Page 92 of Filthy Lovin Heroes

“Thanks for the flight. I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble this time of year.” Dressed as he was, he must’ve come from some swanky function. Probably with some classy Kate Middleton look alike. Maybe at the next one, he’d regale the other guests with tales about his oddball former American colleague who’d arrived from New York looking like a thrift store special. It sure didn’t feel good to think about being relegated to party chatter. My stomach clenched at the thought.

Beside me I could feel his eyes on me.

I turned my head towards the passenger window, avoiding his gaze. There was nothing to see, but the dreary Scottish rain splattering my window.

This wasn’t the reunion that’d dominated my dreams. Maybe I should catch the next plane back to New York. Surely, I could hide out in a dumpy motel somewhere for a few weeks.

Malcolm turned off the highway, taking us over rises and dips on a two-lane road. Scotland sure had more hills than I’d expected.

The rain pelted the car so hard that even with the windshield wipers working on the highest settings, there were seconds that the road before us blurred completely.

Then in a second of clearing, a massive gray stone three-story fortress stood on the hill.

I blinked into the gloom, getting glimpses of the place as we sped forward. It was like a beacon of safety in a black wilderness. It was exactly how I’d pictured Scotland. Maybe I’d been transported to Outlander and didn’t know it.

In the daylight, I’d come back and explore that place on my own. From what little I knew, most of these historic monuments operated on tourism.

Malcolm slowed the car and turned right again. He drove slower now, and a thick hedge of trees lined the road.

But no fucking doubt about it. We were heading toward the fortress.

“Where are we going?” My throat felt tight. Breathing was hard.

“My home.” Malcolm kept his eyes on the road.

“You live in a fortress?” I stared at him.

“Technically, it’s a castle.” Malcolm glanced at me.

My eyes met his for a second. The heat I saw there surprised and confused me.

Okay, I hadn’t imagined that.

“I asked you to find me a hotel room, not take me to your lair.”

“Welshmen have lairs, my ancestral home is Lachlan Castle.”

“And mine is a walk-up in the Bronx.” It was like all the air had been pushed out of my lungs. The stalker, the jet lag, Malcolm, and now this fucking castle. I was utterly disoriented, and I didn’t do disoriented. I was a control freak.

“I know,” he said.

“Wait, how do you know that?”

“That’s really what you want to know right now?” He eased the car closer to the castle, which now loomed over us like a fucking fortress. Castle my ass.

“Does this place have a dungeon?”

Malcolm’s lips twitched in a smile. “I can arrange a private tour. Handcuffs and all.” He drove past the circular drive that led up to stone steps to a massive wooden front door.

I was utterly confused as he pulled the car around the back. The tires crunched on the gravel drive.

A young man trotted out to meet us from a carriage house. He wore the cap and jacket that Fergus had been wearing.

Malcolm unrolled his window.

“Evening, Your Grace.” The young man’s mouth opened at the sight of me in the passenger seat. He paled under his freckles. “Excuse me, Sir. I didn’t know…”

“Evening, Jaime.” Malcolm’s tone was easy. “Don’t worry. Just see to the car. I’ll get the lady inside.”

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