The Laird (Castle Blackstone #1)
Prologue
St. Regis Hotel
New York, New York
S ince introducing himself to Miss Katherine Elizabeth Pudding, estate executor Tom Silverstein craved only one thing. Whisky.
Aqua vitae. The water of life. Any brand, any age, so long as there was plenty of it.
Shrugging out of his wrinkled suit coat, he could—to his dismay—still picture Miss Pudding, the new heir to Castle Blackstone, smiling benignly from behind her desk as he told her about her inheritance and all it entailed.
She was still smiling when she led him through the doors of the nearest police station, where she insisted he be fingerprinted and interrogated. She did apologize profusely after the police verified his credentials, but it still took him the rest of the day and the better part of the night to convince her it was in her best interests to travel with him to Scotland, to at least see her inheritance.
He tossed his briefcase onto the king-sized bed and reached into the in-room liquor cabinet for the cut crystal decanter labeled Scotch. He drained two finger’s worth of whisky in one swallow and refilled the tumbler. Drink in hand, he picked up the phone. His beloved and very pregnant wife, Margaret, answered the first ring.
The relief that came into her voice on hearing his warmed him in a way whisky never would. He asked, “Are ye feeling well, love?”
“Aye, but where have ye been? I’ve been worryin’ myself sick.”
Reluctantly, he told his bride—-a Highlander with a keen appreciation for the absurd—about his day. To her credit, she did manage an “Oh my, ye poor lamb” and a few commiserating “clucks” between muffled giggles. Imagining her, plump and rosy-cheeked, sitting in her favorite parlor chair with a hand on her belly and tears of mirth rolling down her face, he smiled.
She asked, “Will Miss Pudding come, then?”
“Aye, but we’ll not be home for another week.”
Margaret sighed. “‘Tis just as well. Gives me time to tidy the place up a bit.”
An ache suddenly materialized between his eyes. “What has his lordship done now?”
“As soon as you left, he tossed everything the old man owned— from toppers to shoes—into the bailey. Even smashed the telly to smithereens. A shame, that.”
Tom hadn’t liked the previous heir in the least himself, but to smash the telly…
He squeezed the bridge of his nose in an effort to ease the pain. “It could have been worse.”
“Aye, according to your Da, it has been.”
“Love, I dinna want you goin’ over there.”
“Dinna worry, Tom. I’m far too pregnant to tolerate another trip to the castle in that wee boat of yours. I’ll send a couple of lads over to snow up the place. But tell me, what does Miss Pudding look like? Will his lordship find her fair? Is she bonnie?”
“Who can tell under all the paint American women wear.”
“Tom, I’m no’ in a mood—”
“She’s attractive, but I suspect she’s really quite plain under all the gloss and feathers.”
“Oh, dear.” After a pause Margaret asked, “Does she at least have red hair? He has a recorded weakness for titians.”
“I’m afraid it’s kirk-mouse brown, love.”
“Augh! I was so hoping for our son’s sake…”
“Aye, I know.” Since 1408, a Silverstein son had been chosen and educated in law and finance—-despite what aspirations he might hold—-to serve as executor to the Laird of Castle Blackstone. And so it would be for their soon-to-be-born son, unless…
“If it’s any consolation,” Tom said, “Miss Pudding’s no fool. She asked if Blackstone was haunted.”
“What did you say, Tom?”
“I told her I’d never seen a ghost.”
“Tom! ‘Tis written, as executor, you can’t lie to the heir. A ‘alf truth—by omission or otherwise—is still a lie.”
“‘Tis no lie to say I’ve never seen him. Heard him, aye. Tolerated his insufferable arrogance and temper, aye. But never once has he deemed me worthy of his august presence, so I didna lie.”
After a sigh and a long pause, she murmured, “Could Miss Pudding be the one ?”
Margaret’s reference to the Gael curse levied on their laird just as he died made the words swim before Tom eyes.
Curse ye MacDougall by my will,
forever lost in nether world
to pine for all ye lost most dear
Only by ain token thrice blessed
‘tis the way to dreams and rest
will one come to change thy fate.
“Love, we’ll not know the answer to that question,” murmured Tom, the twenty-third of his line to serve Duncan Angus MacDougall, “unless he takes her.”