hereditary rights, so he was off the hook in terms of his peer duties. And Louisa was more than happy running Rubha Castle, so he was superfluous to requirements.
Okay, so he was the Edward VIII of the family. The wayward black sheep who’d shirked his ancestral duties in favour of chasing pipedreams. It had been his parents’ favourite accusation, thrown at him many times during his adolescence. And they’d been right, of course. Even as a kid he’d craved freedom, a desire to see what the world had to offer. But his departure from their lives at barely eighteen was entirely down to their doing, not his.
Louisa had just ended her call when the taxi bumped onto the bridge joining the castle with the mainland. The driver pulled up in front of the open portcullis but left the engine running, an indication that he wasn’t offering any assistance. Olly couldn’t blame him. Trying to manoeuvre an eight-months-pregnant woman with her leg in an orthopaedic boot out of a car wasn’t going to be easy.
With a sigh, Olly got out the taxi and went around to open the door.
Louisa smiled up at him, her green eyes rimmed with dark circles. ‘Are you feeling strong?’
He grinned. ‘Positively herculean.’
She laughed and took his hands but winced when he tried unsuccessfully to pull her from the vehicle. He could tell she was in pain, however much she tried to hide it. Louisa’s outward fragility concealed an inner strength that enabled her to cope with adversity. Which was just as well, considering the upbringing they’d had.
Assistance appeared in the form of Gilly Jennings scurrying across the courtyard, red-faced and panting. Technically, she was the hired help, a cook-cum-housekeeper, but she’d always been more of a ‘parental figure’, bossy but warm-hearted, filling the gap caused by their own parents’ coldness.
‘Och, you poor love,’ she said, reaching the taxi. ‘Here, let me help you.’
Olly was bumped out of the way. He was about to object, when he realised his seventy-year-old housekeeper had already eased Louisa out of the car, usurping him as primary carer.
He tried not to feel disgruntled. But then he remembered they’d survived without him for eleven years. They didn’t need him. It stung, but it was the price he had to pay.
He paid the driver and unloaded the wheelchair from the boot.
As they made their way across the inner courtyard, Gilly issued instructions, sending him ahead to open doors, clear the stairway and put the kettle on.
Suppressing his frustration at being ordered around, he did as he was told, knowing he was still ‘in the dog house’ and it would be a long time before anyone felt he’d made amends. Gilly only allowed him to push the wheelchair when they reached the steps leading into the west guard tower.
Shortly after Louisa and Harry had married, they’d moved into the private area of the main keep, near the grand banqueting hall and billeting room, which were used for events. In contrast, upon his return, Olly had been given a small room in the south-west wing, an area previously used to stable horses. That said it all, really.
Having deposited his sister in her bedroom, he went to make drinks.
He returned armed with sugary tea and shortbread biscuits, grateful for Gilly’s baking skills. He’d always had a sweet tooth.
On entering the bedroom, he heard Louisa yelp.
Gilly was trying to roll her onto her side. ‘Her back’s hurting,’ she said, continuing to push.
‘I’m not surprised,’ he said, placing the tray on the Jacobean sidetable. ‘Move over, will you.’ He pulled up short when he saw the hurt look on Gilly’s face. He tried for an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, Gilly. What I meant to say was, as my sister is currently the size of a small elephant, it might be better if I do it.’
Louisa threw a pillow at him.
Gilly laughed and stood back to allow him access. Disaster averted. He winked at Louisa, who normally didn’t carry an ounce of fat on her and would therefore forgive him for likening her to a large land mammal.
He eased her onto her side.
‘Look at you, being all tender and caring,’ Gilly teased. ‘Perhaps you should follow your sister’s example and get married yourself.’
He suppressed a shudder. ‘Not going to happen.’
‘Why ever not? A good-looking man like yourself shouldn’t have any trouble finding a lass.’
Finding one? No problem. Holding on to them? Another matter entirely. Of course, it didn’t help that he rarely stayed in one place long. But all that was about to change.
‘I’m sure the right girl’s out there,’ Gilly said, tucking in the bedsheet. ‘Although she mightn’t be too impressed by a man pushing thirty and yet to secure a proper job.’
And there it was, the scolding he’d been waiting for.
He didn’t need Gilly to tell him he was a waste of space. He was painfully aware of his shortcomings.
Emotionally, he still felt like an eighteen-year-old kid backpacking the world while scraping a living. Only he was twenty-nine now and still searching. For what, he wasn’t sure, but something was missing from his life, he knew that much. It was a sobering thought – one that depressed him – so he pushed the notion from his mind.
‘Still, you’re here now.’ Gilly handed Louisa a mug of tea. ‘It’s just a shame Lady Eleanor isn’t around to see it.’
Actually, it was a blessing. His mother had been the main reason he’d left home aged eighteen. He couldn’t stand the hypocrisy. All his life his parents had banged on about ‘protocol’ and ‘tradition’ and the need for ‘honesty’. They’d beaten him down with draconian rules and restraints, expecting him to behave in a suitable way for someone in his ‘elevated’ position. And yet the whole time they’d been two-faced liars.
He’d discovered this one night in 2007, when he’d stumbled across their illicit plan to falsify the provenance of a valuable painting. The painting was several hundred years old, but there was significant doubt surrounding its authenticity. So they’d created a set of false documents to make it look like it was an original work by renowned Renaissance artist Albrico Spinelli.
Overhearing their conversation had been shocking and unbelievable. But the tipping point had come when he’d realised they’d managed to pass off one of his replica sketches as an original Albrico Spinelli, too. The sketch had sold ahead of the auction for several thousand pounds, creating a ‘buzz’ around the main painting and increasing its value.
He hadn’t known which had angered him most: the fact that his mother’s art tutelage and insistence on using genuine sixteenth-century materials hadn’t been about showing an interest in developing her son’s talent but a way of making money, or because they’d gone behind his back and made him complicit in their crime. Suddenly, it all made sense. The reason his mother had made him paint replicas wasn’t for his own benefit but so his parents could flog them and improve the family’s finances.
A huge argument had followed. His parents’ excuse? That it was a necessary evil to save Rubha Castle from financial ruin. They’d refused to apologise or admit any wrongdoing.
