Page 88 of Filthy Lovin Heroes

“What could be worse than losing your twin?”

“Becoming the next duke of Lachlan.”

Three

Malcolm, seven months later

I’d been back home in Scotland for seven months, and it felt like seven years.

When I’d left New York last May within twelve hours of learning the news about my brother, I promised Holly I would call her, but every time I tried to reach her, my call went straight to voicemail. I even phoned her at work, but she’d always been busy.

Until yesterday, when she called me asking for my help. The ‘help’ requested involved her coming to Scotland immediately. I wasn’t a praying man but I said a quick thanks to the cosmic forces bringing her back to me. I would take what I could get.

My thoughts often returned to that night with Holly, especially in the wee hours of the morning when my cock begged for release. Holy fuck, what had that been? I’d had the best sex of my life with a colleague—a virgin.

That last bit blew my mind. Now that I’d had a taste of her, the thought of Noah near her made me clench my fists.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t my biggest problem. My brother’s plane had crashed in the Amazon, and he was presumed dead, which meant I inherited the Dukedom. I’d never wanted the title; growing up, it was clear I was the spare heir. With my parents focused on my brother, Ronan, I’d gone out and built my own life.

Last May, I arrived home to find my mother grief-stricken and creditors beating a path to our door. Between bad investments and my brother’s gambling debts, we were at risk for losing our ancestral home, Lachlan Castle. I threw myself into shoring up finances and the management of the estate. I knew I could never go back to being a physician in New York. It was my duty to carry on the family legacy. I understood it, but I didn’t have to like it.

Just like that, seven months passed, and it was mid-December. Nearly Christmas.

As a boy, I loved Christmas at Lachlan. In the highlands, we escaped Edinburgh’s endless drizzle for fresh snow. Inside the castle, fresh evergreens and boughs of holly lent a festive air along with strings of light. Ornaments that had been in the family for generations were displayed throughout the main living areas.

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 17th century 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.

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