dwindled. I’d guess she makes a good living with her business.” He resumed his study of the pen. “She’s a very talented professional.”

Hernan was still laughing. “You don’t understand. My aunt’s and my mother’s primary objective in life is to marry me off to someone they consider suitable. Apparently they feel your friend more than fills the spot.” He shook his head, then sat down on the table and watched Jack attentively. “But tell me where your mind’s at, Jack.”

“Well…” Jack drank some more beer, measuring his words. “I figured that, since she’s here and is certainly one of the best designers we could hire, it might be worth contacting her, to see if she’d be interested. What do you think?”

Hernan nodded, swinging himself down from the table with an enthusiastic smile. “It makes a lot of sense. Let’s get in touch with her immediately. I’ll call my aunt. She usually has a parilla at the Estancia Tres Jinetes on Saturdays. Or perhaps I should ask Gabby to arrange…” He paused, met Jack’s eyes across the room, and seemed to change his mind. “Or maybe you should just call your friend? I can give you the number of the estancia.”

“Thanks, maybe I’ll just do that.” Jack tossed the beer bottle in the trash and hoisted his legs off the desk. “If she’s interested, it might be easier to have her come into town.”

“True. I think I’ll go and take a dip at home, then, if you like, I can pick you up at the hotel and we can grab some dinner. By the way,” Hernan said, grinning like a mischievous schoolboy, “I have two models—great-looking girls, one’s twenty-one and Swedish, the other twenty-two—both dying to meet you.”

Jack grinned. “Thanks, but I’ll take a rain check. I’m beat. I need an early night.”

“As you wish. If you change your mind call me on my cell.”

“Sure thing.”

They left the construction site, Hernan roaring off in his Testarossa, Jack wandering down Alvear, enjoying the languid laziness of the late afternoon. He smiled to himself. Although they were close in age, Hernan often made him feel old and worldly-wise. They’d had very different lives. While Hernan had been leading a privileged existence, playing polo in Palm Beach, studying in Europe and skiing in Gstaad, he’d been on those crazy missions into El Salvador and Nicaragua. Hernan was good for him though, his youthful enthusiasm refreshing. But the scene he still found fun had grown old for Jack. Lately he’d begun to realize just how old.

But the thought of seeing India again put a spring in his step. He crossed the mezzanine to the gift shop to buy the Herald Tribune, pleased that everything was falling into place. He glanced at his watch, wondering if he’d still catch Quince, his attorney, or his brother, Chad, at the office in Miami. He needed to be brought up-to-date on the dealings with Dunbar since his visit there with Serena. She’d done her homework well and had had the information he’d asked for on hand. Yet once again he’d felt that same strange sensation as on his first visit, and he’d left the property even more convinced that he would meet Serena’s asking price and get the deal moving. It was a pity he hadn’t had time to consult with Peter, but he’d decided to acquire the property in any case. He let himself into the suite, laid down the paper and headed immediately for the phone.

Mr. Ramsey cleared his throat while Serena waited impatiently for him to speak. It was imperative she keep calm. If the man had the slightest suspicion of what she was up to, the whole plan would fall through.

“I sent Miss India all the latest figures,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “But I haven’t heard back from her yet.”

“That’s because she’s in South America,” Serena answered brightly. “We’ve talked several times on the phone,” she added casually.

“Really?” Mr. Ramsey looked surprised. “South America. That would explain her silence. I would imagine the telecommunications are not too reliable over there.” He gave a stiff smile and Serena immediately responded, realizing it was his idea of a joke. She sat eyeing him across the large mahogany desk. He reminded her of an owl, peering from behind those odd tortoiseshell glasses, his thin hair combed carefully over the balding patch on his head. She stifled a sudden desire to giggle and concentrated.

“In fact, that’s one of the reasons I’m here,” she continued. “India and I have—Well we’ve made up our differences, if you know what I mean.” She did her best to look modest and embarrassed. “Based on your fax, she has agreed we must sell the property and has promised to send you a full-fledged power of attorney as soon as she returns to Switzerland. There seemed to be some difficulty about having it done in English over in Buenos Aires. But she definitely wants us to get on with the negotiations. As you know, the American buyers are anxious to set things in motion. They will require complete confidentiality as to their identity as they are buying the property through an offshore company.” She was pleased at how professional she sounded.

“This is quite surprising.” Mr. Ramsey took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with his handkerchief. “Quite surprising indeed, in view of…er…the last encounter.”

“Oh, that!” Serena gave a high-pitched laugh. “That was just me being silly. But that’s all behind us now. I realized myself how important it was for us to work together on this matter. I suspect my behavior was due to delayed shock over Mummy’s sudden death,” she said demurely, looking down.

“Well, well, I’m very pleased to hear you tell me this, Lady Serena. A spirit of cooperation will make matters much simpler to deal with. Much simpler indeed.”

“My sentiments exactly.” Serena flashed him another bright smile. “So you can be expecting news from the American attorneys any day now.”

“Very well. I must say it’s a most generous offer, and one that will not likely be repeated. Under the circumstances, I can only advise you to take it. You’re sure Miss India is in agreement?” He seemed suddenly doubtful.

“Absolutely. She says she’s tried to get through to you, but as you so rightly pointed out, these remote places are not well connected. I could barely hear her at one point during this morning’s conversation. I don’t know how people actually live in those places.”

“I don’t know if it’s quite as bad as that, Lady Serena, but I would imagine the efficiency which we’re used to here at home is probably sadly lacking there.”

“Exactly. So no need to worry about India, she’s in agreement with everything. And by the time the closing comes through she’ll be back anyway.”

“Quite true. Then I will wait for the lawyers to get in touch, and take it from there.”

“Perfect. Well, I think we’ve covered everything. I’d better be going, as I’ve already taken up far too much of your time.” She smiled graciously as she got up.

“I’ll see you out, Lady Serena.”

When they reached the front door, Serena thrust out her hand and smiled with what she hoped was a beguiling expression. “Thank you again, Mr. Ramsey. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“No, no.” Mr. Ramsey gave an embarrassed cough. “May I just say, Lady Serena, that I am delighted you and your sister have made up the…er, rift. A family should stand united.” He shook her hand.

“That’s exactly how we feel. Goodbye, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Goodbye.”

Serena stepped out into Charlotte Square and put up her umbrella. As she headed for George Street, a blast of wind nearly blew it inside out, but she was so elated the meeting had gone so well, she didn’t care. Maxi would be pleased, too.

With business out of the way she headed toward Jenners. A little shopping was exactly what she needed, especially now that she would have unlimited funds to spend. She might as well get into the habit right away.

India stretched out lazily on a chaise longue at the estancia, idly daydreaming, as the hot afternoon shifted gently into evening. The subtle scent of the gardenias surrounding the veranda was intensifying with the approach of dusk, and the bougainvillea, so colorful during the day, had taken on a softer hue. A soft breeze blew in gently from the pampas, and the tall eucalyptus trees bordering the earth track that led to the corrals and the stables swayed gently to and fro. Only the occasional croak from the frogs in the pond, the chant of the crickets commencing their evensong and the distant shouts of gauchos bringing home the cattle disturbed the tranquillity.

India had arrived in Buenos Aires in time to spend a somewhat nostalgic Christmas with the O’Hallorans. But soon afterward she and Gabby had thrown themselves wholeheartedly into the task of redecorating the casco, choosing fabrics and new sofas, and refurbishing some of the present furniture. It had been fun and distracting, but her mind often wandered to Dunbar. She knew that as soon as she returned home a decision had to be made. Mr. Ramsey had sent her a fax only a few days ago. The news was not encouraging. Slowly, but sadly, she was getting used to the idea that keeping Dunbar was a virtual impossibility. At least if it was bought by a family, or someone who would appreciate it, she would not feel quite so bad.

But what if it was transformed into some dreadful tourist trap? Or turned into a hotel? This last thought turned her mind to Jack Buchanan. She’d thought quite a bit about Jack over the last few weeks. In fact, he’d been making constant appearances in her subconscious ever since he’d stood at the cemetery gates on that gray Scottish afternoon.

She wondered suddenly what he was up to, and how his hotel project was going. She must go by there one day. Apparently Jack’s partner was some relation of Gabby’s whom the family wanted to introduce her to.

“Señorita India.” Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Severina, the maid.

“Sí, Severina, qué pasa?” She twisted her head around.

The wizened little woman approached. “Teléfono para usted, señorita.”

“Quién es?” she asked, wondering who could be calling her at this time.

“Señor Djabugan,” Severina answered.

India rose and went inside, mystified, for few people knew she was here. She picked up the receiver.

“Aló, India hablando.”

“India?”

Her stomach lurched. Immediately she recognized the deep American voice coming down the line.

“It’s Jack Buchanan, how are you doing?”

“Uh…fine.” She faltered nervously. It was uncanny. Only moments ago she’d been daydreaming about him.

“I got your number from Hernan Carvajal, my partner. He seems to be related to your friend Gabriella. So, how are things?” There was a moment’s hesitation, neither knowing where to go next.

“Fine, thanks. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you,” India replied, her heart racing. “How is your project going—the Palacio de Grès, wasn’t it?”

“It’s going fine. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I’m calling you. Hernan and I are ready to plan the interior renovations, and the decor of the new building, and I was wondering if perhaps you might be interested in taking a look.” He sounded casual yet professional.

India swallowed, disappointed. It was merely a job proposal, and one she might even consider. She hadn’t taken any projects on since her mother’s death, wanting to give herself some time, but the Palacio de Grès was tempting.

“I wasn’t planning to take on anything new for a while, but it certainly sounds interesting.”

“Why don’t you come into town and take a look? I think it’s right up your alley. I mentioned to Hernan that you’d been to the place as a little girl. He says it hasn’t changed much.”

The idea was growing on India by the minute, but what about Jack? Was he staying or leaving?

The answer came soon enough. “I’ll need you to come this week if you’re interested. I have to be back in Miami in a few days. I wondered, if you’re not too busy, if you might be able to come in, say, Friday? Would that suit you?” He sounded businesslike, as though he was flipping through his agenda.

India decided it couldn’t do any harm to look at the place. After all, it was a fabulous opportunity, and she had time on her hands before heading to Rio for the opening of the La Perla hotel.

“Is there somewhere I can call you back?”

“Sure. I’m staying at the Alvear Palace. If you want I’ll give you the office number, too.”

She grabbed a pen from the desk next to the phone. Her hand shook as she wrote down the numbers, and she chided herself for being absurd. “I’ll call you back tomorrow once I know what my plans are.”

“Okay. I guess that’s it then. I’ll expect your call.” There was a moment of pregnant silence, as though he wanted to say more.

“Fine. I’ll be in touch. Goodbye, and thanks for calling.” She laid down the receiver, then leaned against the cold, whitewashed wall. What was it about the man that made her tingle from top to toe? The mere sound of his voice had a disturbing effect on her. She wandered back to the veranda, watching in the distance as the shorthorn cattle made their way slowly home, across the red and dusty darkening horizon.

Her mind drifted back to Christian, her ex-husband. Had she felt anything like this for him? she asked herself. The answer came loud and clear. No. Everything between them had been so measured and well behaved. When they’d made love, he’d directed, and she’d followed obediently, accepting that he knew how it was supposed to be. At the time she’d believed it was love. That’s why it had hurt so much when he’d left. And what had she gotten for her pain, for trusting him?

She sat down on the edge of the balustrade, remembering Chloë’s assertion that India would have been miserable if she’d continued being married to Christian, that she was damn lucky he’d backed out. And, India realized ruefully, Chloë was undoubtedly right.

But she’d vowed to herself that never again would another man make her feel so vulnerable, or hurt and humiliate her again. The sudden awareness that Jack might have that power sent a streak of fear through her.

Perhaps it would be better to refuse the offer and not court trouble. On the other hand, his tone had been professional and he had said he was leaving for Miami in a few days. Anyway, before she could even consider the job, she needed to take a good look at the state of the building.

A flutter of ivory silk accompanied by a whiff of Shalimar interrupted her thoughts as Gabby’s grandmother, Dolores, wafted gracefully through the French doors out on to the terrace.

“Ah, there you are, dear girl.” Dolores O’Halloran smiled brightly. “I was wondering where you and Gabby were.”

“She’s out riding with Santiago. They went to take a look at the newborn foals.”

“Ah, yes, and you?” Dolores asked, approaching India and lifting up India’s chin, her expression concerned. “What are these misty eyes I see? I hope you are not still mourning your dear mama too deeply, my love. I am certain Lady Elspeth is at rest,” she added quietly.

“I know she is. It’s not that.”

“Tell me.” Dolores glided to a large rattan armchair where she arrayed herself among the white cushions, a picture of serene elegance and breeding.

India smiled, embarrassed, not quite knowing what to say. “It’s a chap I met in Scotland. A long story really. Well, actually it isn’t. What I mean is, I met him when Mummy died, and he almost shot me by mistake, then he came home for tea and—” She stopped, flushing, realizing she was making a complete hash of it. She looked up and met Dolores’s amused but understanding eyes.

“Do go on, my dear, he sounds delightful.”

“Well, to cut a long story short, he’s bought into a hotel in Buenos Aires—you know the old Palacio de Grès that belongs to one of your relations.”

“Of course I know it. Hernan inherited it. He’s my great-nephew, a charming boy. I think I’ve already mentioned that you should meet him,” she added with a conspiratorial smile. “He’s single, handsome and very good company.”

India laughed, “Don’t matchmake, Dolores.”

“Well, darling—” Dolores made a moue with her well-defined lips “—there’s no harm in bringing two nice young people together is there? But tell me more about…?”

“Jack Buchanan.”

“British?” she asked casually.

“No, American.”

“Ah,” Dolores said, “American. Is he a handsome American? I’ve always had a faible for American men ever since I saw Gary Cooper in High Noon—there’s something so very masculine about them.” She lifted a perfect eyebrow and leaned forward. “You know what I mean, don’t you? That air of A man has to do what a man has to do, as though they’d conquer the world sans problème.” She waived an elegant bejeweled hand.

“Well, there’s also something very annoying about this one.” India plucked a gardenia viciously from its stalk and twiddled it between her fingers. “He almost shot me in the glen, then made out it was my fault. He even made me faint,” she finished crossly, blocking out the image of Jack reaching for her hands at the cemetery gates.

“Do go on, darling, he sounds fascinating.”

Dolores curled up among the cushions, her eyes sparkling and expectant. India realized there would be no escape until Dolores had been fully regaled with all the details, so she summarized them briefly. “He’s seen the work I did on the Jeremy, in London, and now he wants me to take a look at the Palacio de Grès.”

“It sounds an excellent idea to me, dear,” Dolores replied thoughtfully. “After all, you’re here, and it would do you good to get involved in something nice. I’m sure you’d enjoy working with Hernan, too. You did say this Jack is leaving for the States again?”

“That’s what he said.”

“It can’t do any harm to look,” she said encouragingly. “Why not go to Buenos Aires and see the Palacio? You can stay in the apartment if you like, it’s empty during the summer.”

“Thanks. I suppose I should go and see it at least.” India mulled over the idea, lifting the wilted gardenia to her nose. “Professionally it would be a great opportunity.”

“Go,” Dolores said firmly. “Don’t be afraid of taking chances. If you don’t, you’ll grow into a regretful old lady. Believe me, I know too many of them. But then look at me,” she said, smiling, her eyes mischievous yet nostalgic. “I’ve had my ups and downs, buried three husbands, and had my aventures along the way. But if I could go back, I wouldn’t change a thing. Life is to be lived, not looked at from a distance. I only wish there was more of it. Time seems to fly by so quickly. Before you know it, you’ll be sitting on some veranda, proffering excellent advice to a lovely young person like yourself.” She gave a tinkling laugh, the laugh of a young girl. “Stop being afraid, India,” she chided. “Why not bring the boys over sometime? We can have a big asado, and your American friend will enjoy seeing a real estancia.”




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