Lord of the Isles: International Billionaires VIII: The Scots Read Online Free Page B

foyer she’d last stood in when she’d been ten. He’d turned on her here, turned from being an exciting teenager into a snarling, arrogant rejector. The memory made her grit her teeth.
    Perhaps he’d changed.
    Thrusting open a stout stone door, she spotted a staircase down a short hall. The granite steps circled around a heavy rock post, leading up into the tower, she’d bet. The castle tours she’d taken as a kid had never been in this part. Her fingers slid across the layers of ancient sandstone as she slowly climbed up and up.
    Silence echoed from above.
    Her heartbeat escalated as she ran through various versions of what she should say to this man. Tension tightened the muscles of her back and the hair on her neck rose, as if sensing the danger in front of her.
    She pushed Patrick into her brain and kept going.
    This must be the oldest part of the castle. She could tell by the narrow slits of windows interspersed in the thick walls. Now, they were decorated with lovely stained glass, but she’d guess they would have once been used to shield warriors as they fought off invaders.
    “Who the hell are ye?”
    Jerking her head up, she spotted…a warrior.
    He stood at the top of the stairway, and the flickering light behind him emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the taut strength of his body. His black shadow fell on her, making her freeze in her tracks, making her think of cold, dark woods with ravaging creatures ready to scare someone stupid enough to enter their forest.
    Her heart thumped in her chest like a wild, uncontrollable drum.
    “Well?” he snarled. “Answer me.”
    He held some kind of bottle in one hand and for a moment, she thought he might hurtle it at her. “I’m Lilly,” she blurted. “Lilly Graham.”
    “Who?” He shifted, menace lining the one word.
    Taking a grip on her ridiculous fear, she climbed one step, then another. This was only a man, not a raging warrior or a ferocious beast. Just a man who needed someone to evaluate whether he needed help or not.
    “Stop right there.” He growled, low and harsh, and the sound slammed into the stone walls, accentuating the threat.
    She straightened her shoulders, thought about Patrick again, and took another step toward him.
    A guttural curse was his response before he jerked back, disappearing around the bend of the stairwell.
    Being an optimist, she took this as progress. Walking up the last of the stairs, she gathered her courage before stepping into the archway.
    Surprise stunned her to a stop.
    The room was distinctly modern, even though the ceiling arching overhead was made of ancient stone and the walls were thick, standing here in solid splendor for hundreds of years.
    He’d sat down in a big leather chair, his long legs sprawled out in front of a dying fire. No other light brightened the round tower room, filled with a hodgepodge of stereo and computer equipment, a matching leather sofa to the chair, and a sturdy wooden trunk with scrolled Celtic sides.
    The surface of the trunk brimmed with empty bottles and dirty plates.
    “Go away,” he muttered, before lifting the half-filled bottle to his lips.
    A bottle of whiskey.
    Surprise coursed through her again. She’d had an inkling of what was wrong with this man, yet it still stunned her to see Iain Arrogant McPherson, the hero of the Royal Marines, the Lord of the Isles, like this.
    “You’re drunk.”
    “So I am.” He eyed her before taking another slug. “Fuck off.”
    Stepping into the room, she looked around. Behind the fireplace, she spotted the edge of an unmade bed piled with clothes. Beyond that yawned an open door leading into a dark cavern that probably was a bathroom.
    “Are ye here to take inventory then?” he barked from his chair. “Take whatever ye want and leave.”
    She swung her head back to meet his gaze. Now that she’d acclimated to the lack of light, she could see his eyes were blood-shot. “You’re not doing yourself any favors by drinking