Savannah Secrets. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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the wind to his back, Grant climbed the last few hundred yards to the castle. The black mood that had settled over him for the past few days was affecting his work. The deal in Sydney was full of loopholes. There was a possibility the principals might pull out. He couldn’t stand failure, yet here he was obsessing about ancient history. He better damn well get his act together, he reminded himself grimly, or the Sydney deal would evaporate.
He recognized, too, that his refusal to talk to the Savannah lawyer was his way of avoiding reality. By the time Grant discarded his Barbour and rubber boots in the cloakroom and reached the warmth of the library, he’d decided he had to tackle the Carstairs problem head-on, defuse its mystery and then put it back in the past where it belonged. Only then could he return all his attention to his present obligations.
Flopping onto the sofa, he analyzed the facts coldly. His birth family obviously had some degree of stature. After all, the tone of Rowena’s letter resonated power and wealth. Wouldn’t it be ironic if it was from her that he’d inherited his domineering nature? His mother had presumably been a more malleable sort—likely a society teenager who got pregnant, regretted her mistake and wanted her little problem to just go away.
Then why an adoption? Why not arrange for a quick abortion? Surely that would have simplified matters?
He sucked in his cheeks and viewed the facts through a distant lens: the pregnant young girl, the boyfriend who perhaps refused to marry her and a dictatorial mother accustomed to being obeyed. He wondered if his mother had wanted to keep—He stopped that thought in its tracks, brushed it off with a nonchalant shrug. What did he care?
The dogs, who’d followed him inside, now lay stretched out before the fire, the scent of their damp coats blending with fresh baking. Grant sniffed and glanced down at the tea tray set on the ottoman before him, realizing he hadn’t eaten all day.
Absently he picked up a flaky scone and spread it with a thick layer of creamy yellow butter and homemade strawberry jam. It was only late afternoon, but already the lamps were lit, their gentle glow illuminating the mellow hue of the ancient oak-paneled walls. For no specific reason, he recalled the feeling of pride and possession that had swept over him when he’d acquired Strathcairn Castle. It had been more than just an acquisition, more important, somehow, than his London flat or his New York pied-à-terre. It had solidity, a sense of history—something he’d never had. Maybe that’s why he’d refused to take out a mortgage and had paid the full five million gladly. By owning the castle outright, he immediately became a part of its legacy. Its history became his own.
Except now, thanks to Rowena Carstairs, he was reminded that the history he’d created for himself was a lie.
He pictured again his mother, a petrified young woman, betrayed by a man whom she’d once fancied but now abhorred, and bit into the scone, feeling almost sorry for the woman he’d created in his own mind. He was good at imagining deals. Now he imagined Rowena, the willful mother rushing to her flailing daughter’s rescue, like a battleship headed to war, determined to protect her child regardless of the consequences.
In the distance the phone rang, but he ignored it and poured himself anther cup of tea. He had no desire to talk to anyone.
The phone persisted.
Defying it afforded him a degree of satisfaction. He supposed it was that lawyer from Savannah again—the self-righteous one. Well, it suited his mood not to answer it, even though he realized that at some point he’d have to deal with her. Letting out a low laugh, Grant flung his feet up on the ottoman and crossed his ankles. Rowena Carstairs obviously hadn’t the first inkling as to what kind of a man he’d become. If she had, she wouldn’t have wasted her time trying to dump her estate on him.
Staring at the crackling logs, Grant listened to the continuous drone of the phone. “Bloody nuisance,” he muttered as it rang on persistently.
Then, rubbing the sticky jam from his fingers on one of Mrs. Duffy’s carefully ironed linen napkins, he hauled himself out of the armchair. The Australians and his assistant all communicated on his mobile. Whoever was calling the castle could stay on the line until the cows came home.
No one—and that included Rowena Carstairs—was going to make him do anything he didn’t want to do.
What on earth was Joanna doing coming out of Old Miss Mabella’s place looking anything but delighted? he wondered. Following her a few blocks, he watched her hurry down the street and cross into the park. He must definitely arrange another one of their little “get-togethers” and learn more. Why did the woman look ready to murder when he’d supposed she would be crowing? It was well known that the Carstairs family had lived for a while in the expectation of all Rowena would leave them. Had things taken a different turn? He doffed his hat to Miss Biggles, who was taking her pooch for its afternoon stroll. Perhaps he’d drop in on Ross Rollins. If anyone had the scoop, it was usually him.
The thought that the Carstairs estate might hold surprises left him strangely uneasy. Not that there was anything to worry about. After all, as he reminded himself several times a day, Rowena was dead and buried. She could harm no one now.
Or could she?
5
Meredith landed at Glasgow Airport remarkably refreshed, even hopeful, assuring herself that although she didn’t approve of Grant Gallagher, he was, after all, a highly efficient businessman. No doubt he’d come to his senses and realize it was in his best interests to address the questions pertaining to the will and settle matters quickly.
But four hours later, as she drove deep into the Scottish Highlands through torrential rain, Meredith’s enthusiasm had waned considerably. The rental vehicle didn’t have a global positioning system. There was a map in the glove box, but half the roads weren’t even marked. There were no signs indicating Strathcairn, though she supposed she must be somewhere close. And there was no one to ask on this dreary, gray, foggy afternoon except a few motley sheep, huddled near a barbed wire fence, that looked about as happy to be there as she was.
Tired and hungry, Meredith pulled onto the side of the bumpy road and, switching on the overhead light, studied the map. With any luck, Strathcairn should be only a few miles away. Refolding the map, she let out a huff, started the engine and drove back onto the road. At last, she caught sight of the sea, a churning gray mass in the distance. Her hopes soared. Switching on the bright headlights, Meredith peered through the veil of mist, relieved when at last she noticed some cottages up ahead and a dilapidated, weather-beaten sign that read Strathcairn, Sister Town to Mondreux, Belgium.
Crawling at a snail’s pace down the main street, she searched wearily for the Strathcairn Arms. What wouldn’t she do for a hot bath and a hot meal.
Just as she was sure she’d taken a wrong turn, she saw it, a stark white edifice lit up by a blue neon sign. Relieved, Meredith parked, grabbed her luggage and hastened to the front door.
She was met by a dizzying vision of bright red-and-gold carpet and blue velvet sofas dotted around what must be the lobby. Meredith blinked. But despite the garish decor, the place seemed warm and bright, and she could smell something cooking in the distance, a reminder of how hungry she was.
Moving toward the front desk, she put down her bags and pressed her palm on the bell. Hearing sounds from behind a glass door, she looked up hopefully. The door burst open and a large woman with vivid red hair, dressed in fuchsia leggings and a heavy Shetland sweater, appeared.
“Hello,” she said, a smile reaching from ear to ear on her freckled face. “You must be the American lady.”
“That’s right.” Meredith smiled back, thankful that she was expected.
“We’d begun to think you’d got stuck on the moors,” the woman said with a kind laugh and outstretched hand. “I’m Moira MacPhee, the owner. Now, if you’ll just fill in this wee form, I’ll take ye up to yer room. Och, ye must be freezing to death. Drove all the way from Glasgow, did ye? My, my. That’s a long trip, is it not? Now, let me take yer bags for ye, dearie. What