Chapter 3
Chapter Three
ASHER
“My lord, I must insist that you stay here. It’s not safe!
” I hear Cormac’s heavy accent over the hum of the engine just moments before he steps onto the path, blocking my exit.
He looks a bit out of breath, his short silver hair slightly mussed, and his cashmere sweater is askew, as if he barely had time to throw it on.
That’s probably my fault.
My departure from the cottage after our discussion was rather…hasty.
He folds his arms across his chest, patiently waiting for me to be a good little boy and get out of the car.
I rev the Land Rover’s engine instead, just to fuck with him.
His eyes widen.
I stick my head out the window and motion for him to come closer. The wind whips through my dark hair and sends a chill down my spine. Los Angeles has made me soft when it comes to the chilly weather of my homeland.
“It’s just the village pub, Mac.”
“Even so,” he levels me with a stare that would have made my younger self quake in my boots. “You will still be recognized.”
I let out a heavy sigh. “No one in the village gives a shite about me,” I say as he walks up to the driver’s side door.
I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s hard not to notice how much he’s aged while I’ve been away.
The lines on his face are deeper. The white in his hair is brighter, and he moves just a bit slower.
I tried to forget this place when I was away, but it went on existing nonetheless.
“I’ve been here for a month, and not a single photo has surfaced online. ”
“That’s because you haven’t left the grounds.”
I smile wickedly. “Haven’t I?”
“You—” His words falter. “When? How?”
I casually shrug. “I have my ways.”
I’m lying. I haven’t left the grounds since the day the car service dropped my sorry arse at the front gate.
I’ve been too scared. Too worried I’d be seen.
Recognized.
Photographed.
But I can’t take it anymore. I’m withering away in here. I feel like a caged animal, and if I don’t get off these grounds—away from my parents and this…life, even for just a few hours—I’m going to go feral.
But I can’t tell Mac that. He’s already worried enough. He’s been my personal valet since I was a child, and even though I’ve been gone for well over a decade, he’s stayed. He could have gone back to his family home in the Highlands and retired. God knows my parents pay him enough.
But he didn’t, and I never understood why.
The selfish part of me is relieved he stayed. I’m not sure I could survive this place without him.
I’m not sure why I even came back in the first place.
“I’ll be careful, Mac. I know how to dodge the press. I’ve been doing it for years, and you don’t have to worry.”
The look he gives tells me he very much doubts that, but he gives a curt nod and says, “As you wish,” and steps back, allowing me to make my exit.
For a moment or two, I consider taking his sage advice and staying within the safety of the estate. It’s impenetrable. Even though the ancient stone walls collapsed centuries ago, the fortress-like facade is enough to keep even the most persistent paparazzi at bay.
The high-tech fence and twenty-four-hour security that surrounds it also help.
“I’ll be back in an hour. Two, at most,” I assure him before rolling up the window and hitting the accelerator.
His weary expression is the last thing I see before I leave the small garage and head toward the main gate.
The cottage I’ve been staying at is near the back of the estate.
The narrow road winds through the sprawling grounds.
Dense groves of trees, gardens, and a small loch all make Blackstone House enchanting.
To me, though, it had always felt a bit more like a prison than a palace.
When I arrive at the front gate, the guard on duty doesn’t even blink when he sees my black Land Rover creep up, which can only mean one thing—Mac called and gave them a heads-up so I wouldn’t have any issues.
I shake my head in amusement. What’s the American phrase? “Some things never change.” Mac has always been like this—disliking my decisions but still supporting me nonetheless.
When I decided to defy my parents’ wishes and move to America with my bandmates, he knew I’d never come back. But he made sure I knew he was proud of me. He even bought me a case for my guitar to keep it safe.
Sometimes I wish I had asked him to come with us so he could have kept me safe too.
The guard, a young lad by the looks of it, gives me a quick nod as I drive through. The moment I’m on the other side, I feel like I can breathe for the first time in weeks.
I don’t know why I’m still here.
I’m not even sure why I instructed the pilot to fly here in the first place.
All I know is when those photos hit the internet, I needed out.
Out of LA and away from my whole damn life. So I went back to my old one.
I believed I could hide away in the forgotten cottage at the edge of my family’s estate. It’s old and desperately needs repairs. As a child, I pretended it was my secret hideout. The ivy took over years ago, and I used to stomp around barefoot, like a hobbit in my little hobbit house.
Of course, I am quite a bit bigger now. The cottage, however, is not. It makes for an interesting living situation.
The leaky roof and damp floor also add to the ambiance.
That, and my father banging on my door every few days to remind me what an utter failure I am as a son and heir.
Like I didn’t already know that.
It’s a short drive into town. Centuries ago, everything between here and Iverloch belonged to the Earl of Dunloch, and the villagers were his tenants. Taxes were collected to maintain the grand manor and to keep the earl—and the monarch—wealthy.
Clearly, much has changed since then. Like many grand ancestral homes, the land was sold over the years to help cover costly maintenance bills, and the staff had dwindled. As many families were forced to sell, Blackstone persisted.
A testament to my family’s stubbornness, no doubt.
I see a car up ahead and slow down, knowing there isn’t enough room for both of us on this narrow country road. I pull over to the shoulder and wait. As the driver passes, he waves and smiles.
My pulse suddenly goes into overdrive.
Fuck. Did he recognize me? Is he posting my location right now?
Will I be greeted by a hundred crazed fans the instant I arrive in town? Or worse…reporters?
My palms start to feel sweaty, and my chest burns.
God, this is a dumb idea.
This is—what the fuck?
I have to be hallucinating.
Because in the distance, walking on the side of the road is Mercury Creed.
I don’t know how long I sit there on the side of the road, just staring at her, convinced she’s some kind of mirage.
She’s dressed more casually than I ever remember, in tight leggings, trainers, and a long plaid coat. Even in running shoes, she manages to make it look elegant. Regal, even.
Then she trips on a rock.
A slew of curses follows.
I guess this proves she’s not a mirage. It’s probably for the best. Conjuring images of my bandmate’s little sister out of the blue doesn’t seem wise.
Since she seems largely unaware of her surroundings, I decide to make my presence known before a car passes or she trips over another rock.
I pull onto the road and drive at a snail’s pace until I reach her.
She doesn’t look up.
I ease my foot off the gas and let the car crawl along beside her. I roll down the window. Still, she doesn’t look up.
“Did I ask for a tour of Edinburgh? No, I did not. But did I get one? Yes. Yes, I did. All three fucking hours. And the cab fare to match it.” At first, I think she’s speaking to me, but the way she’s waving her hands and staring at the ground gives me the impression that she’s actually talking to herself.
“You should have demanded he drop you off, Mercury, my dad would have said,” she continues.
“Like, I didn’t think of that. But what are you supposed to do when the sweet old man won’t shut up for half a second because he’s so damn excited to drive the lonely little American around? Ugh!” She stomps her foot in the dirt.
Christ. She’s been through it, hasn’t she?
I almost feel bad for what I’m about to do, but it has to be done. There’s really no way around it.
I clear my throat.
She jumps nearly a mile off the ground, squealing like a banshee. Her purse goes flying. Her luggage tumbles to the ground.
Okay, I could have probably done that differently.
I put the car in park as her eyes finally meet mine. “Asher?”
I lean over the passenger seat and give a half wave. “Hello, Mercury.”
She bends down to pick up her purse and the few things that fell out. I try not to notice how good her legs look, so I keep my attention on her face, which is unfortunately also rather attractive.
God, I hope this is just some random coincidence.
I really hope she isn’t here for—
“What are you doing here?” she asks, straightening to her full height once more.
“What do you mean, what am I doing here? This is my country, Merc. I think the better question is what you are doing here.”
Her cheeks instantly redden. “I came here for you.”
Well, fuck.
After I help her load her bags into the car, she begins updating me on how she ended up alone on the road between Blackstone and Iverloch.
“When I landed in Edinburgh, I—”
“Can we back up for a second?” I ask, interrupting her.
My parents would be appalled by my lack of manners, but they’re both convinced my time in America has completely ruined me anyway.
“I’m still hung up on the first part of your story.
You got on a plane and flew to Scotland because my bandmates asked you to? ”
I steal a glance at her. That warmth creeps up her neck once more as she tries to avoid my gaze. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because…” She seems to pause, choosing her words carefully before replying. “They’re all worried about you, Asher. They’ve called and texted. Darius even came here to see you.”
“That one was my parents’ fault. I didn’t even know he’d been here until he was halfway back to London.”
“Would it have mattered if you’d known?”
The silent way I grit my teeth appears to answer her question. No, probably not.
“You’ve pushed everyone away. They were at a loss for what else to do.”
“So they sent you?” I see her grimace out of the corner of my eye, and I instantly regret my harsh words. “I’m sorry, Mercury. I didn’t mean it that way. I just don’t like the idea of you coming all this way. I mean, what if something happened to you?”
“I am a grown-ass woman, Asher.”
“Oh, believe me, I know…” I mutter under my breath, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “I mean, I’m sure you’re more than capable. I just…” Change the subject, asshole. “What were you doing on the side of the road?”
Christ almighty.
“What?” She seems a bit flustered. That makes two of us. But I didn’t exactly plan on running into my manager’s daughter on the side of the road today.
Oh, I didn’t mention that part? Yeah, she’s my bandmate’s little sister and my manager’s daughter.
Fuck my life.
“You were saying something when I drove up about a cab driver?”
“You heard that?” She looks mortified.
“You were quite loud. And animated.”
She lets out a frustrated sigh. “When I got off the plane, I realized I’d accidentally booked my car service for the wrong day. As I was standing there, trying to figure out my next step, this kind old man approached me and asked if I needed a cab.”
“Please tell me he was licensed.”
“Yes!” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’m not that na?ve. I made sure he was a real cab driver, Ash.”
Almost everyone calls me Ash. It’s a nickname I’ve had since primary school. But hearing her say it makes it feel new, different. Special.
“He really was sweet. He had snacks and water in his cab and called me lassie.” I try to hide my smile. Likes being called lassie, does she? “Perhaps if I were here on vacation, I would have enjoyed my impromptu tour of Edinburgh, but I’m not, and it only caused me even more stress.”
“So this part-time historian and cab driver takes you all over Edinburgh—”
“For hours,” she emphasizes.
“Right, but that doesn’t explain how you ended up on the side of the road.”
“I’m getting there. It’s a long story.” She gives me a sideways glance. “Anyway, after I’ve seen and learned all there is to know about Edinburgh, after my cab driver asked me several times why in the world someone young like me would be going to Iverloch when there’s so much to do in Edinburgh.”
“Jesus, this bloke sounds like a paid spokesman for Scottish tourism.”
“If he isn’t, they’re seriously missing out. Anyway, to his dismay, he finally drives me to Iverloch. I thank him, pay my enormous cab fare, and go check into my hotel.”
I open my mouth to ask her which one. There are only two in town, but I would gladly drive her to either. I don’t get the chance to offer, though. She just keeps talking. It’s a drastic change from the wide-eyed, silent fan girl I met a year ago.
“I checked my reservation before leaving LA and even double-checked it when I arrived in Edinburgh. But when I reached the hotel, they had no record of it.”
My brows furrow. “How does that happen?”
She throws her hands in the air. “I don’t know, but I think Scotland hates me.”
Sometimes, I think Scotland hates me too, I nearly say. But, instead, I go for something a bit more on topic. “So you were on the road, headed for…”
“You,” she simply says.
“Me?”
“Well, I tried to get a cab, but that obviously didn’t happen since you found me on the side of the road. But seeing as I have nowhere to stay, and you’re the reason I’m here, I figured Blackstone was a good place to start.”
Nowhere to stay…
She’d said a lot in the last five minutes, but that part definitely stuck with me. I’m pretty sure she’s assuming we’re heading to my family’s estate, where she’ll get to enjoy luxury accommodations for the night.
The problem is, I’m not staying at Blackstone.
I’m staying at the run-down cottage.
And there’s only one bed.