All My Broken Dreams (Locksley Hall #1)

Chapter One

T he rain was relentless. It soaked Robbie Listowel’s hair and ran down her neck, drenching the duffle coat she was wearing. She didn’t expect so much precipitation at this time of year. For some reason, she imagined November in Scotland to have more snow. She should’ve known better or at least checked the forecast before leaving for the airport.

According to the Internet, the duffle coat was supposed to do the job in all weathers–snow, sleet, rain. She didn’t know how long she would be in Edinburgh or where her search would take her.

Robbie yanked on the handle of the rolling suitcase; its wheels kept getting stuck in the cobbles. The weight of it, along with the backpack she had slung over one arm, meant she wasn’t going to get far on this street.

“He has to be here somewhere,” she said out loud.

Her brother’s last known address was scrawled in ink on a sheet of paper in her mother’s handwriting. The more often Robbie pulled it out of her pocket to check, the more the letters ran, but she didn’t trust her memory and she was pretty sure she was lost.

The cabbie had dropped her off in a part of the city that was a warren of slick, dark cobbled laneways, flanked by stone buildings with slate roofs. Trying to read the numbers over the doors was impossible. Doorways were not lit like they were in the States. She couldn’t even be sure she was on the right street.

In the country less than an hour and already screwing up. Mom was right. She should have sent someone else.

“Give yourself a break, Robbie. It’s a miracle you’re in the country at all . ”

Her online therapist told her to counter negative thoughts with positive verbal affirmations. A week ago, she could barely leave her apartment without a panic attack and now look at her.

Squinting at the paper, she attempted to read the street name before it became totally illegible. It was a funny Gaelic name, unpronounceable, but the cab driver recognized it when she showed it to him.

The rain slanted at an angle, catching her in the face. It was getting dark. Not just overcast, but night-falling dark. The paper was soggy; the address now just a blurry spot of blue ink.

A normal person would ask directions.

“Fine, that’s what I’ll do ... as soon as I find another human being in this place….”

The street was deserted and slick with rain. The walls of the buildings were soot-stained and gothic.

Pick a direction. Any direction will do.

A light ahead streamed from a shop window. “Oh thank the gods,” she breathed, and dragged the behemoth of a suitcase toward it.

The shop was a bookstore–the display window was filled with books. Her confidence soared on this flimsy bit of evidence that she must be in the right neighborhood. Her brother was a student at a private university. A bookstore would be necessary in a university town. At the very least, the shop owner could direct her to the nearest student dormitory.

The bell over the door jangled loudly when she pushed it open and then fought to haul the suitcase in behind her.

Robbie froze in place, riddled with anxiety, a panic attack threatening to bloom. Her therapist taught her a technique to cope with moments like this. Concentrate on your surroundings. Demystify it. Take your time and examine what is threatening you.

There was only one person in the shop. A young guy was sitting in an armchair next to an electric heater that glowed red with bars of heat, engrossed in a book of poetry. He was older than she was but not much older. His hair was dark brown, very dark like a chestnut. In the low light, his eye color was harder to determine. Hazel maybe….

Robbie blinked. He was staring at her. Probably because she was staring at him. He had a frank, open stare that revealed little.

“I’m ready to close up, love. Are you coming in or going out?”

The man behind the counter had a thick Scottish accent that was unintelligible. If she couldn’t understand the language, how was she supposed to find her brother?

She glanced at the poetry reader. Maybe he could translate for her. She had the sense that he was listening.

Maybe not. He had gone back to reading his book. She was being paranoid. Robbie leaned forward and lowered her voice.

“I’m looking for Dugald Croft. The taxi driver said it was down this way. I think it’s some sort of student housing, like a dormitory, not like an apartment building. Have you heard of it? It’s attached to the university. I’m not a hundred percent certain I’m in the right place.”

“You can’t swing a cat without hitting a university in Edinburgh. Is it Dugald Croft you’re after finding then?” the man asked, loudly correcting her pronunciation.

Her face boiled. Robbie nodded. “My brother lives there. I’m from New York. I just landed actually and I have no idea where I am. I think the cabbie must’ve dropped me off at the wrong place. It’s my fault. I mispronounced the address.”

“You’re not in the wrong place but it’s not student housing you’re looking for. Dugald Croft is a magnificent Georgian manor house built at the turn of the last century. Not open to the public, I’m afraid, miss.”

“No, that can’t be right.” She shook her head. “Nevermind, I’ll figure it out. I’m sure there’s an explanation. Could you tell me how to get there?”

The shop owner issued a flurry of directions that she couldn’t follow even if she could understand a word he was saying.

“I’m sorry, but could you draw me a map? I can’t get the GPS on my phone working.”

The guy in the armchair looked up from his book and was now openly staring at her. She was obviously disturbing his concentration. He was looking at her like there was something wrong with her, all because she couldn’t get the GPS to work.

The bookseller glanced at the clock on the wall, sighed and scrawled a rough map on the back of an envelope.

“That’ll take you there right enough. Now, will you be needing anything else?”

His look and tone suggested that if she did, he was not in the mood to accommodate her any further.

“No, thank you. This is very helpful.” Robbie waved the map in an attempt to appear competent and plunged out into the rainstorm, banging the door with her suitcase. “You can’t have a panic attack every time you encounter an obstacle,” she chastised herself, “or you will never survive this journey.”

Her apartment in New York was three thousand miles away. This was the real world and she was going to have to deal with it. No going back. Not without Harry.

Deacon Wake closed the poetry book he had been trying to understand and reached for his phone. Text messages leave a trail. His instructions were to always call. Alastair picked up immediately.

“There’s a girl here looking for Dugald Croft. She says her brother lives there. It can’t be a coincidence. I thought Harry didn’t have a family.”

“That’s what he told us. Where is here , Deacon? Where are you?”

“The bookstore. I’m on my way home. I got caught in the rain and came in here to dry off. What do you want to do about the girl?”

“I want you to fucking intercept her, find out who she is and what she wants. If she’s related to our friend, she has to be stopped. You’ll have to think of something to keep her away from the Croft.”

“She flew in from New York. If Harry is her brother, nothing is going to keep her from asking questions. Someone on campus is going to talk—a classmate or one of his professors.”

“Don’t worry about the faculty. They know what to say. Everyone is on script. Harry kept himself to himself. I doubt his classmates even remember him.”

“Alastair, it’s not too late. Fuil Bratach can survive whatever Harry Listowel has in mind. It’s been almost a month. Don’t you think if he was going to go to the police, he would’ve done it by now?”

Icy silence on the other end. Deacon was crossing the line questioning Alastair Manderville’s directions, but it had to be said. He was going to doom them all if this got out.

“What you know about Fuil Bratach is not worth shit, boy. You are a Wake, not a Manderville. My sister made her choice. You’ll not carry the banner for the Manderville family and never will.”

His neck stiffened. This again. He held the phone closer to his ear so the bookseller couldn’t hear the rest of his uncle’s diatribe.

“Fuil Bratach, Blood Banner , has survived at Locksley Hall Academy for over four hundred years and I’ll be damned if it goes down on my watch. Our families are the originals, descended from royalty, forming the backbone of the United Kingdom. Some of the most powerful people in the world are in our pocket.”

“Harry Listowel is Fuil Bratach,” Deacon said, controlling his tone.

“I know that,” Alastair barked in a tight emotional voice. “I know who he was better than most! Do you imagine I wanted this for him? The damage is done. I love you, Deacon, like a son but don’t lecture me on the cost of losing Harry when I’m the one paying the price.”

There was another silence while Deacon rearranged his thoughts. His uncle was talking like Harry was dead. Harry wasn’t dead but he might as well be. Fuil Bratach took the threat of betrayal very seriously.

“I’m sorry, sir. What do you need me to do?”

Alastair cleared his throat. “What you do best. Make this threat go away. Find the girl. If she’s his sister, stop her before she reaches Dugald Croft and keep her away for a couple of days. That should give us enough time to formulate a strategy. There is no one else I can trust, Deacon. You’re all I have left.”