Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

T he woman at the front desk greeted her cheerfully, but she was relieved to see no hint of recognition on the woman’s bright face. Amelia’s bags were bustled off to her room, which lay at the far end of a winding corridor upstairs — the receptionist led her up the stairs and pressed a map of the premises into her hands, promising that she’d know the maze-like corridors like the back of her hand before the week was out. The room was gorgeous, of course — far more space than the hotel rooms she’d gotten used to over the last few years, and tastefully decorated with what the receptionist told her were restored antiques, many of which dated back to the year the manor had been built. Already worried she was going to break something irreplaceable, Amelia unpacked carefully, wincing at every squeak of the antique armoire’s drawers.

She knew what Carmen would say, of course — that if she broke something, she had more than enough money to pay for it to be replaced. And she’d be right. And anyway, these old things had withstood the centuries intact. How likely was it that Amelia would be what finally took them out? She’d never been clumsy — she liked to think that the discipline a fighting career had taught her extended to a certain level of carefulness in her day to day life, too. She was dangerous in the ring, of course, but that was about it.

It was mid-afternoon, and though the receptionist had encouraged her to get some rest after her long journey, she found herself with energy to spare. Dinner wasn’t for a few hours, she was already unpacked, and her body was feeling antsy after so much sitting down over the last couple of days. She’d discussed the break with her trainer, who seemed to share Carmen’s opinion that it was about time she get some rest, but it wasn’t like she was on bed rest, was it? Feeling oddly like she was breaking the rules of her own holiday, she slipped on her running shoes and headed down the stairs.

The fresh country air made a welcome change from Los Angeles, where she’d spent the last few months of her life. The manor itself had been built at the center of the Weatherby estate, and the original walls had also been restored, marking off a section of countryside that was dotted with walking trails and picturesque picnic spots for guests of the hotel to enjoy. Amelia picked a path at random and set off running, grateful to be finally stretching her legs again. She’d always loved running, but being a professional athlete had taken some of the fun out of it. It felt incredibly good to be out like this without any pressure to hit a certain pace or heart rate. Hell, she wasn’t even wearing her watch.

She spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the estate, alternating between running and walking when something caught her eye. The trails were well marked and there were plenty of signs up with interesting trivia about the area, and about the original inhabitants of the land she was standing on… those with a truer claim to it, some might say. Amelia was a little embarrassed about how little she knew about the colonial history of Scotland. She had known from the website that Weatherby wasn’t a Scottish name — that the man whose manor she was staying in had been an Englishman, probably there to harass her ancestors. Still, the manor was in Scottish hands now — everyone she’d met so far shared that same delightful accent, with the hotel staffed and run by people from the surrounding towns. What would Weatherby think of that? she wondered. What would her ancestors think of their far-flung descendant, coming all the way back across the sea to visit the homeland?

“Sorry I didn’t find out more about you,” she said softly to the unruffled waters of a small pond at the southern end of the estate. There had been several placards about the local Scotsmen and their relationship with the Weatherby’s, but though she’d scanned for her surname, she’d come up short. Was Cosgrove even a Scottish name? It had been her grandmother’s maiden name, but before that, she had no way of knowing … her father hadn’t exactly been a font of knowledge about their family history. She grimaced at the water, annoyed to find her father’s memory stirring again, then bounced to her feet, suddenly restless. The sun was getting low in the sky — no sense sitting out here until she caught a chill. She pushed herself a little on the run back to the manor, and by the time she arrived, the sun had set, and she was pleasantly sweaty.

One indulgent and definitely not period-accurate hot shower later, Amelia was warm, dry, and looking forward to one of the hearty meals for which Scotland was so famous. When she reached the dining room, she was surprised to find it half-full already, with many fellow guests already seated around the quaint little tables that filled what had once been a formal dining room favored by Lord Weatherby and his most honored guests — at least, according to the plaques on the wall. She was looking forward to touring the kitchens later, but for now she contented herself with a seat at a communal table of fellow solo travelers. Here it came — the moment of truth. Had her fame followed her across the ocean? There was an old man sitting opposite the place she took, and for a moment the sharp look he shot her made her heart sink.

“I know you,” he said slowly.

“Oh?” Amelia said faintly, already wishing she’d opted to have dinner in her room.

“Yes, I’m certain of it. Didn’t I see you out running this afternoon?”

Relief hit her like a truck — she vaguely remembered a passerby raising a hand to her in greeting as she pounded down the pathway back toward the manor. “Yeah, I remember. Sorry I didn’t stop.”

“No, lass, you were a woman on a mission. Quite a pace you were setting. Are you an athlete, then?”

“I do enjoy athletic activities,” Amelia replied, smiling.

The meal passed rather pleasantly, after that. They were soon joined by more solo guests, including a middle-aged history professor on sabbatical, a retiree who was doing a tour of all the castles in the area, and — to her particular interest — a young man with bright blue eyes and a fetching mop of tousled ginger hair that kept falling in his face. At first, he was a little evasive about what had brought him to Weatherby Manor, but a bit of good-natured prying from the history professor soon had him confessing that he’d booked the trip a few months ago to celebrate an anniversary with his girlfriend. Amelia’s disappointment was quickly banished, however, when he explained that the girl had unceremoniously dumped him before he could surprise her with the news.

“I looked into getting a refund,” he said with a shrug. “But they’d have taken my deposit and I’d already gotten the time off work… it’s a shame, really. She was the one who was into all of this stuff. I’ve never met someone so obsessed with Downton Abbey…”

“Still, nice that you’re making the most of it,” the history professor said, her green eyes twinkling.

“There are certainly worse places to nurse a broken heart,” agreed Gregory, the old man who’d greeted her when she’d first sat down. “Perhaps you’ll discover your own passion for history.”

Or maybe for something else, Amelia couldn’t help but think, sipping thoughtfully at her wine and pretending not to notice the way the young man’s eyes kept sliding across the table toward her. She was well aware of the effect she had on men. A lifetime of mixed martial arts training had thankfully never caused a broken nose or similarly disfiguring injury, and her dedication to healthy living and hard training had accentuated the gifts nature had given her. She knew her beauty was part of what had made her famous, and she’d resented it for a while — until Carmen told her to suck it up and quit complaining. Most athletes were genetic freaks in some way or another. The woman she’d fought a few weeks ago for example, Ruby Gunn, had an absurdly long reach for her frame — a quirk of genetics, and definitely a big part of what had gotten her to the level she was at. Why feel guilty about her natural beauty doing the same thing for her career? It wasn’t like she hadn’t paid for it, either — unbidden, the thought of the creep who’d tried to shoot an unlawful sex tape with her crossed her mind. Hopefully, Carmen had already worked her magic. The more she thought about it, the more Amelia liked the thought of revenge.