Laurie Jenkins was having none of it. She folded her arms across her chest again. ‘That’s just the thing, Callan. I do have a right to comment—because, apparently, I’m family.’ She let the words hang in the air as she walked past him into the room.
Callan’s blood was about to reach the point of eruption.
The very thing that knotted his stomach. Family. And the fact he wasn’t.
He still hadn’t got over the fact Angus McLean had six children he’d never once mentioned. The reality was he was still hoping it wasn’t true—that someone would give him a nudge and he’d wake up from this nightmare.
Nothing about this seemed right. Angus had been the perennial bachelor, even in old age. Why on earth would he have children and never acknowledge them? It seemed bizarre.
Angus had had the biggest heart he’d ever known.
But then, he’d only known Angus for the last twenty-five years. Maybe in his youth he’d been a completely different person?
It bothered him. It bothered him so much he hadn’t slept the last few nights.
And now that he’d met some of the relatives it bothered him a whole lot more.
One of these money-grabbers was going to inherit Annick Castle. A place full of history and rich with antiques. A place full of memories that not a single one of them would care about.
Why hadn’t Angus let him buy it? He’d known that Callan loved it every bit as much as he did. It just didn’t make sense.
The family stuff. It enraged him more than he could ever have imagined.
Laurie was standing looking out of the window across the sea. Some of these bedrooms had the most spectacular views. He knew—his was just above.
And this complete stranger had just put him perfectly in his place.
She was right—she was family. The one thing he wasn’t.
He dumped her bag on the bed. ‘Dinner is at seven.’
He didn’t even wait for a response. The sooner he got away from Ms Jenkins, the better.
* * *
Laurie breathed out slowly, releasing the tight feeling that had spread across her chest.
What on earth was wrong with her? And why had she just offloaded to the one person who could actually tell her something about her grandfather?
Common sense told her it wasn’t wise to alienate Callan McGregor. He could probably tell her everything she could ever want to know—and a whole lot more besides.
She sagged down onto the bed. The bedroom was big, with panoramic views over the sea. How many people throughout the ages had stood at her window and looked out at this view? The sun had set rapidly leaving the sea looking dark, haunting and cold. Was it possible that the sea looked angry—just like Callan McGregor?
The history of this place intrigued her. It would be fascinating. If only she could take the time to learn it.
Her hand smoothed the coverings on the bed, taking in the carpet, curtains and other soft furnishings. At one time these must have been brand new and the height of fashion. But that time had clearly passed. How did you update a castle? She didn’t have a clue.
It wasn’t that anything was shabby. It was just—tired. A little dated maybe. And obviously in need of some TLC.
Angus had been ninety-seven when he’d died. How often had he looked around the castle to see what needed replacing and updating? And how much would all that cost?
She shifted uncomfortably on the bed. She’d heard some of the conversation of the other relatives downstairs. They’d virtually had measuring tapes and calculators out, deciding how much everything was worth and where they could sell it.
It made her blood run cold.
This castle was their heritage. How could people immediately think like that?
She walked over to her bag and shook out her clothes. She was only here for a few days and had travelled light. One dress for evenings, some clean underwear, another pair of Capri pants, some light T-shirts and another shirt. What else could she possibly need?
An envelope on the mantelpiece caught her attention. Ms Mary Laurie Jenkins was written in calligraphy. She opened it and slid the thick card invitation out from inside.
It was instructions for the Murder Mystery Weekend: where to report, who would be in charge and a list of rules for participation.
Under normal circumstances something like this would have made her stomach fizz with fun.
But how could she even think like that when there was so much more at stake?
The whole heritage of this castle was dependent on the winner. And the weight of the responsibility was pressing on her shoulders. She fingered the curtains next to her. She knew nothing about Annick Castle. She had no connection to this place. She wouldn’t even know where to begin with renovations or upkeep. Or the responsibility of having staff to manage.
Working as a solicitor was a world away from all this. Everything and everyone wasn’t entirely dependent on her. There was a whole range of other bodies to share the responsibility. Thank goodness. She couldn’t stand it otherwise.
All of a sudden she wanted to pick up her bag and make a run for it. She shouldn’t have come here. She shouldn’t have agreed to be any part of this.
This whole thing made her uncomfortable. She looked at the invitation again. Costumes supplied. What did that mean? There was another little envelope with a character profile included, telling her who she was, and what her actions should be.
1920s. Lucy Clark. Twenty-seven. Heiress to a fortune. Keen interest in pharmacy. In a relationship with Bartholomew Grant, but also seeing Philippe Deveraux on the side.
It was a sad day when the pretend character you had to portray had a more exciting love life than you had.
It could be worse. Her card could have told her she was the killer. But maybe that came later?
Then again what did ‘keen interest in pharmacy’ mean? Was she going to poison someone?
Under normal circumstances this might be fun.
But these weren’t normal circumstances, and now she was here, and had actually seen Annick Castle, the whole thing made her very uncomfortable.
She glanced at the clock. There was still time before dinner to freshen up and get organised.
Maybe once she’d eaten that horrible little gnawing sensation at the pit of her stomach would disappear?
Or maybe that would take swallowing her pride and apologising to Callan.
Maybe, just maybe.
* * *
Callan had finally calmed down. He’d had to. Marion, the housekeeper, had flipped when one of the ovens had packed in and she’d thought dinner wouldn’t be ready on time. It had taken him five minutes to sort out the fuse and replace it.
Dinner would be served on time.
Served to the twelve strangers who were roaming all over the castle.
Which was why he was currently standing in his favourite haunt—the bottom left-hand corner of the maze in the front garden.
Callan could find his way through this maze with his eyes shut—and he had done since he was a boy. It was one part of the garden that was kept in pristine condition with the hedges neatly trimmed.
Other things had kind of fallen by the wayside recently. Bert, the old gardener, couldn’t manage the upkeep of the gardens any more. The truth was he probably needed another four staff to do everything that was required. Twenty years ago there had been a staff of around six to look after the grounds alone, but gradually