Read Lion of Caledonia: International Billionaires VII: The Scots for Free Online Page A

begun the search for a school.
    A boarding school.
    Sure, he’d struggled with the guilt, yet finally, he’d come to the conclusion nothing he was doing made a difference in the boy’s life. Why not admit it and cut all ties other than the required?
    The lure of going back to Tre, to his real life, was too hard to ignore.
    But now? Now he didn’t know.
    Because this little mouse seemed to have the ability to pull something out of him and his story he’d never experienced before. That thought made him close his mouth and glare at the ugly garden he owned and despised.
    “Are we done?” Her accent was crystal clear, utterly aristocratic, it pulled a reluctant smile out of him. His father would have loved the mouse.
    “Aye, we’re done.”
    Instead of clicking off the computer and leaving without another word, she sat, staring at him with those eyes.
    Those eyes.
    Her eyes were deep set and rounded, with a thick layer of lashes. The color wasn’t blue as he’d first pegged them. He’d been around her enough now to describe them as a dark grey, like the mists rising off his loch in the morning, right before the sun rose in the sky.
    Her eyes were the only interesting thing about her.
    Something moved in those eyes. Something that made him uncomfortable. “What?”
    She took a quick breath and after their first meeting, he knew this meant she was flustered about something. “I have a question.”
    “All right.” After he’d told his story for several hours, he generally felt drained and needed to get out of this house and walk for miles. Still, the deviation from her usual pattern made his brain come to life again with curiosity. “Go ahead. What’s your question?”
    “There’s crying. Every night,” she blurted.
    A hard fist of anxiety landed right in the middle of his solar plexus. Along with it, came the overwhelming sense of frustration that never left him. “It’s nothing.”
    The delicate line of her fair brows creased her forehead. “I’m telling you I hear it clearly. There’s no question—”
    “It’s the wind.” She didn’t need to know about the boy. Both his mother and Mrs. Rivers had repeated over and over: any stimulation was bad. Too many people interacting with him meant more germs and more worry. “Scotland has strong winds.”
    Her mouth twisted.
    There wasn’t anything interesting about her mouth either. She never wore enticing lipstick. She didn’t have alluring, lush lips that beckoned a man’s kiss. Rather, her mouth was very average. Maybe even on the thin side.
    Cam couldn’t drag his gaze away from her twisted mouth. He also couldn’t drag his guilt out from the center of his gut.
    “England has wind too,” she said. “That’s not the wind I’m hearing.”
    He forced himself to lean on the wall by the bookshelf with lazy nonchalance. Throwing a mocking smile on, he plucked another story out of his head. “Well, then, ye might have heard Fairfeld’s legendary ghost walking about, doing his usual thing.”
    Those delicate brows rose. “What?”
    “You’ve not heard of our ghost?” He tut-tutted as confidence in his storytelling submerged his guilt. “I’ve been remiss.”
    “There’s no ghost.” But something in her expression told him he’d caught her attention.
    “They say he’s the youngest son of the last laird who lived here.” Cam nudged himself out of his loitering pose and paced to the desk, warming to the imaginary story. “It’s said he cries for his lost love, the bonnie Sarah.”
    “You’re lying.” Her average mouth firmed.
    He lied all the time. He’d lied from early childhood on. Lying about where he and his lads had been overnight. Lying about getting his university degree, when all along he’d been shadowing Old Ben McGee, the best war correspondent in the past twenty years. Lying to Martine about having to go back to the war zone.
    Lying, lying, lying.
    It had made him his fortune, though, so who was he to question the