12. Piper the Next Morning
Chapter twelve
Piper the Next Morning
I wake to the smell of coffee. Real coffee. Not the instant kind that tastes faintly of regret. The good kind.
For one blissful second, I have absolutely no idea where I am.
Then I open my eyes. Oak beams. Stone walls. A four-poster bed. Scottish rain tapping politely against ancient windows.
Glenhaven Castle. I own it. Probably. Maybe.
Scotland. Lord Tristan Sinclair. And I suddenly remember the dream I had. I blush.
Apparently my life has taken a hard left turn.
Murphy stretches dramatically, front paws extended, then yawns with enough enthusiasm to qualify as theater.
"Morning, boy."
His tail answers for him.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
"Come in."
The door opens just enough for Mrs. MacLeod to appear.
She looks to be somewhere in her sixties, with silver throughout her black hair, pinned neatly at the back of her head. She has kind blue eyes that have almost certainly seen everything life could invent.
"Good morning, Miss Monroe."
"Good morning."
"I’m Mrs. MacLeod, the housekeeper. I hope you slept well."
"Tristan mentioned you last night, and I’m so glad to meet you. Mrs. MacLeod, I slept well. In fact, I slept like the dead."
As the words leave my mouth, Mrs. MacLeod freezes for a moment. Probably my American turn of phrase. Then she smiles. "I'm very pleased to hear it, lassie. I've brought coffee."
"How did you know that I'm impossible in the morning without coffee."
A laugh escapes her. She sets the tray beside the fire. Fresh coffee.
“I’ve prepared a full breakfast downstairs, when you are ready. But I know that coffee does miracles for us when we awake,” she smiles.
"You've spoiled me."
Mrs. MacLeod smiles knowingly.
"That wasn't my doing."
I look toward the door. "Tristan?"
"His Lordship can be ... particular ... about the comfort of his guests."
I laugh.
"See? He's already figured me out."
Her smile grows just a little. "I think perhaps he began doing that when you stepped inside the castle."
Before I can ask what she means, she gives the slightest nod.
"Breakfast will be served in the dining room whenever you're ready, Miss Monroe. And we have something special for Murphy."
After she's gone, I pour my coffee and walk to the window. Mist clings to the hills. The castle grounds stretch in every direction, impossibly green after the night's rain.
By the time I come downstairs, Tristan is already there. He's wearing a dark tweed jacket this morning.
"Good morning, Piper."
"Morning, Tristan."
"You slept well?"
"Very well." I blush as I remember the dream and what we did together. What he did to me. "Thank you for arranging the coffee."
"I considered it a strategic investment."
"In what?" I laugh.
"Your disposition before legal discussions."
"I knew you were smart."
Murphy immediately walks to Tristan, receives a scratch behind the ears, and looks insufferably pleased with himself.
"I'm certain my solicitor will uncover the problem."
"You sound awfully confident."
"I've employed Scottish solicitors for several centuries."
I blink. He clears his throat.
"I mean, my family has."
I smile.
"That's a relief. For a second I thought you were admitting to something."
"If I were, I should hope I'd do it more gracefully."
The breakfast table is already laid by Mrs. MacLeod. Fresh fruit. Warm bread. Eggs. Smoked Scottish salmon. Homemade preserves.
It's enough to feed a small wedding.
"You do realize there are only two of us?"
"And Mr. Murphy."
"Naturally."
Murphy settles beneath the table as though his invitation has been formally acknowledged.
I butter a piece of warm bread before looking across at Tristan.
"All right. The truce expires after breakfast."
"Of course, lass."
"I'd like to see every document you have."
"You shall."
"I'll show you mine. And then we’ll meet with the solicitors."
A faint smile touches his face.
"I've already arranged mine to meet with us. Duncan MacKenzie."
Of course he has.
"When?"
"This morning."
"Do you ever sleep?"
"I've found shorter nights increasingly agreeable."
"My Lord,” says Mrs. MacLeod, who has popped into the room.
"Yes, Mrs. MacLeod?"
"Mr. Duncan MacKenzie has arrived."
"Please show him to the library."
She hesitates.
"And..."
Her eyes move politely toward me.
"Miss Monroe's solicitor has also arrived from Edinburgh."
I blink and look at Tristan.
"I emailed him last night and talked to him over the delicious coffee." Mrs. MacLeod smiles as I continue. "As we spoke, he said was already driving this way to meet."
"You retained Scottish counsel?" Tristan asks.
"Of course! I wasn't wiring millions of dollars across the Atlantic without one."
"I approve."
"I'm strangely pleased to hear that."
“Will you join me?” Tristan says as he rises. He then turns and leads the way to the library, where the two solicitors await us.
Martin Ellis, my attorney, is brisk, organized, and carries two leather briefcases that probably contain enough paperwork to weigh down a mule.
Duncan MacKenzie is older. Calmer. Silver-haired and pale. Impeccably dressed. Moves smoothly. There’s something almost unnervingly composed about him.
He greets Tristan with obvious familiarity.
"My Lord."
"Duncan."
No handshake. No unnecessary words. Neither man seems interested in proving authority. They simply possess it. Just two men who have known one another a very long time.
Introductions are made and then the four of us gather around a long oak table.
Martin begins first.
"My client legally purchased Glenhaven Estate through Blackwood International Property Auctions."
He slides several folders across the table.
"The title search was completed."
The folder contains the clean title search, completed registration and transfer documents, verified and stamped.
He produces another folder. "The trust documentation was verified." And another file shows the funds were transferred.
"In every respect, Miss Monroe is the legal and lawful owner."
Silence.
Duncan studies the documents one by one. Unhurried. His expression changes almost imperceptibly. Not in disbelief but concern. Finally, he reaches into his own case.
"My Lord, may I?" He places an aged leather portfolio on the table.
“Proceed, Duncan,” Tristan nods.
"These are the original handwritten trust agreements, original conveyances, occupancy rights, deeds and successive renewals. Each bearing seals, signatures, and notarizations stretching back generations.
Martin adjusts his glasses. He reads, and he reads again. He verifies each document. Then goes over them a third time.
"This..." He looks genuinely puzzled. "...is also valid."
I glance between them.
"So..."
Martin doesn't answer. Duncan quietly turns another page.
"The Sinclair Trust has never been dissolved."
Martin nods slowly.
"I agree."
"The occupancy covenant remains enforceable."
"I agree."
"The estate should never have entered public auction."
"I agree."
I look at Tristan. He looks at Duncan. Duncan looks back at Martin. No one speaks. Finally, I clear my throat.
"Forgive me..." Three heads turn toward me. "It sounds like you're all agreeing with each other."
"We are," Martin replies.
"Then why do I feel like no one's happy?"
“Because no one is,” Martin says as he exhales slowly.
"Miss Monroe..."
He taps my purchase agreement.
"You legally own Glenhaven Castle."
He taps Duncan's documents.
"And Lord Sinclair legally retains occupancy under a trust that should have prevented any such sale."
I look at Duncan.
"Can both things be true?"
"They appear to be," he says without hesitation.
"That doesn't make any sense."
"No." For the first time since the meeting began, Duncan's calm expression hardens ever so slightly. "It does not."
Tristan has remained silent throughout. Now he speaks, quietly. "If the trust remained intact..." Duncan meets his eyes. "...someone dismantled centuries of protections around it."
The room falls still. Martin looks up.
"I don't believe this was a clerical error."
"No," Duncan says. "Nor do I."
A chill slips quietly through me. Yesterday this had felt like an unusual property dispute, a glitch of some sort.
Today it feels like something else entirely.
Tristan looks up suddenly. “There’s something else. Who received the transfer of funds? I certainly didn’t.”
I frown as a spike of fear runs through me. “It was sent to the trust that listed the property. To the trust that owned the property … So who has it?"
Duncan slowly shakes his head.
"I don't know."
"Can we get it back?"
"Possibly." A pause. "In ten years."
Martin closes his briefcase.
"I'll begin tracing every corporate transfer associated with the auction. I’ll contact Blackwood International Property Auctions this morning. And my priority will be with the bank, to find the funds."
Duncan nods. "I can assist with that. And I'll review the trust administration going back several decades or more. I’ll review every legal department that would allow such a conveyance. We’ll uncover what has happened and find a remedy."
"And in the meantime?" I ask.
The two solicitors exchange a glance. Neither answers.
Finally, Tristan does. "In the meantime, you remain the legal owner of Glenhaven." Then he pauses. "And I remain its lawful occupant."
Neither of us smiles. Because suddenly, this no longer feels like an inconvenience.
It feels like the opening move in a game neither of us knew we were playing.