Chapter 6

Ava sucked in a great gasp and put her hand over her mouth. She had been about to congratulate him, since owning the estate would give him everything he had ever wanted: prosperity, security and independence. However, when she saw the expression on his face she knew that trouble lay ahead. "That is good news, is it not?" she asked doubtfully.

"He has treated me like muck a' my life," Cameron replied. "I said ‘no' to goin' tae see him, an' ‘no' to the estate. He would no' even be botherin' wi' me if Brian was still alive, Ava. He despised me, but now I am useful tae him, he wants me tae come runnin'. I will not." The last word was said with such fury that it was almost a shout.

He was about to turn away again, but Ava put her hand on his arm again. "Wait," she said softly. "Think a minute, Cam."

"Think about what?" Cameron demanded. "I am no' goin', Ava."

"Listenin' to what he says will no' hurt, will it?" she went on, "an' if ye refuse straight to his face he might listen. His steward is only his messenger."

Cameron looked down into her earnest face, then paused for a moment. "Maybe ye are right," he said softly. He walked over to Henderson again. "I will come with ye, but only tae tell that eejit to give his estate to somebody that actually wants it."

He strode away to saddle Jimmy and Ava went inside the house. She placed the mended clothes on a chair then went outside to stand beside the door, waiting for Cameron to appear. When he did, he kissed her forehead quickly then marched over to his horse and leapt into the saddle. She waved to him, her heart beating nineteen to the dozen.

She only hoped that she had done the right thing. She had known Cameron for a very long while and she knew that his pride was important to him, as it was to most men. However, he was in the kind of mood she had rarely seen him in before. He was absolutely incandescent with rage.

Cameron and James Henderson rode up the hill towards the castle in silence. It was an awkward silence, and a deeply hostile one, and if either had spoken one cross word violence might have erupted.

They arrived at the castle and one of the grooms came to take their horses. The young man recognised Cameron straight away.

"How are ye, Cam? Havenae seen ye for ages," he smiled in a friendly fashion, and Cameron was just about to answer when James Henderson interrupted.

"Get back to work, you!" he yelled.

Something inside Cameron snapped. He grabbed Henderson by the front of his shirt and pulled him up so that the man had to stand on tiptoe. "Don't talk to hardworking people like that in front o' me!" he snapped, before pushing him away.

Henderson stumbled backwards, but did not fall. However, his face was red with indignation as he gasped, "you cannot talk to me that way!"

"Really?" Cameron laughed cynically, then cocked a sardonic eyebrow at Henderson. "I think I just did." Then he turned to his friend again and clapped him on the shoulder. "I am well. Hope you are too - chat later, eh?"

He nodded, casting a furious glance at Henderson, who was stalking away.

Cameron did not look at the impressive architecture, the tiled and carpeted floors, or the portraits on the wall. He had only one aim; to have the audience with his so-called father over and done with quickly so that he could make his escape as fast as possible. After all, how long did it take to say, ‘No!'?

They came to a door that was recessed into the wall a little. It was framed by two Corinthian pillars and a triangular gable over the door which had a shield with the clan crest carved on it. There was a name for the structure, Cameron knew, but for the life of him he could not think of it, and he felt simple suddenly. Even if he had wanted to, how could a man like him run an enormous property like this one if he could barely make a living out of his tiny patch of land?

Henderson opened the door and they stepped inside. As soon as he moved through it, Cameron met the glaring gaze of his father, who was sitting behind his desk with a glass of wine at his elbow. He could feel the older man's hostility like a physical barrier in front of him, and he was incensed by the fact that the Laird did not even offer him a greeting.

He moved into the room and James Henderson pulled out a chair for Cameron to sit down, then his father, without greeting him or asking him if he wanted it, poured him a glass of wine. Cameron would have loved to drink it, but he ignored it completely. When he had said he wanted nothing from his father, he meant it. The Laird sipped his wine and noticed that Cameron was not drinking.

"This is my best wine," the Laird told him, pushing it towards Cameron. "Try it."

Cameron remained mulishly silent and immobile for a moment, then suddenly he reached out his hand and swiped the glass sideways off the table. There was an almighty crash as it shattered on the floor, spilling a puddle of wine on the desk and spraying it all over the costly carpet. Splinters of crystal flew everywhere, and Cameron felt a surge of unholy triumph as he watched the rich deep red liquid soak into the expensive rug, staining it forever.

The Laird's face turned the same color as the wine, and he made to stand up, but before he could get to his feet, he clutched his chest and flopped back down in his chair again.

Cameron's heart skipped a beat as he looked at his father's face, which was screwed up in pain. James Henderson rushed to the Laird's side, but Ross Lewis pushed him away angrily. His face was returning to its normal color, even though he was still breathing heavily, but gradually he regained control of himself and cleared his throat.

During all the drama, Cameron had neither moved nor spoken, and his face was as expressionless as a marble statue as he stared at his father.

"Why did you do that?" Henderson asked him angrily. "You could have brought on one of his seizures."

"An' why should I care?" Cameron demanded. "He means nothin' to me, and I must mean nothing to him, since he has never said a word to me in my whole life. He can drop down dead in front o' me for all I care. In fact, if he did die right this minute, I would drink to his death. I feel nothin' for him except contempt. No. No' contempt. Hatred." He looked at the Laird and his lip curled in disgust.

The Laird took another moment to recover and gather his thoughts, then he said abruptly, "if I were you, I would be a little more civil. You see, I want you to be my heir, so if you wish, all this can be yours." Ross Lewis waved his arm around in a circle, indicating the room around them. He waited for a sign that his son was impressed, but Cameron"s stony gaze remained fixed on his father's face, ignoring his invitation to look around.

The Laird was visibly shivering as he saw Cameron's eyes fixed on him as if they were trying to bore a hole in him. "My blood flows in your veins," he pointed out, frowning. "Do you not want all this? You and any heirs you have will live in comfort for the rest of your life, and you will no doubt have a beautiful wife and therefore beautiful children. You are a handsome man. Women will flock to you."

"If I have your blood in my veins it is no fault of mine," Cameron growled. "And if I could, I would spill every drop of it out o' my body an' exchange it for my mother's. I don't want your castle. I don't want your wine, or your blood, or your flocks o' women. Ye are a poor excuse for a man - you were no' worried about the blood in my veins when my precious Ma was dyin'! She loved me, but where were ye then?

So your son has died - and suddenly ye have remembered about your blood in my veins?" He gave a cynical laugh. "Ye suddenly want me now that I am of some use to ye! Don't bother yourself wi' me, M'Laird. I speak Scots an' no' English. I have no fancy manners, an' I eat wi' my hands. I am a peasant an' I would only embarrass ye. Oh, but I forgot. Ye will be dead. Good. I wish ye a slow an' painful journey tae hell." He stood up and looked down at his father, his eyes blazing with anger.

The Laird struggled to his feet, and the two men faced each other. Cameron was taller than the Laird, who had grey eyes and not blue, but otherwise there was no mistaking the likeness between them. Apart from the wrinkles on the older man, their faces were almost identical.

"So you do not want any of this?" Again, he waved his arm around the room and again Cameron refused to look. "Do you wish to die poor? I am offering you the chance to live a better life. I am offering you the chance to never have to worry about food, a roof over your head, whether your barley crop will grow or wither this year. I am offering you the opportunity to enjoy your leisure time and let others work for you. Does that not sound better than scraping a living from the soil as you are doing now?"

This time Cameron had to restrain himself from leaping over the desk and squeezing the life out of the man he hated with all his heart and soul. He braced his hands on the desk and leaned over it so that he forced the Laird to sit down and he was nose to nose with him.

"Listen to me, you piece o' slime." His voice was low, but throbbing with rage. "How many times do I have to tell ye? I. Want. Nothin'. From. You. You are nothin' but a rich layabout that cares for nobody an' nothin' but himself. The only reason ye want me is because ye need me, but let me tell you, M'Laird - I would no' beg a crust off ye if I was starvin'!"

There was a trembling silence before Cameron slowly stood up, but the Laird was determined to have the last word.

Not to be beaten, he kept his composure, while Cameron lost his. "If you change your mind," he said calmly, "the offer still stands." Nevertheless, his steel-grey eyes looked murderous.

However, he did not get his wish. "I will not," Cameron said firmly, and with a venomous look at the Laird and his steward, he walked out, holding his head high.

To James Henderson's astonishment, the Laird was smiling as the door closed behind his son.

"What do you have to be amused about?" the steward asked. "He refused you!"

"As I expected he would," Ross Lewis said with a satisfied smile. "But if I know anything about human nature, and I do - he will be back to accept. He spoke in anger, James, and his pride was hurt. He did not give himself time to think, but when he has calmed down, he will be back."

James shrugged. "I am not so sure about that," he said doubtfully. "From what I can see, he is very stubborn, and has a great deal of rage inside him."

"He is also very poor," the Laird countered. "And you cannot eat pride."