Entwined Fates

  Gabriela is so involved with him already. She shook her head, trying to avoid the thoughts that had been nagging her since her conversation with Alistair the night before.

  She picked up her iPhone, put on her leather pumps, and left her suite.

  Antique furniture, elaborate French tapestries and paintings encased in golden frames were scattered throughout the five floors with such care, making Craigdale seem far, far away from the real world.

  In the midst of all the centuries old beauty and modern comforts, Sophia relaxed, enjoying the loving approach evident in each corner. When she pushed the library doors open, she couldn’t even remember why she’d been anxious.

  Just inside the threshold, she halted, hearing Scottish accented male voices. She looked inside and located two tall men standing at the dim end of the library in a heated argument. Not Alistair Connor.

  “How dare he bring one of his bloody whores here?” The tallest man thundered. “Worst of all, why did you allow it?”

  “She’s not like the others. Alice—”

  “Alice knows nothing. I know his type,” he sniggered.

  “Excuse me,” Sophia said, in a low voice, not sure she should interrupt the argument.

  The tallest man stepped forward. “This is a private part of—”

  Lachlann put a hand on his arm and whispered, “It’s her.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me.” He stared down at Lachlann and back at Sophia, disbelief on his face. “No way. No. Fucking. Way.”

  “Aye, it’s her,” Lachlann reaffirmed in a murmur. And still looking at Sophia, scolded his son, “Language, Tavish Uilleam.”

  With his arms stretched out, Lachlann strolled to Sophia, and grabbed her hands. “You look beautiful, my girl. Let me introduce you to my youngest son, Tavish Uilleam.”

  Sophia craned her neck up to stare at a younger and more turbulent version of Alistair. A strange sensation chilled her. If possible, Tavish was even taller and more handsome than Alistair. In front of her stood a man to be reckoned with. A force of nature. Uncontrollable.

  “I’m Sophia,” she breathed, still impressed by him. She tentatively held out her hand as she noticed his contemptuous and slow survey of her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tavish.”

  “Lieutenant-Colonel Doctor Lord Tavish Uilleam,” he corrected her, in a stern voice. No smile, no outstretched hand. His held his stiff posture, his hands gripped at his back.

  “Oh?” Sophia raised her brows and withdrew her hand. She dipped in a quick, mocking bow, and straightened back as much as she could, never before so conscious of her average height. “Noted, my lord.”

  She turned to Lachlann with a strained smile on her face. “Perhaps you know where Gabriela is?”

  “Nae, I haven’t seen—”

  “Who is Gabriela? A friend of yours?” Tavish harshly interrupted Lachlann, bristling with anger.

  Why do you ask with such scorn, Lieutenant-Colonel-Doctor-Lord-Arrogance? How dare you treat me like this? She lifted her chin higher and looked over her shoulder. In an icy voice, she informed him, “My daughter.”

  “Your daughter?” Tavish repeated, now dumbfounded.

  The scene stupefied Lachlann so much that he was rendered motionless.

  She slowly spun to look again at those turbulent sea-green eyes. “Yes, my three-year-old daughter, Gabriela Espírito Santo Leibowitz.”

  Tavish’s face showed his surprise at Gabriela’s name and he mused, “Surely, you are no’ the missing widow…”

  “Yes, I’m Gabriel Leibowitz’s widow. Why? Is there a problem?” Her eyes narrowed at him. She waited for the next dig, not entirely comprehending Tavish’s behavior.

  “Leonard told me you like to read, Sophia,” Lachlann interrupted, glaring at Tavish with censure in his eyes.

  “Oh, yes. I do love books.” Sophia spun around, smiling, noticing the floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. She did her best to avoid Tavish’s sharp gaze. “You have a beautiful library.”

  “I am delighted to give you a tour. We have a few interesting originals here. Come and see.” Lachlann gripped her hand and towed her to one of the three locked cases in the middle of the room, opening the glass lid. “Originals by Shakespeare. My favorite is the prompt book of The Tragedy of Macbeth.”

  “I doona know why you like it so much, Father,” Tavish interrupted. “The story of King Macbeth as told by Shakespeare bears no relation to real events in Scottish history. The historical Macbeth was an admired monarch.”

  Lachlann sighed softly, and pointed at other books. “The first quarto edition of Midsummer Night’s Dream, published in 1600; the first quarto of The Tragedy of Othello, from 1622, and Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, the enlarged version of 1605; and, of course,” he turned to Sophia and smiled, “a Scottish original, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson, published in 1886.”

  She gaped at him.

  Lachlann smiled, proud, and moved to another case and showed it to her. “These are my absolute favorites, all first editions: Sir Francis Bacon’s Valerius Terminus.” Then he motioned to the last five books. “Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan; John Locke’s A Letter Concerning Toleration. The second and the third letters. And, last, Sir Adam Smith’s The Theory of Moral Sentiments.”

  “Oh, my,” she murmured, lowering her gaze to the books in the case. “All first editions? The originals?”

  “Is there any other meaning to original?” Tavish asked from behind.

  “I have read numerous works in their original languages,” she boasted, without turning to look at Tavish. “But never such time-honored first editions. May I see the John Locke?”

  “Of course.” Lachlann took the book reverentially from the velvet-lined case and put it in her hands.

  “I’ve always been interested in his ideas about peace and religious toleration in a civil society.”

  “Locke was a demagogue,” Tavish continued with his bantering, trying to pick at Sophia in some way. “He defended that all men were created equal but gave absolute power tae the slave masters.”

  Oh, please. Sophia rolled her eyes heavenward. “Locke was a man of his time and slavery a common practice during his life.”

  “It is said that he invested heavily in the Royal African Company.”

  “Locke was the father of classical liberalism and had many important ideas. They influenced the writing of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States!” she exclaimed, aggravated. “And you’re focusing on the one thing that is wrong nowadays?”

  “It’s by the flaws we know a man’s character,” Tavish answered.

  She contained herself not to stomp her foot, and smiled at Lachlann. “I’m partial to his ideas about self and identity. I really think that we are born a tabula rasa.”

  “We also have An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, from 1689.”

  “Oh, really?” Sophia’s eyes sparkled. “Could I read it over the weekend?”

  “It’s the first original,” Tavish smirked before Lachlann could say anything. “It’s in Latin.”

  She looked at him with raised brows. “So?”

  “Don’t tell me you read Latin,” he snubbed.

  I slaved through it in Law School. “Well, my lord, I can’t say I’m fluent in it, but, yes, I can read some Latin.” she smiled smugly at him before turning to Lachlann. “May I?”

  “With pleasure.” Lachlann removed the book from the third case and handed it to her.

  Sophia put it under the first one Lachlann had given her and opened the protective cover to stare at the title page of A Letter Concerning Toleration. “This is…wondrous,” she mumbled, and strolled to sit in an armchair, with her nose thrust in the book, completely absorbed by it. “Toleration is the key word. It’s a pity few people understand this.”

  Lachlann raised an eyebrow at Tavish.

  “This means nothing,” Tavish hissed, his eyes following Sophia’s movements. “I’ve seen
what too much toleration has done tae Alistair Connor. I wonder what she means by it.”

  “Father!” Alistair’s deep and low voice now echoed in the room. “I don’t believe you’ve already corrupted Sophia. She won’t get out of the library the whole weekend.”

  “I thought corruption was more a habit of yours, Brother,” Tavish retorted.

  Alistair halted in front of Tavish and their gazes clashed.

  Sophia lifted her eyes from the book to study them. They looked very much alike.

  Tavish was impressive.

  At least an inch taller and more muscular than his broader and leaner brother, Tavish had the same windblown ink-black hair. He wore his hair shorter than Alistair did, but their chiseled faces shared the same devilish-black eyebrows and long, dark lashes framing spectacular green eyes. Tavish’s lighter eyes, softer and fuller mouth differentiated him from Alistair’s look. A clenched jaw and a bent nose that seemed as if it had been broken once set off Tavish’s stern appearance.

  Their emotions played out in contrasts. Alistair’s smirk and a poker-face with inscrutable eyes versus Tavish’s dour smile and severe face with turbulent eyes.

  Sophia had never seen such a rugged and tortured face. Involuntarily, she sucked in a breath.

  Unhurriedly, Tavish turned his head to examine her, a menacing look on his face.

  The pain, sorrow, and rage etched on his features shocked Sophia. His scorching gaze sustained hers, unwavering as she was caught by his whirlwind of emotions.

  “Tavish Uilleam, she’s not what you think,” Alistair murmured low, so Sophia didn’t make out what he said. Fuck. Why am I explaining this? He’s become a despot. “Still judging others based on your warped opinions?” he hissed. “Didn’t Iraq and Afghanistan teach you anything?”

  “Aye, they did, Alistair Connor, they did.” Tavish’s voice was sharp. “More than ye can imagine.” He unlocked his gaze from Sophia’s and turned his head slowly to stare deeply into Alistair’s eyes. “Ye think my opinions are warped? I disagree.” He shook his head and said spitefully, “Let’s see if Nathalie’s and Mother’s deaths have taught you anything.”

  Alistair’s spine went ramrod straight and his hands clenched into fists.

  “Boys!” Lachlann placed his hands on their shoulders. “I’m glad to have the whole family over for the weekend, so let’s enjoy it, okay?”

  Sophia had walked quietly to the old man’s side. “Lachlann.”

  He turned with an apologetic look on his face. “Aye?”

  “Here. Toleration,” she stressed the word, giving him back the books, but glaring at Tavish. “Thank you. I’d like to take a rain check on our tour.”

  “Sure, my girl,” Lachlann answered looking unhappy. “Anytime.”

  Sophia put her left hand over Alistair’s fist. “I’m going to look for Gabriela. I haven’t seen her since I came down.”

  “I did,” Alistair said. “She’s with Ariadne in the Game Room and—”

  “It’s past her bedtime.” She blinked innocently at Tavish, a twist on her eyebrows betraying her. “My lord, if you would so kindly grant me my leave.” And she turned without waiting for an answer, strolling to the door.

  “Hey, Beauty, wait for—”

  She raised a hand without looking back. “See you later, Alistair Connor.”

  “Sophia…” Alistair murmured, surprised at her cold rebuff.

  Before she exited the library, she heard Alistair’s voice ringing with indignation in the room.

  “My lord! What the fuck are you doing, Tavish Uilleam? Who do you think she is? Who do you think you were talking to?”

  Alice found Sophia in the anteroom of the Queen Mary Suite, sitting in one of the armchairs, chin in hand, gazing at the garden lawn lit by strategically placed lights. A distant look graced her face as she bit her lower lip.

  “Sophia,” she spoke in a low voice.

  Sophia jumped in her seat and put a hand on her throat. “Alice! Oh,” she breathed. “I’m sorry. I was distracted.”

  Alice bent and kissed Sophia on the cheeks, and gesturing to the armchair next to hers, asked, “May I sit down for a minute?”

  “Yes, of course. How was your trip?”

  Alice plastered a smile on her tense face. “Next time, I’m going to send Ariadne with you and Gabriela. She pestered me the whole day that she wanted to come in Alistair’s plane and that it took too long to arrive.”

  “But it’s so quick.”

  “With Alistair Connor. It’s two hours to Inverness on a regular flight and then from Inverness it’s about an hour and a half here.”

  “Really?” She raised her brows, surprised. “Next time, we’ll wait for you.”

  Alice twisted a lock of her beautiful and shiny red hair around her fingers. “Sophia—could you possibly—oh, Jesus.”

  “What is it, Alice?” Alice’s anxious face made Sophia feel apprehensive. “What happened?”

  She released her hair and wrung her hands together. “Could you forgive my brother?”

  She schooled her features and crossed her legs nonchalantly. “What did Alistair do?”

  “No, not Alistair Connor. Tavish Uilleam.”

  Ah! Lieutenant-Colonel-Doctor-Lord-Arrogance. “Tavish.”

  “And, please, don’t tell Alistair Connor I had this conversation with you. They’ve been estranged ever since our mother died and only recently, they have made peace.”

  “Why?”

  “Tavish Uilleam blamed Alistair Connor for our mother’s death. Her letters, I suppose, had him conclude this.”

  “Wait. Wait.” She raised her hand. “I’m not following you. Why does he think Alistair guilty? I thought your mother died of cancer.”

  Alice exhaled a pained breath. “She was ill, yes. But she became very depressed after Nathalie’s death and never recovered from it. She died three months after Nathalie.”

  “My God,” Sophia breathed.

  “Neither death was Alistair’s fault, of course. But Tavish Uilleam thinks differently.”

  “It’s quite presumptuous of him to judge his own brother like that.”

  “Sophia, Alistair Connor’s life was—”

  Sophia raised a hand interrupting her. “Alice, I’d rather hear this from Alistair himself. And where was your mighty brother, Lieutenant-Colonel Doctor Lord Tavish Uilleam, when Nathalie and your mother died?”

  Alice shifted on her seat, arranged the pleats of her long skirt, and watched her warily. “Please, Sophia, this stays between us, okay?”

  “Yeah. Of course.” What could be so bad?

  “He was in London.” Alice fidgeted in the armchair and looked down at her hands. “In a psychiatric clinic, recovering from being a prisoner of war.”

  The air was suddenly too heavy in the room.

  Sophia asked in a whisper, “Captured?”

  “The Taliban captured him in 2008. And he escaped, or was rescued—or both together—only a few days before Christmas. Nathalie died in January but—” Alice’s voice broke and a tear roll down her face. “Tavish Uilleam almost died himself. From a gunshot wound. And he was…psychologically incapacitated for a while. And—”

  “You don’t have to tell me more,” Sophia murmured, putting her hand over Alice’s. “I forgive him.”

  Relieved, Alice slumped in the armchair. “Thank you, Sophia. You don’t know what it means to my father. He was looking forward to this weekend.”

  So was I. And it is not Lord Arrogant who will spoil my weekend. “Don’t you worry Alice.” Sophia pasted a smile on her face and rose from the armchair. “Why don’t we join the others in the library then?”

  Chapter 27

  Saturday, March 6, 2010

  10:41 a.m.

  Sophia opened the door of her suite after the impatient third knock just to melt at the sight of Alistair impatiently hitting his brown leather crop against his shiny brown leather boots.

  Dressed in a brown-and-red tweed hacking jacket with dar
k brown velvet lapels over a flannel white shirt and butterscotch breeches with leather patches on the inner sides of his knees, he looked hot and immediately naughty thoughts filled Sophia’s mind.

  Oh, my! How do I ensnare this god? “Come in.” She breathed deeply and stepped back to let him into the anteroom. Incapable of holding back, she blurted, “You look so handsome,” and threw her arms around his neck dragging him down for a kiss. Why are you always so dumb around handsome men?

  “Thanks.” He smiled smugly when she broke the kiss. He looked her over, and frowned when he reached her feet. “Why are you still in socks?”

  “Alistair, I don’t have the right clothes.” She motioned from his gear to her black, studded, leather jacket over a white turtleneck sweater and black faded jeans.

  “You’re stalling.” Alistair dragged Sophia by the hand to an armchair. “Sit. Where are your sneakers?”

  “Alistair, stop it.” She smiled amused. “I can dress myself.”

  “Stay put,” he ordered. “Don’t move from that chair.”

  “Aye, sir,” she mumbled when he went into the dressing room.

  “Everyone is waiting for us.” His voice came from inside the room, muffled. “Father has even brought the horses to the front door. And two pairs of boots for you to try on.”

  “Really?” She smiled when he emerged from the closet, bringing her black LV monogram sneakers and a red patterned shahtoosh.

  “Here. Put these on. It’s cold outside. And it doesn’t matter that you’re wearing jeans or that you don’t have the right clothes. I want to go riding with you.”

  “Humpf,” she complained, lacing her sneakers. “This isn’t right.”

  He hit the arm of the armchair hard with his crop, startling Sophia, who craned her head to look up at him.

  “Maybe it’s not right, but it’s what I want.” He smiled and dropped onto his haunches to stare into her eyes. “And what I want, I get.”

  The sound of the crop hitting the armchair rhythmically rang out in the room.

  Hello, Lord big-ego-Julius-Caesar! “Should I bow, say amen, or something similar, my Lord Ells?” she mocked, scooting to the edge of the armchair, caging him between her thighs.