Free Laird of the Highlands: International Billionaires IX: The Scots by Caro LaFever

one, Ceri Olwen, under the disposition of William Stewart Ross…
    Blah. Blah. Blah.
    She hadn’t attended university, but she wasn’t stupid. What the document meant was Will’s son was shutting down the castle tours. She was now legally prohibited from doing much of anything with the estate until he’d had his day in court.
    With all his lawyers and money.
    While she had to still find a way to pay the monthly estate taxes, starting in two short months.
    Her hands tightened on the edge of the counter. Will had left very little money when he’d died. Yes, the distillery produced a million bottles of single malt which sold well in the town and all over Scotland, yet the production and the labor ate most of the profit. Yes, his herds of sheep and cattle provided fine wool and steaks, yet again, the cost of feed and care wasn’t cheap. Yes, the hunters and bird watchers and fishermen had paid good money for access to the forest and the estate. Still, even those fees hadn’t been enough.
    The castle tours had made the difference in the Ross finances during the last four years. But now, the final Ross aimed to shut that down.
    What was she going to do? Ceri sucked in a shaky breath.
    She couldn’t leave. She wouldn’t leave.
    Not again. Not ever again.
    Elis needed the stability of this place, even though he was just shy of eighteen and about to launch himself into the world. He thought of this as his home. She couldn’t take that away from him.
    Will had told her, on the last night of his life, how content he was to have her in charge of his estate. He’d been worried, he’d said, about what would happen after his death. His son, he’d confided, wouldn’t be interested, and wouldn’t know what to do if he was.
    His son might be interested, at least for now, yet he clearly had no clue what was best for the Ross land and Pictloch.
    More than anything, though, it was about her. For once, she deserved this and she wasn’t going to let it go. Not her dreams and hopes, not her plans and her future.
    Here. Her future was here at Castle Ross.
    With a firm step, she walked to her purse lying on the kitchen counter and pulled out her cell phone. After making an appointment with Will’s solicitor, she stuffed the damn letter into the side of her purse and swung it over her shoulder.
    She might not have gobs of money. She might not have a team of solicitors.
    But she had Will’s wishes set on a legal document. And she had Pictloch’s residents, too.
    What would they do when she made copies of this damn letter and gave one to each store owner, every restaurant proprietor, every one of the villagers who had come to depend on the stream of tourists in the summer?
    They’d revolt.
    They’d come to the castle, pitchforks in hand, and confront that odd, eccentric man. He wouldn’t be able to ignore them as he ignored her. He wouldn’t be able to stare out of the window in all his naked glory and pretend no one else existed.
    The villagers existed.
    She existed.
    And she’d make damn sure he knew it.

    * * *
    “ S ir .”
    Lorne decided right then and there: Reid had to go. His constant presence and consistent whining had become more than an irritant. He’d become an obstacle to his work.
    He never let anything or anyone obstruct his work.
    “Sir.”
    The man had been handy in the kitchen, he would give him that. He’d gone to the store in town and come back with adequate staples. He’d produced sandwiches and salads and some kind of heated meat whenever Lorne stated he was hungry.
    But on balance, it wasn’t enough.
    “Ye can return to London.” He kept his concentration on the three monitors streaming his code.
    “Leave you?” Reid’s voice rose. “I can’t go. You need me.”
    He did not. He was quite sure of that. Hunger could be satisfied easily. The legal papers had been drawn up and filed. The woman would have received the paperwork earlier today. His solicitor had served his purpose, and he was now a