‘If you’ve been here thirty years, you must have been here when Lachlan visited,’ she said. She felt Lachlan stop next to her. ‘Do you remember him?’
‘Of course. I remember taking him and his brother out on a hunt one day. And I was always shooing them away from the loch, they were fascinated by it.’
She turned to look at Lachlan. Two tiny lines formed between his brows as he frowned. ‘Do you remember that?’ she asked him.
‘Not at all.’ He gave her a small smile. ‘I remember the house and the land, spending time walking out by the loch. But I don’t ever remember spending time with Duncan.’
There was a wistfulness to his tone she’d never heard before. Outside of his office – and those suits that always made him look so in charge – there was a softer edge to him, and it only made him more intriguing.
‘Do you have any records of when he visited?’ she asked Alistair. ‘Guest books or photographs or something? It would be good to have some solid evidence.’
Alistair leaned on the kitchen counter, rubbing his chin with his thumb. ‘We must have somewhere. I’ll ask my staff to look through the old records. Everything’s up at the estate office, in the old gatehouse now.’
‘There’s no rush,’ Lucy said. ‘It would just be good to see.’
Lachlan shifted next to her again. Maybe he wasn’t quite as relaxed as she’d thought.
‘Have you had a chance to look around yet?’ she asked him.
‘No. We thought we’d wait for you. We have a few hours before the journalist is due to arrive, so we can fit it in.’
Marina Simpson, a journalist from the Scottish Times, had agreed to run a piece on Lachlan in their Sunday supplement. It had seemed like a good idea to stake his claim on the public record.
‘That sounds lovely.’ She smiled at him. ‘And have you arranged to meet all the staff?’
Lachlan looked amused at her question. ‘Yes, Lucy, I have. And Alistair’s booked us in for lunch in the village pub tomorrow, so we can meet the locals.’
‘Here’s your coffee.’ Alistair passed her a mug. Steam rose from the rim, as she lifted it to her lips. ‘And help yourself to biscuits.’
Lachlan took two and passed one to her, his fingertips brushing against hers as she took it. She felt that tiny buzz again, as though she’d touched a low-volt electric fence.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, then took another sip of her coffee, ignoring the smile that had broken out on Lachlan’s face. Either he’d felt the buzz too or he’d seen her reaction to it, and either scenario felt dangerous.
It was going to be a long twenty-four hours.
‘So tell me, Lachlan, when did you discover you were going to be the Laird of Glencarraig?’ Marina Simpson asked. The three of them were sitting in the wood-panelled drawing room, Lachlan and Marina on the easy chairs while Lucy perched on the window seat behind them, trying to keep out of the conversation. Since the journalist’s arrival an hour ago, the skies had darkened further, and Alistair had built a roaring fire in the brick-built hearth to head off the early April chill.
‘When my father’s will was read,’ Lachlan replied smoothly. ‘It was mentioned in that.’
‘Ah yes, your father, he was an interesting man. Tell me a bit about him.’
Lucy leaned forward, away from the window. Her breath had misted up the glass. She listened carefully, tipping her head to the side. Her thoughts immediately went back to that article she’d read. Lachlan had been very vague about his father in that.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘What kind of man was he? From all accounts I hear he was a bit of a recluse. Is that right?’
‘He was a self-made man,’ Lachlan replied. ‘He built up a business from nothing. In his later years he preferred to spend time enjoying the fruits of his labour rather than stay in the spotlight.’
‘Not quite self-made,’ Marina pointed out. ‘He was a laird before he moved to America, wasn’t he?’
‘A very poor one, yes. He worked his way up until he had enough money to buy his first ship. After that he built up his business until it became the premier cruise liner company in the world. That’s a pretty big achievement for a Scottish boy who left the country with practically nothing.’
‘You sound very proud of him,’ Marina said. ‘And understandably so. But I also hear that all wasn’t well with the two of you when he died. Tell me a little about the family rift.’
Lachlan shifted on the sofa. An imperceptible move to most people, but Lucy could see his back straightening. ‘There wasn’t a rift.’
Lucy held her breath. The next moment he was looking over at her, his blue eyes meeting hers. Exhaling softly, she gave him a reassuring smile.