His Heir, Her Secret
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Janice Maynard
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One
The Scotsman was back. Heart pounding, hands sweating, Cate Everett leaned over her old-fashioned, nicked-up porcelain sink and eased the curtain aside with one finger. From the vantage point of her upstairs apartment, she had a perfect view of the comings and goings across the street.
Brody Stewart. The man she hadn’t seen in four months and believed she would never see again. Brody Stewart. Six feet and more of broad shoulders, sinewy muscles and a rough-velvet brogue of a voice that could shuck the panties off a girl before she knew what was happening. The Scotsman was back.
She wasn’t ready. Dear Lord, she wasn’t ready.
Her freshly brewed cup of tea sat cooling on the table behind her. The late February day had been icy and drear, a perfect match for the mood that had plagued her since climbing out of bed at dawn. She’d thought the comforting drink would cheer her up.
Instead, a clatter of slamming doors and deep male voices had distracted her...driven her to the window. And now she knew. The Scotsman was back.
In all fairness, Cate had never seen disaster coming four months ago. When a man’s grandmother introduces you to her grandson, a woman usually thinks the guy can’t get his own dates.
Only in this case, it wasn’t true. Brody Stewart could have any woman he wanted with one twinkle of his long-lashed, indigo-blue eyes. She still remembered the tiny lines that crinkled at the corners of those gorgeous eyes when he smiled. Brody smiled a lot.
Oh, jeez. Her legs wobbled in sync with the drunken butterflies in her stomach. She needed to sit down. She needed to drink her tea. But she couldn’t tear herself away from the window.
On the street below, a tiny, gray-haired lady gave orders to two remarkably similar men. Brody was one. The other must be Duncan, his younger brother. Suitcases came out of the trunk of a rental car. Hugs were exchanged. Snowflakes danced on the breeze.
None of the three people she spied on seemed to notice the cold. Perhaps because they hailed from the Scottish Highlands...a place where winter winds scoured the moors, and bloodlines went as far back as the hearty stock of warring clans and beyond.
Cate wiped damp palms on her faded jeans. She needed to focus. Voyeurism and dithering weren’t going to accomplish a thing. Besides, she had a shop to run.
Forcing herself to step back and abandon her intense fascination with the tableau on the street, she cradled her teacup in two trembling hands, drank most of the cold liquid and set the delicate china aside before making her way downstairs. Lunch break, such as it was, was over.
For five years she had found solace and pride in her charmingly eccentric bookshop, Dog-Eared Pages. The little store with the uneven hardwood floors and the rows of antique bookshelves held a place of honor on the main street of Candlewick, North Carolina. From the spring solstice until almost Thanksgiving, tourists came and went, bringing dollars and life to the region.
Tucked away in the Blue Ridge Mountains an hour from Asheville, Candlewick hearkened back to a simpler time. Neighbors knew each other’s business, crime was rare and the quality of life made up for the lack of first-run movie theaters and big-name restaurants.
Cate straightened the local History section and dusted one volume at a time, congratulating herself on avoiding the front of the store. She didn’t need to know what was happening across the street. It had nothing to do with her.
Without warning, the tinkling of a bell above the door announced the arrival of a customer. Cate’s heart stopped for a full three seconds, and then lurched ahead with a sickening whoosh when she recognized her visitor.
She cleared her dry throat. “Miss Izzy. What can I do for you?”
Isobel Stewart stood barely five feet tall but carried herself with the personality of an Amazon. Decades ago she had left her parents’ home in Inverness for a secretarial job in the big city of Edinburgh. While there, she met a charismatic American who had come to Scotland for a study-abroad semester.
After a whirlwind courtship, Isobel married the lad and followed him back to the United States—Candlewick, North Carolina, to be precise. She embraced her new life with only one request, that she keep her maiden name. Her new husband not only agreed, but also legally changed his last name to hers so that the Stewart line would continue. Together, the young couple launched a business building cabins in the mountains.
The intervening years produced vast wealth and a single son. Unfortunately for his parents, the young man felt the pull of his Scottish roots and after college settled in the Highlands. His two sons were the two men Cate had been spying on across the street. Izzy’s grandsons.
Isobel Stewart scanned the titles on the New Release shelf. “I want ye to come to dinner tonight, Cate. Brody is back. And he’s brought Duncan with him this time.”
“You must be thrilled,” Cate said, avoiding the question. Actually, it was more of a command. Isobel rarely accepted no for an answer.
The little woman suddenly looked every one of her ninety-two years. “I need you,” she muttered as if mortified by her weakness.
The smell of lemon polish permeated the air. Cate leaned a hip against the oak counter that supported the cash register. “What’s wrong, Miss Izzy?”
When the old Scottish lady blinked back tears, Cate couldn’t tell if they were genuine or manipulative.
Isobel’s bottom lip quivered. “I don’t have room in the apartment for two huge men, so I’ve told the lads they have to stay up at the big house.”
The big house was Isobel’s lavish and incredibly beautiful property on the mountaintop above Candlewick. Izzy hadn’t been able to spend the night there since her husband died six months before. Like many of the businesses in Candlewick, Stewart Properties was housed in a historic building on Main Street. Izzy had taken to sleeping on the second floor above her office.
“Makes sense,” Cate said carefully, sensing a trap. “But what does that have to do with me?”
“The boys wanted to surprise me for my birthday. They’ve hired a caterer to prepare dinner for us tonight. I hadn’t the heart to tell them I didn’t want to come.”
“Oh, I didn’t remember it was today. Happy birthday. But Brody was here before. Surely the two of you spent time up on the mountain.”
“He did a few chores for me. Checked on things. I pretended like I was busy. And since it was just Brody, he slept on the sofa, ye know...in the apartment...with me.”
“Miss Izzy...” Cate trailed off, searching for words. “Your grandsons must have an inkling of how you feel. Maybe this is their way of breaking the ice. It’s been six months. The longer you stay away, the more difficult it will be. I’m guessing they planned the birthday dinner to lure you up there.”
“It doesn’t feel like months,” the old woman said, her words wistful. “It seems like yesterday. My dear Geoffrey’s spirit is a ghost in every room of that house. Go with me,” Izzy pleaded. Gnarled, arthritic hands twisted at her waist. For a split second, Cate witnessed the depth of Isobel Stewart’s anguish at losing the love of her life.
“It’s a family celebration,” Cate said. “It will seem odd if I come.”
“Not at all,” Izzy said. “It was actually Brody’s idea.”
* * *
Five hours later Cate found herself on the doorstep of Stewart Properties, bouncing from one foot to the other in a futile attempt to keep warm. At the curb, she had left the engine running in her modest four-door sedan.
At last, when Cate’s fingers were numb, Izzy appeared. She looked remarkably chipper for someone who was about to face an unpleasant experience. “Right on time,” Izzy said. “You’re a lovely young lass. Men don’t like a woman who can’t be punctual.”
Cate helped the old woman into the car. Izzy was wrapped from head to toe in a brown wool coat and a heavy woven scarf in brown and beige. “That’s a stereotype, Miss Izzy. I’m sure there are as many men as women who have trouble being on time.”
Isobel snorted and changed the subject. “I thought ye’d wear a dress,” she complained.
Cate extracted the car from the tight parking space and adjusted the defroster. “It’s going to be close to twenty degrees tonight. These are my best dress pants.” She’d worn them back when she was on her way to becoming a doctor...in the days before her world fell apart.
“Pants, schmantz. Brody and Duncan are hot-blooded men. I’m sure they would have enjoyed seeing a glimpse of leg. Yours are spectacular, bonnie young Cate. When you’re my age, you’ll wish ye’d appreciated what ye had when you had it.”
There was no arguing with the antiquated, sexually regressive logic of a woman in her nineties.
Cate sighed. Unfortunately, the road up the mountain was easily traversed and not long at all. When they pulled up in front of the Stewart mansion—Cate would be hard-pressed to describe it as anything else—they had time to spare. Izzy’s home was spectacular. Weathered mountain stone, rough-hewn lumber, copper guttering, giant multipaned windows that brought the outdoors inside... This magnificent architectural gem had once graced the cover of Southern Living.
Cate touched the petite woman’s arm. “Are you going to be okay?”
Izzy sniffed. “Outliving your friends and contemporaries is bollocks, Cate.”
“Miss Izzy!” Her friend’s lack of respect for social convention still caught her off guard at times.
“Don’t be prissy. What’s the point of getting old if ye can’t say what ye please?”
“So back to my original question. Are you going to be okay?”
Izzy gazed through the windshield, her cheeks damp. “He built that house as a thank-you to me. Did you know that?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t. A thank-you for what?”
“Giving up Scotland. My family. My home. Coming here to America with him. Silly fool.” She stopped. Her throat worked. “I’d have given all that and more for one more day with the auld codger.”
Cate felt her own throat tighten, and not only because of Izzy’s emotional return to the house where she had spent a decades-long marriage. Izzy had pledged herself and her heart to a man who was her soul mate. Cate had never even come close. And now she had made the most wretched mistake of her life.
She turned off the engine and gripped the steering wheel. Brody was inside that house. What was she going to say to him?
Izzy moved restively. “Might as well get it over with,” she muttered. “I’ll not cry, mind you. Too many tears shed already. Besides, I don’t want the lads to think they’ve done wrong by me. Let’s go, Cate, my girl.”
The two women scuttled up the flagstone walkway, buffeted by an icy wind. Moments later the double, burnished-oak front doors swung open wide. The massive chandelier in the foyer spilled light into the darkness. The diminutive Scotswoman was caught up in the enthusiastic hugs of her two über-masculine grandsons.
Brody’s thick, wavy chestnut hair shone with strands of reddish-gold mixed in. Duncan’s was a darker brown and straighter. He had the rich brown eyes to match. Though the brothers were alike in many ways, Izzy had once upon a time explained to Cate that Brody favored his Irish-born mother while Duncan was a younger version of his Grandda.
Now that Cate had finally met Duncan, she agreed. It was astonishing to see how much Brody’s younger brother resembled Geoffrey Stewart. She wondered if it was painful for Izzy to look at Duncan and see the memory of her young husband in the flesh.
Cate hung back, still not sure why she had come. Izzy seemed to be handling things with grace and bravery. It was Cate whose stomach quivered with nerves.
Izzy drew Cate forward. “Cate, my dear, meet Duncan.”
Duncan Stewart lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. “Charmed, Miss Everett.”
Brody snorted. “Knock it off, Duncan.”
Duncan held up his hands, visibly protesting his innocence. “What? What did I do?”
“Go check on the caterer, would you?”
Moments later Duncan bore his grandmother deeper into the house, leaving Cate alone with Brody.
The man who had avoided eyeing her until now, gave her a crooked grin. “Surprise, lass. I’m back.”
* * *
Brody wasn’t an idiot. He knew when a woman was glad to see him and when she wasn’t. Cate Everett looked like someone who had swallowed bad milk. His pride took a hit, but he maintained his smile with effort. “It was nice of you to come with Granny. I know she’s been dreading this moment.”
Cate took off her coat slowly and handed it to him. “Then why force the issue?”
He shrugged, turning to hang up Cate’s wrap. “There are decisions to be made. My ninety-two-year-old grandmother has been sleeping in a closet-sized room with the barest of essentials. Grandda is gone. This house is still here. We can’t pretend anymore.”
Cate’s jaw tightened. “Are you always so sure you know what’s best for everyone?”
He cocked his head, studying her from a distance, even though he thought about grabbing her up and kissing her soundly. The last time the two of them had seen each other, they had been naked and breathless in Cate’s bed.
“Have I upset ye in some way, Cate? I had to leave. You knew that.”
A month after his grandfather’s funeral, Brody had returned to Candlewick to spend time with his grandmother and to assess the state of the family business. Stewart Properties was a thriving company with a stellar reputation in the United States.
Unfortunately, Geoffrey Stewart was gone now. Brody’s own father had no desire to return to the States permanently. So something had to be done about Granny Isobel.
Brody had spent four weeks in North Carolina, two of them wildly in lust with the beautiful and brilliant Cate Everett. By day he had been a dutiful grandson. At night he had found himself drawn time and again to the woman who had a reputation around the small town for being kind but standoffish. With Brody, she had been anything but...
To be honest, the depth of his physical infatuation had made him the tiniest bit uncomfortable. He understood the mechanics of sexual attraction. He’d even had his share of serious relationships. But when his grandmother introduced him to her friend and neighbor, Cate Everett, Brody had felt like a tongue-tied adolescent.
Cate was a mix of femme fatale and spinster schoolteacher. Her pale blond hair was like sunshine on a winter afternoon, though she kept it tucked up in a tight knot on the back of her head most days, the kind of knot that looked headache-producing from the get-go.
But when she let it down...hot damn. Even now Brody’s fingers itched to touch the fall of silk that had spilled across his chest and still featured in his fantasies.
She was tall, five-ten at least. Brody knew the curves and valleys of her alluring shape, but Cate kept her body mostly hidden beneath loose cardigans and below-the-knee jumpers. He had no clue why a woman as intensely feminine as she was would make a concerted effort to hide in plain sight.
After a long, awkward silence, she cast him a sideways glance, her small smile rueful. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. It’s nice to see you again, Brody.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Nice?”
“I didn’t want to give you any ideas.”
“About what?”
“You know what,” Cate said crossly. “I’m not interested in picking up where we left off.”
“Maybe I wasn’t going to ask.” He taunted her deliberately. Her prickly attitude was both frustrating and a challenge. He’d never met a woman with as many complicated layers as Cate Everett.
Cate sighed. “It’s cold here in the foyer. Do you mind if we go find the others? I’m starving.”
“Of course. I do remember how ye like to eat.”
When Cate flushed to her hairline, he smiled inwardly. On one memorable occasion last fall, the two of them had climbed out of Cate’s bed at midnight and fixed scrambled eggs and bacon, because they had skipped dinner in favor of urgent, mind-blowing sex.
Cate knew her way around Isobel’s house, so he let her lead. She and Granny had been friends for several years. Although Brody had pumped his grandmother for information about the aloof American, she had fed him few details.
They found Duncan and Isobel in the dining room. The caterer who was preparing dinner had set an elegant table with Stewart china and silver and crystal. Brody’s grandmother stood behind the chair that had been her husband’s and rested her hands on the tall back. “One of you boys should sit here,” she said with the tiniest quaver in her voice.
Brody and Duncan looked at each other. Cate winced. Finally, Brody shook his head. “I can’t, Granny. Neither can Duncan.”
“Then why did ye make me come up here?” she snapped, her eyes welling with tears. “If my own grandsons won’t move on, how am I supposed to?”
