Jack went to the back of the car, opened the hatch, letting the dogs loose, and picked up his gun. The snow was falling so thick that by the time he reached the front door he was covered.

Jack realized he was hungry after his day in the fresh air, even after the scones at tea. He cleaned his gun, then changed into more comfortable garb, all the while pondering the possibilities of Dunbar. He had a strange feeling about the place. Deep down, he just knew it could work. If the numbers were right and the specs were what he imagined they might be, this could be the gem he’d been searching for.

He slipped on a pair of loafers and wandered down the passage to the kitchen in search of Mrs. MacClean, the Kinnaird family’s housekeeper for over twenty-five years. Dunbar could wait; dinner, on the other hand, could not.

He opened the door and watched as Mrs. MacClean bustled happily about her business, unperturbed by the old-fashioned kitchen, not bothered by drawbacks that, by American standards, would be considered archaic. Jack guessed she’d probably protest vehemently if any changes were suggested.

She glanced up from the oven with a broad smile. “Och, here ye are, Mr. Jack. I was about to call ye fer yer dinner. It’ll be ready in just a wee while. I’ll get the table set.”

Jack stopped her. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. MacC., I’ll just eat in here tonight. Will you keep me company?” he asked with a winning smile.

“Lonely are ye, dearie? Well, all right. I’ll set the table in here fer ye. I won’t be half a tick.” She laid her oven gloves on the counter and extracted a table mat with a faded hunting scene and heavy silver cutlery from the cumbersome drawer below the kitchen table.

Jack leaned against the counter, savoring the delicious smell of roast lamb that filtered from the large Aga oven, and relaxed, enjoying the scene. He usually ate in restaurants or in one of the hotels. And when he was home at the penthouse in Miami—which was rarely—he ordered takeout. He recalled a time when he’d enjoyed eating in, way back in the days when Lucy was alive and they were two kids, playing at keeping house. She’d loved French cooking. It was ironic that, at the present stage of his existence, he’d eaten enough fancy French food to last him a lifetime.

He sighed. The memories and the what-might-have-beens were so present today. Time had not faded her image or blotted out the sweet moments of his early youth. He rarely allowed himself to unlock the safe within his soul, because when he did, the thoughts of Lucy were still so vivid they hurt. He could almost reach out and touch her soft golden hair, and lose himself in those blue eyes he’d loved so well.

Sometimes, but not often, he let himself think about their life together, how they’d fought to get married when everyone had told them they were too young, and how glad he was that they had. There had been so much young love, so many hopes and expectations. Ironically he had fulfilled most of them. Alone. Now he owned all the material things they’d dreamed of possessing, had traveled to all the places they’d conjured up as they cuddled under the covers in the little frame house that Jack had proudly put the down payment on with money he’d earned working nights and summers while his friends were goofing around or dating girls. But for him it had always been different. Ever since fifth grade he’d known he wanted to marry Lucy, just as she had him.

Then in one horrifying instant everything had changed. Lucy never saw the truck speeding toward her on the icy snow-covered road. And from then on his life had become an empty place. At twenty-two he had stood by her grave, a devastated young widower bereft of his child bride and the baby she was carrying. Overnight the boy became a man, bearing pain that only years of determination and discipline would teach him to handle.

“There ye go. We’re just about ready. Sit yersel’ doon, Mr. Jack, while I get the roast out of the oven fer ye.”

Jack snapped back to his present surroundings, startled by Mrs. MacC.’s voice.

He sat down at the table and thought of India, with her exotic name, her high-bred British accent and her green eyes that changed constantly, like a kaleidoscope. She’d seemed so vulnerable perched on that tree stump, with her knees tucked under her chin, staring at him warily and wrinkling her nose at the whiskey. She’d made him think of a woodland elf, yet that same instant, he’d envisioned her draped on a sofa in a black evening dress, diamonds around her throat and a glass of champagne in her hand.

The differences between India and Serena were really quite striking. But Serena’s oblique references to her half sister’s background had left him curious, and he wondered if Mrs. MacClean could be induced to shed some light on the matter.

He knew Dunbar was very special. His intuition never failed him when it came to choosing sites for hotels. In his history as a hotelier he’d made only one mistake, and that was ten years ago, when he was twenty-four and just beginning. Even then he’d salvaged his money.

The possibility of perhaps acquiring Dunbar was increasingly enticing, and he looked forward to getting his hands on the specs and an in-depth look at the property. Of course, the place would need a tremendous overhaul if anything did materialize, but the advantages far outweighed any drawbacks of that nature. Being so near the airport, a half hour’s drive at most, made it easy to include in luxury packages to London.

He wondered if Peter, who was involved in local politics, might think it was too close to home. The locals might be sticky about a hotel. Worst-case scenario, he could go it alone. But it seemed a great fit with everything they already had going, including the Buenos Aires project.

“Here ye go, Mr. Jack,” Mrs. MacClean said, whisking the roast onto the table. “Have yer supper afore it chills. There’s nothing worse than half-cold food. I brought ye the bottle of Burgundy Sir Peter opened. He says it does the wine good te’ be open fer a wee while.”

Jack snapped out of his reverie, picking up the white linen napkin from the old pine table, its patina softened by years of elbows and beeswax. “Sir Peter’s right,” he said, picking up the bottle, reading the label, impressed. “Good red wines usually do benefit from being uncorked for a few hours before they’re consumed.”

“Well, that’s what Sir Peter always says.” Mrs. MacClean looked pleased as she padded back and forth with different items. “Now, are ye all set?” Her small eyes scanned the table critically from above ruddy, weather-beaten cheeks.

“Yeah, thanks, this looks great.” Jack carved a large portion of lamb and poured himself a glass of the Chambertin ’61, raising it reverently to his nostrils, appreciating the strong body yet delicate bouquet. “Sir Peter sure chose a fine bottle, Mrs. MacClean.”

“Och aye, just like his father afore him. Old Sir Peter was one fer knowing the wines.”

Jack toyed with his glass appreciatively. He’d acquired a taste for good wines, and his wine cellar in Miami held some interesting acquisitions, mostly bottles and lots picked up at auction. He hoped when the time came to consume them they would still be drinkable. The bottles were supposed to have been recorked at the château of origin before maturing to twenty-five, but you could never really be certain.

Remembering his objective, he cut to the chase. “Mrs. MacC., tell me about the lady who died over at Dunbar House. The Dunbars sound like an interesting family.”

She held a dishcloth in midair and looked thoughtful. “Aye, I suppose they are, in their ain way. Poor Lady Elspeth, they say she had a lovely death.” She sighed dreamily, folding the cloth and laying it down. “She was arranging the roses in a vase—och, she was a beautiful flower arranger, Lady Elspeth was—when Mrs. Walker, she’s the housekeeper at Dunbar, came to bring her the secateurs. And what did she find but poor Lady Elspeth lying dead on the floor next to the table.”

“She must have had a massive heart attack.”

“Aye, that’s what Dr. MacDuff said when he came from the village. Gone before she knew it, he said. It was a terrible shock for poor Mrs. Walker, her wi’ her heart an’ all,” she added, shaking her head.

“Was Lady Elspeth married?”

“Twice widowed, poor soul. Her first husband, Lord Henry Hamilton died, oh…over thirty years ago. Then she married a Mr. Duncan Moncrieff.” She lowered her voice and pursed her lips. “The family was most upset, him not being of the same ilk, if ye know what I mean.”

Jack pricked up his ears. “No, actually I don’t. What was wrong with the guy?”

“It wasna’ anything wrong exactly, he just wasna’ from their world. He was a wealthy shipbuilder from Glasgow—not at all what the family was used to,” she added with a conclusive shake of her head. “He and old Sir Thomas had words, and Mr. Moncrieff wouldna’ set foot at Dunbar after the quarrel. Old Sir Thomas told him he wasna’ good enough for the likes of his sister, and Mr. Moncrieff left very angry. ’Twas a good thing they went te’ live abroad. People were talking, and it would have been awf’y tricky. When old Sir Thomas died a bachelor and Lady Elspeth inherited Dunbar, she was already widowed for the second time. My, how time flies.” She sighed, pouring some thick, butter-colored cream for Jack’s apple pie into a jug. “It seems as if it were only yesterday.”

“Yes, it does fly,” he agreed wistfully, thinking how the years had flown. If Lucy and the baby had lived—He banished the thought, having learned long ago to discipline his mind.

“Did they have children?”

“Aye, a wee girl. Miss India.”

“India. That’s a strange name.”

“Aye, but ye see, that’s where Lady Elspeth was born. Old Sir William, her father, was in India wi’ the Scots Guards, ye know. She must be twenty-five or -six by now.”

Jack reflected on this as he savored the succulent lamb, beginning to better understand the roots of Serena’s contemptuous attitude toward her half sister. So this was why the Dunbar inheritance had been left the way it had. No wonder those boys back in 1776 had taken the reins into their own hands—and a damn good thing, too.

To him, an American, earning money and rising from poverty to riches was commendable. It seemed absurd that India’s father had been ostracized merely because he wasn’t born into the same social class as her mother.

Surely things couldn’t be as old-fashioned as that. This was the ’90s after all. He wondered if this was the general attitude, or if perhaps Mrs. MacC. was part of a dying breed. Diana and Peter certainly didn’t come across as being in the least bit snobbish or narrow-minded. Maybe they would be, though, if one of their daughters wanted to marry out of the mold.

“Tell me more about the Dunbars. They’ve lived there forever, haven’t they?”

“Och aye. The Dunbars have been in these parts fer as long as anybody can remember. So have the Kinnairds, mind ye. Now they say that Sir Jamie Kinnaird—”

“But haven’t the Dunbars been here even longer?” He interrupted, regretting it the minute he’d spoken.

Mrs. MacClean drew herself up to her full four foot nine and looked him straight in the eye. “The Kinnairds, Mr. Jack, are the oldest family in these parts. It’s a known fact that Sir Peter’s ancestor fought wi’ Robert the Bruce himsel’, and they were here long, long afore that,” she said, waving the dishcloth and making the Battle of Falkirk sound like a recent event.

“Of course. I remember Peter telling me that,” Jack lied.

“As for Lady Diana’s family,” she continued, warming to the theme, “it goes sae far back they canna’ even tell nae more. The Dunbars have been here almost as long, but the Kinnairds were definitely here first.” Her tone left no room for contradiction. “There’s the legend of Rob Dunbar, of course—that was back in the rebellion in ’45. He went to fight fer Bonnie Prince Charlie, although most of the Dunbars were loyal te’ Wee German Geordie.”

“Most interesting, Mrs. MacClean. You know, this pie is fit for Bonnie Prince Charlie himself!” He grinned at her in a shameless bid to return to her good graces.

“Och, yer a flatterer, Mr. Jack. I’m sure ye’ve eaten much finer dishes in those fancy hotels ye and Sir Peter are forever running around in. It seems to me neither of ye ever sit doon te’ breathe.”

“Fancier perhaps, Mrs. MacC., but certainly not finer.”

She shook with laughter and then stood still, listening. “Is that a car I hear? Who the de’il could be coming here at this hour?”

The dogs were barking near the door. “I’d better gae and see. You get on wi’ yer pudding.”

“I’ll come with you. I’ve just about finished anyway,” he said, laying the napkin aside, not liking the idea of her going alone.

Mrs. MacClean laughed. “Och, dinna’ worry, I’ll be fine. There’s nae criminals in these parts, Mr. Jack. This isna’ America.”

A knock sounded at the side door. Whisking off her apron, she hurried to answer.

“I’ll be off, then. Good night, Mrs. MacC., and thanks. That was one great dinner.”

Jack headed down the corridor to Peter’s study. He pushed aside some papers and brochures on the desk, making space for himself. His eyes wandered around the busy room filled with old relics, faded photographs and ancient weapons that lay strewn amongst the paraphernalia and stacks of books. Peter was a hoarder, he remarked, smiling to himself as he watched Felix, the older of the three retrievers, scratching the threadbare hem of the drapes. “Hey, don’t do that, Felix, that’s destruction of property,” he chided. Felix paid no attention.

He suddenly remembered that evening five years ago, in Hong Kong, when he’d sat with Peter at the bar of the Penn, celebrating their partnership. The two men had liked each other from the start. There was something frank and straightforward in Peter’s ruddy face. The man stood straight as a ramrod when he was on the job, his military days in the Black Watch not forgotten. Jack’s instinct had told him he was dealing with a straight shooter, and time had proved him right. Both their business and friendship had prospered.

Jack rose and poured himself a brandy from the decanter before selecting a Cohiba from the humidor. He gently rolled the tip in the amber liquid, Cuban style, before lighting it. The smoke spiraled up, climbing slowly on its narrow path toward the ceiling as he recalled their dinner at Gaddi’s and the strange atmosphere of the evening. Both men had been subdued rather than elated, as though aware they were stepping into a new era. Suddenly Peter had turned to him and said, “Why don’t you visit us at Dalkirk, Jack. I think you’d enjoy Scotland. We’ve some fairly decent shooting and fishing, and I’d like you to meet my wife, Diana, and the girls.”

Jack’s thoughts were brusquely interrupted when the door burst open and Chloë entered, wrapped, like a snow queen, in a three-quarter-length sable coat and hat.

“Hello, Yank. I didn’t know you were here.” Diana’s lovely young sister threw her Vuitton tote on the leather armchair, and removed her coat, then came over and gave him a hug.

“What brings you here out of the blue?” he asked, watching, amused, as she slowly wound down. Chloë was like a fashionable pixie, short and dark-haired, with bright blue eyes that sparkled mischievously in a pert face. It always surprised him how someone so small could have so much energy. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“Oh lovely! G and T please, I’m exhausted. I’m here on an emergency,” she added, her expression suddenly sad. “Where are Peter and Di?”

“At your mother’s for the girls’ half-term break.”

“That’s right, I forgot. Why didn’t you go?” She eyed him curiously.

“I didn’t feel like it.”

“Sorry, I just asked. I had a rotten journey by the way. There were no taxis at Turnhouse, so finally I rented a car, which I’ll have to leave at the airport on the way back. But I had to come.” She gave a heavy sigh.

“I’ve gathered that, but you still haven’t told me why,” Jack said patiently, handing her the drink before retreating once more behind the voluminous desk.

“Funeral.” She grimaced, looking distressed. “My best friend’s mother died. We’ve always been there for each other since boarding school. I popped up on the shuttle, and I’ll leave tomorrow night or early the next day.”

“Do you mean India’s mom?”

“Yes…but how do you know that?” Chloë asked in astonishment.

“We’ve met.”

“You didn’t!” She laid the glass of gin and tonic down and leaned forward, herself once more. “You must tell me all about it.”

“Nothing much to tell. I met her in the glen. She almost got herself shot. Should have been paying more attention.”

“Are you telling me someone almost shot India?”

“I’m telling you I almost shot India.”

“What on earth would you want to do that for?” She frowned blankly.

“Jeez, Chlo, it was a mistake, dammit.” It irritated him even to think about it.

“Golly. What on earth did you do? What did she do?” Her bright blue eyes sparkled, rampant with curiosity, her romantic streak clearly at work.

“Threw her on the ground and raped her,” he replied sarcastically.

“Don’t be so rotten-tempered. Tell me the truth. I’ll bet she was livid.”

“She was—told me to get lost, said I was trespassing.”

“That’s India for you. Very much the grande dame when she sets her mind to it. Go on,” she egged, her sadness momentarily swept aside.

“You’re too darn nosy.”

“No I’m not, I’m a journalist,” Chloë replied with dignity. “It’s my business to acquire information and relay it truthfully to the public.”

“Chlo, you’re a society gossip columnist, for goodness’ sake. Next, you’ll even have me believing you.”

She ignored him and frowned. “So India left in a huff, I suppose, and then what?”

“And then she fainted, and I took her back home. How’s that?”

“India, fainting?” Chloë shook her head in amazement, then said sadly, “It’s probably due to all the strain she’s going through, poor darling. But isn’t she gorgeous?”

Of course she was, Jack acknowledged privately, but he was darned if he was about to admit it. “She’s okay,” he replied casually. “Not my type though, so don’t start scheming. I don’t need complications in my life now—or ever, for that matter. I’m fine the way I am,” he said, pushing back his chair with a shove. For some reason, he didn’t want to talk about the moments he’d spent with India—he was still trying to figure them out for himself.

“Poor, darling Indy. I can’t believe you don’t think Indy’s gorgeous, all men do. She keeps them at arm’s length, though.”

“What’s she doing with a best friend like you then?” he asked, taunting.

Chloë eyed him darkly and shook a finger at him. “Now I know why you’re not married. Nobody could stand that obnoxious streak of yours. I’m getting myself another drink.”

Jack grinned in response and gazed into the fire while Chloë poured herself a generous gin and tonic. He felt good at Dalkirk. It was perhaps less perfect in style than Dunbar, the house having been added to over the years with more attention paid to comfort than aesthetics, but it was very homey. There were lots of nooks and crannies where the little Kinnaird girls loved to play hide-and-seek. Diana’s presence and good taste could be felt throughout in the small details, like the bowls of heather-scented potpourri or a small vase of flowers on a Chippendale table.

The house was just untidy enough to feel truly at ease in. Not like the penthouse, he realized gloomily, where everything stood dusted to perfection on the gleaming marble floors and glass shelves. He’d bought it for its spectacular view, its proximity to his office and because it was a great real estate opportunity. But a house was a house, he reflected, feeling suddenly nostalgic.

Scotland seemed to have carved a special niche in his heart, and ever since that first spontaneous visit, he’d become a regular guest here. Dalkirk was the closest thing to a home he’d known in years, for the Kinnairds had adopted him as part of the family, with Chloë teasing in a sisterly fashion and Diana hovering, her maternal instincts aroused.

As he watched Chloë climb back into the large leather sofa, curling her small legs beneath her, he realized how much he’d truly come to care for them all.

“A penny for ’em,” Chloë said, watching him closely from under her thick dark lashes.

“Just thinking about you Kinnairds. You’ve been real friends to me,” he said, pulling on the cigar.

“Jack, darling, we adore you. The old place wouldn’t be the same without you!” She lifted her glass, smiling at him affectionately. “And I have someone to tease whenever I come home. Anyway, why wouldn’t we be real friends?”

“You’d be surprised.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Most people only invite me to their homes when they want something. They can’t cut straight to the chase, so they go through the BS of having me to their home, wining and dining me, before getting to the point. But the first time Peter invited me here, he genuinely wanted me to come, and I felt it. You guys have made me feel at home ever since.”

“Well, you are rather a decent chap. If you weren’t so odiously overbearing, I’d have a go at you myself,” she said teasingly.

“Forget it. I’m a rolling stone.”

“You pretend to be but I don’t believe you are at heart. You can be quite sweet at times, when you want,” she added perceptively.

“Chloë, give me a break. I’ve had a long day. I only got back from Dunbar a couple of hours ago. Serena drove me.”

“What, that horrible creature?”

“No shit!”

“Swear away, don’t worry about me!” Chloë said blithely. “Though I agree with you about Serena. Behind all that elegance and class, India’s a very lovely, sensitive person. And a lot of fun, too, when she wants,” she continued as though the subject hadn’t changed.

“She seems to know her business back to front.”

“We have been observant, haven’t we?” she teased. “What was Serena doing there anyway? Getting ready for the spoils, no doubt.”

“Looks like it. Apparently she’s inherited Dunbar.”

“That’s very possible. Lady El may have left it to her. Maybe she thought Serena might as well have Dunbar. After all, Indy’s never really been attached to the place. I’ll go over early tomorrow to give her moral support. She’ll need it with Serena around. By the way, that brings something to mind,” she said, a mischievous grin replacing the sad look of seconds earlier. “What happened that night at the party in September? I saw the two of you slipping upstairs.”

“That’s none of your business. I will only say that it was a regrettable incident that I’m not proud of. Anyway, a nice girl like you shouldn’t be talking these things over with guys.”

“It’s not guys, it’s only you,” she said disdainfully.

“Thanks a lot. Just don’t you start opening your big mouth to Peter and Di.”

“Promise.” She crossed her heart, looking pensive all of a sudden. Jack watched as her eyes turned misty, and she gazed into the flames.

“New man in your life, Chlo?”

“How did you know?” she exclaimed, almost spilling her drink.

“It’s written all over you.”

“Jack,” she said, eyeing him seriously, “I think this time it’s the real thing.”

“Shoot.”

“He’s…different, you know, not like the other chaps I meet.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “That’s what you said about the last three.”

“There! You see? I knew I shouldn’t have said anything, now you’ll be horrid,” Chloë exclaimed crossly.

“He’s bought the magazine. He’s diversifying his interests,” she added grandly.