Page 25 of Duke It Out
No name, no pack drill. That’s been my MO for years. It’s easier that way – I’ve seen the mess my parents made of their relationship, and my priority is the estate. I have to be single-minded, keep my eye on the overarching goal. I do not need to be thinking about pretty redheads arching their back as they ride my?—
“—don’t you agree? Rory?”
“Absolutely.” God knows what she’s been talking about. The screen flashes – Theo’s online.
“Speak soon,” I say, cutting Annabel off mid-sentence. “I’ve got a meeting.”
“At this time?”
“It’s three o’clock in San Francisco.”
“Rory, hello.” The COO of the Loch Morven Foundation looks tanned and relaxed. “How’s it going over there?”
He’s sipping on some revolting green juice concoction. He’s gone full Californian in the six months he’s been over there overseeing the project. It means a lot to all of us – turning the land bought by my great grandparents into a school and community centre. It’s exactly what the foundation is all about – giving something back. Using what we’ve inherited to do some good, not just use it as some kind of cash cow. Assuming I was ever meant to inherit it at all, but that’s a thought for another night.
“Marginally less sunny than it is with you, by the looks of things.” It’s dark outside, and there’s a chill in the air which the library fire isn’t quite taking the edge off. It doesn’t matter how much money we pour into the heating bills here at LochMorven – it doesn’t matter how imposing it might look on the outside, the reality is that two hundred and fifty years of history does not make for a hermetically sealed hothouse, despite the millions my father shelled out on redecoration. There’s a reason everyone gravitates to the morning kitchen, where the Aga stove radiates heat and the dogs lie on their beds getting under our feet.
Bramble leans her chin on my knee, and I reach down to stroke her ears. I hear Tilly’s tail beating out a lazy half-hearted wag under the desk. Sometimes I think these two are the only thing keeping me sane – the worry that’s been turning over in my mind for the last three months almost clears when I get them out on the moors for a walk.
“You’re on the wrong side of the Atlantic.” Theo grins. “We need you over here pressing the flesh.”
“Would that I were.” I sit back and survey my desk in the library. It’s as neat and ordered as my father’s study is chaotic and badly managed. “I’m going to be here for the next couple of months, at least.”
“Rather you than me.”
By the time I’m done with projections and project plans, it’s past eleven and the house is silent. I head upstairs, the dogs at my heels, pausing for a moment outside Edie’s room. She’s a complication I could do without, at a time when I’ve got more than enough on my mind. So why the hell did I stamp on Jamie’s offer to take her around the estate on the horses in the morning? Because I don’t trust her and I don’t trust myself.
11
EDIE
A knockon the door wakes me and I jump out of bed, half-expecting someone to come in. Pulling on the fluffy white robe that was hanging on the back of the bathroom door, I peek outside my bedroom to find a silver tray on an old-fashioned wooden trolley, and on it there’s coffee, some pastries, and a note.
8.45 in the courtyard, please – RK
I put the tray down on the bedside table and check my phone. It’s 7.30. Arrogant fucker. Typical dick swinging move, getting me on the back foot by expecting me to be lying in bed until midday while he’s up running his corporation or foundation or whatever it is. I tear a croissant in half and fire up Google, determined to get a handle on what exactly is going on here.
The Loch Morven Foundation is a global business spanning urban property, rural estates and philanthropy, the article begins. Ethical investments, community projects, social welfare, land regeneration… Oh. Okay, well, he’s not the average billionaire bartender, then. But I’m buggered if I’m turning up for this horseback tour of the estate looking like a fish out of water – there’s just one minor detail. I’ve got jeans, but they’ll kill if I’m riding. What I really need is a fairy godmother with riding gear or a twenty-four-hour shop, but the nearest city is Inverness, ninety minutes away, and I’m trapped in a castle. It’s going to have to be jeans, and I’ll grit my teeth and pretend the seams aren’t rubbing my delicate bits. They’re not going to be getting any action anytime soon, anyway.
When I get out of the shower, there’s another note under the door. This place is a hive of activity before 8 a.m.
Rory said you’re going riding this morning. Wasn’t sure if you had any kit, so I’ve left you some outside – Janey
The trolley now has a neatly folded stack of clothes far more suitable for riding than my alternatives – two pairs of black jodhpurs, a long-sleeved tee, and a fleece hoody with Loch Morven embroidered discreetly on the breast. I’ve been assimilated already. I love that Janey’s left me two pairs of jodhpurs, one in the size I’d like to pretend I am and one in the size that my never-getting-smaller arse actually is. She’s guessed my boot size, too, which is pretty impressive (or maybe I just look like I’ve got enormous size eights… whatever, I’m never going to be dainty). I tie my hair back in a low ponytail and put on some make up – not too much so I look like I’m making an effort, but enough that I don’t look like a naked mole rat. And then a bit more brown mascara and some smudged liner just to make my eyes look better, not because I want to look good for Rory, but – well. There’s no harm in reminding him what he can’t have.
What I forget to factor in is just how hot an aristocrat can look in riding clothes. Rory’s in one of those subtly checked country shirts and a thick navy-blue woollen sweater, and hislegs look even better than I remembered in dark brown moleskin trousers and sturdy dealer boots. His eyes scan my outfit, as if he’s looking for something to criticise.
“Ready?” I say, cheerfully. I’m determined not to let his arrogant demeanour get to me.
“Have a lovely time,” says Janey, appearing from one of the million doorways that opens into the hall. “Ah, Edie, you look like you’re born to it.”
“We’ll see,” growls Rory. “Follow me.”
A moment later, his two spaniels hurtle into the hallway in a flurry of wagging tails and flying floppy ears.
“Hello beautiful,” I say, bending to tickle one behind the ears as the other flops onto her back, somehow still wagging her tail despite being upside down. “What’s your name?”
“That’s Bramble,” Rory says, and he bends down to rub the chocolate-coloured spaniel on the tummy. “And this is Tilly.”
