Page 108 of Screwged for Christmas

Heating Lachlan was not easy. The fireplaces in every room were in full use, which lent a cozy vibe to the place, even if the fires didn’t really change the actual temperature in the 17thcentury stone home.

Lachlan’s interior temperature wasn’t an interest of mine--the cashmere sweaters created from our sheep kept me warm enough—but for my mother, Lachlan’s temperature provided endless conversation. I tried to be patient with her. My brother’s death, coupled with all the financial issues that’d surfaced since, made life difficult for her. And my mother was a challenging person in the best of times. I’d had to sell the Italian villa to cover some of my inherited debt which earned me more scorn since the woman loved her little southern getaway this time of year.

Tonight, I barely listened to her list of complaints. Cook had prepared my favorite stew and biscuits, but in the formal dining room, with fine china and candlelight, I hurried through the delicious dinner, hoping to escape my mother’s notice.

I failed.

“You checked your watch three times in the last ten minutes. Surely this former school chum of yours can manage to find his way here from the airport?” My mother, Anastasia Murdoch, former Duchess of Lachlan, frowned at me.

Or, I guessed she did. She had so much Botox in her forehead; only her hairline moved.

I hadn’t informed my mother that Holly was female, or that she was fleeing a stalker in New York. Nor did I share the fact that I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her in the seven months since I left New York. It’d been hard enough thinking about Holly alone in New York, but to learn that some motherfucker had been stalking her had me gripping my fork so forcefully the metal bent in my hand.

Fuck it. I wasn’t hungry anyway.

Holly’s call was seared into my brain. I’d been working in my study, deep in financial statements when my phone flashed the New York area code. The breath caught in my chest and I took a second before answering to say a quick prayer.

Please, let it be her.

“Sorry to bother you, Murdoch.” She greeted me with her brisk tone and I swore right then her voice sounded like an angel’s wings.

The sound of her voice filled me with longing. I was instantly transported back to the emergency department, working beside her, or getting a coffee together in the hospital’s cafeteria at three in the morning on a slow night.

And the one night I got to hear her cries of pleasure.

“I need to get out of NY.” I noticed a slight tremor in her voice. “The cops recommend I stay with a friend with a stalker situation I’ve been dealing with so I’m calling you. Figured I would do one better. Leave the U.S. for a while. And since I don’t want to be dead for the holidays, I thought maybe you might call in a favor at a hotel in Scotland and find me some space?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. But she wasn’t staying anywhere that wasn’t under my roof and my protection.

My stunned brain took a few seconds to catch up. She had a stalker?

“What happened?” It came out harsher than I meant. Fuck.

“At first it was harmless. But it turned physical a couple of nights ago. He grabbed me, but I fought him off. I’m a little bruised, but nothing is broken.” Her voice was factual and detached, like she was giving a medical report on some other person.

“You have a stalker? What are they doing to protect you? Have they caught the suspect?” I demanded. It was too much to take in with her so far away. She wasn’t big enough to fight some asshole off.

Jesus. Get a grip, Murdoch. She’s not the one you are angry with.

Her nervous laugh betrayed her anxiety. “I’ll be fine. I just don’t want to deal with all this crap over the holidays. The detective said. Wait just a second…” she broke off, talking to someone else nearby.

“Where are you now?” I cut in. Images of Holly alone on the streets of New York with her stalker tracking her were making me break out in a sweat.

“I’m at the police station near the hospital.”

“Get an escort to JFK. I’m getting you on the next flight out of New York to Edinburgh. I’d send my plane, but this will be faster. Don’t worry about packing. I’ll have what you need here.”

“Whoa. Slow down. I think you’re overreacting.” I could feel her surprise over the phone. “I just need a place to stay far away from here for a few days. A week at most.”

She had been injured. She was afraid, even if she didn’t want to admit it. She had a stalker for Christ’s sake, and there was not much I could do about it across an ocean.

“Holly, listen to me and get on a damned plane.” She inhaled sharply at my words. “There will be a first-class ticket waiting for you at the airport. Don’t go back to your place. Now, let me talk to the detective.”

That conversation was twelve hours ago. She texted me when she boarded the flight and when she had landed. Her messages were crisp, which I suppose wasn’t a surprise. This was the first time we’d communicated since May.

Now I was resentful as hell that I had to sacrifice my life in New York. But that wasn’t enough for my mother; she was also on the hunt for my duchess so she could have grandkids.

I wanted to keep Holly’s visit private, a tall order considering my mother’s information network of household staff and servants. So I’d arranged for her to stay at a nearby cottage where she’d be safe and away from prying eyes, but still under my care and protection.

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