Sophia hated the insecurity that crept in, despite her best efforts to keep it at bay.

Am I doing the right thing? 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 short coral Chanel jacket and put her iPhone in the inner pocket.

She left her suite and looked around. Furnishings throughout the castle were of the highest quality with rich fabrics, elegant furniture, and fine antiques. Sophia appreciated the caring and loving approach evident throughout. The perfect lighting illuminated the stairs and huge elaborate French tapestries, while a large number of paintings encased in golden frames were scattered throughout the five floors. From the light and airy hall to the deep ruby of the Red Drawing Room and from the magnificent dining room to the paneled Laird Library, Craigdale seemed far, far away from the real world.

She began to relax in the midst of all the beauty. She pushed the library doors and halted just on the threshold as she heard two male voices. She looked inside and located the source. A Scottish accent, yes, but it isn’t Alistair. Two tall men in an heated argument stood at the end of the library.

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

“She’s not like the others. You’ll see. Alice-”

“Alice knows nothing. She’s too innocent. 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 clearly showing on his face. “No way,” he shook his head, “No. Fucking. Way.”

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

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

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

“I’m Sophia,” she breathed, still astonished by him. She tentatively outstretched 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, his face grim. 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, straightening as much as she could, never before so conscious of her average height. She dipped in a low, mocking bow, “Noted, my lord. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

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

“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? Sophia looked over her shoulder and in an icy voice informed, “My daughter.” She lifted her chin higher. What is your problem, Lieutenant-Colonel-Doctor-Lord-Arrogance? How dare you treat me like this.

The scene stupefied Lachlann.

“Your daughter?” Tavish repeated, dumbfounded.

She slowly spun to look again at the turbulent sea-green eyes. “Yes, my three-year-old daughter. Gabriela Espírito Santo Leibowitz,” she informed him in a dry voice.

Tavish’s face showed his surprise at Gabriela’s name and he mused, “Surely, you are not 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, looking at Tavish with censure in his eyes. He relaxed when she whirled around to him, smiling.

“Oh, yes. I do. I love books.” Sophia looked around her, 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.”

Tavish interrupted, “I don’t know why you like it so much, Father. 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 shrugged, 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 in1886.”

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

She gaped at him. “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.

“Indeed, my lord, there is.” She bent her head backwards to stare at his green eyes. “I have read numerous works in their original, in several languages, meaning that I’ve read them in their original written language,” she boasted and then turned to look at the ancient book, still astonished. “But never such time-honored first editions. May I see the John Locke?” she asked Lachlann, who 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, “he defended that all men were created equal but gave absolute power to 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 the he invested heavily in the Royal African Company.”

“Now,” Sophia retorted, aggravated. “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. And you’re focusing on the one thing that is wrong nowadays?” She turned away and said to 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 and she beamed at Lachlann, “Could I read it over the weekend?”

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

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

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

“Well, my lord,” she smiled smugly at him, “I can’t say I’m fluent in it, but, yes, I can read some Latin.” She turned to Lachlann. “May I?”

“Of course, my dear,” Lachlann took out the mentioned 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 head thrust in the book, completely absorbed by it. “Fabulous. Toleration is the key word. It’s a pity few people understand this.”

Lachlann smirked at Tavish.

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

“Father!” Alistair’s deep and low voice 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, at least an inch taller and more muscular than his broader and leaner brother, had the same windblown ink-black hair. Tavish wore his hair shorter than his brother 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.