Chapter 12
M
aura led him on the winding path up several short, twisted flights of stairs, then down the wide, bookshelf lined hallway to the main parlor. She only used it for company, which was rare. But she wasn’t ready to invite Tag into her private quarters. An hour ago, she’d been fantasizing about dragging him there and picking up where they’d left off last night.
How quickly things change.
Taggart’s son. Taggart’s estranged son. She still couldn’t quite grasp it, though she knew she’d better, and quickly. She couldn’t believe he thought he’d inherited the whole of Ballantrae. That’s not how she and Taggart had set up their agreement. In fact, he was a few short weeks away from having no claim on it whatsoever.
She paused inside the door of the cavernous parlor. The room itself wasn’t that large by the standards of some of the other rooms in the castle, but the high ceilings, tall, narrow windows, and oversized fireplace gave a person the sensation that if you spoke loudly in here, your voice would echo for ages. “How are you at getting a fire started?” she asked.
For a brief second, th
e wry humor she’d so quickly come to associate with him flickered around his mouth and eyes. “As long as I’ve got the proper materials, I’m generally pretty proficient.”
She wondered if there was some sort of hidden message there, but was still too flustered by this whole turn of events to take time to ferret it out.
“
Well, it’s already laid,” she began, then winced inwardly at the unintended pun. For all the frustration and tension arcing between the two of them since his surprising arrival, she was forced to admit that a large perce
ntage of it—for her, anyway—wa
s still sexual.
She really must work on that.
“All you have to do is strike the tinder there,” she went on, refusing to let his imposing presence or her overactive libido get the best of her. “I’ll go get my documentation. It’ll take me a few moments. Make yourself at home.” She’d said it automatically, as a good hostess would.
Only he looked over his shoulder, glancing at her from where he’d crouched in front of the massive grate, and his expression made it clear what his thoughts were.
Of course. I am home.
Yes, well,
she thought as she hurried out to the hallway, ducking behind the mammoth main hall staircase and through the door leading back down to the underground passages,
we'll see about that.
It was clear he had completely misunderstood, well, pretty much everything. From the nature of her relationship with his father to the nature of their agreement.
Breathless from rushing, she still took the final steps up to the main floor of the north tower two at a time. She didn’t want to leave him alone back there for any longer than necessary. Stooping in front of a metal file cabinet next to her desk, she yanked out the bottom drawer, tugging free the appropriate accordion file. It
not only contained the original papers they’d both signed, but also held the deposit tickets reflecting his monthly payments and the notes from the bank regarding the loans she’d secured based on that monthly stipend. And in the rearmost dividers, she’d kept all the letters Taggart had sent her over the duration of their relationship.
She sat back on her haunches, debating on whether to pull them all out, or if she should show these to Taggart’s son. As proof, if necessary, of their agreement and their relationship. It was clear the two hadn’t reconciled and she was protective enough about the man she’d become so fond of, that she wasn’t going to toss his words, feelings, and thoughts, which had been intended for her eyes only, in the lap of his ungrateful son. But she left them in there all the same. He didn’t have to see them.
File tucked under her arm, she debated driving back around or taking the passage, but opted for the passage. She didn’t want to explain how she’d come to drive up to the front door. Grabbing the lantern from its post, she hurried back down the stairs.
She still could not reconcile the handsome, funny, fascinating man she’d met and become so wildly enamored of that she’d actually gone to bed with h
im hours after meeting him…
with the moody, suspicious man currently prowling about her parlor. How was it a family came to be torn apart as his had been? Taggart had spoken only once of his wife and the tragedy of her early demise, leaving Maura to draw her own conclusions about his grief and that of his young sons. Had that been the beginning of the rift between them? But to last for so many years, to the point that even his terminal illness hadn’t been enough of an impetus to encourage a reconciliation?
Of course
,
Tag had alluded to the fact that she had no idea what his relationship with his father had been like, and Maura was adult enough to know that just because she’d gotten along with the man, did not mean his sons didn’t have valid reasons for removing themselves from their own father’s life. And yet, what could have been that awful? The man she knew was opinionated and gruff on occasion, and he wasn’t the most open of men emotionally speaking—but then what man was?
Still, he’d been a great observer of those around him and had great command of the written word. His letters had been shorter than hers, and as a whole, he hadn’t been too keen on responding to her requests for more information about the American side of her roots, but he had spoken of his life’s work, the cases he’d tried, both as a lawyer, and those he’d sat on as a judge. He’d been impassioned about the importance of law and his devotion to upholding his part in the—as he called it— best judicial system in the world. It wasn’t s
omething she’d ever followed, th
ough he made it fascinating. Uncle Niall, of course, would have been enraptured. She’d wished more than once that the two of them could have met.
He had granted her request for more detail about the Hollow itself, and on occasion she was fortunate enough to get a story or two about the neighboring Ramsays or Sinclairs. He was quite proud of Mack Ramsay, who she’d gathered was the same age as his sons, and was now the town sheriff. Of course she’d noted the absence of Morgan stories. His sons were the last in the Rogues Hollow line and she supposed it was simply too painful a topic for him.
She’d only asked him once, and though his reply had been brief bordering on curt, she’d sensed a deep well of sadness there. Perhaps that was her own fanciful
imagination. She supposed she’d never know. Tag’s side of the story was bound to be different from his father’s.
She climbed the stairs back up to the main hall. So she was curious. Insatiably curious, as it turned out. She wanted to know the whole story, or whatever parts of the story there were to know. The man she’d romped in the backseat with last night did not strike her as the kind of man to be so cutting and cold. She also couldn’t reconcile his obvious devotion to his work, with his absolute disinterest in his own heritage. But neither could she reconcile his version of his father’s motives with what she knew to be the truth.
“Of course, he did just come all the way to Scotland,” she murmured. But why? To see his supposed inherita
nce before ditching it? Or…
She stopped dead in her tracks. What if he’d come to do what he’d claimed his father had wanted all along? To try and sell it. She shook that thought off and hurried the rest of the way down the stairs. It didn’t matter what he’d planned. After all, he didn’t, in fact, truly own so much as a stone of Ballantrae. At least none that he could sell off. Which he’d soon learn.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders before entering the parlor once more. She’d be gracious, patient, understanding even, as she gently explained he had no lasting claim here. He could either agree to continue the lease agreement she had with his father, or walk away. Those were his options. She’d even be magnanimous and let him stay the night, if he still desired to do so.
And try like hell not to lay in her own bed all night long, knowing he was under her roof, and dwell on how things might have been. Of course, this also meant she could cross off writing that letter to the States. And, very likely, her last source of outside income with it. No
matter how smoothly this little meeting went, she didn’t dare fool herself into believing he’d want an
ything to do with Ballantrae…
or her, when it was over.
“So,” she said brightly, maybe too brightly, as she entered the room. “I think I have everything in order here.” She broke off and came to a stop when she realized she was talking to an empty room. “T.J.?” she called out. She
stepped back into the hallway. “
Tag?” Nothing.
But then, for all the cavernous appearance of it from the outside, the web of cobbled hallways, rooms and stairs that made up the interior didn’t lend itself to sound doing much more than echoing in the spot it originated in. Had he forgotten something in his car? She wondered if he’d remember the way back out, especially as it was mostly in shadows this late in the day. Working electricity didn’t ex
tend to all parts of the castl
e, as she’d long since shut down the areas that were kept closed off. That included the original kitchens and rear scullery they’d passed through from the rear courtyard.
The sun had set to the point that she was forced to take the lantern off the wall hook before heading toward the rear of the main castle floor. “T.J.?” she called out, holding it out in front of her as she hurried down the hallway. She paused at each turn, calling for him again, in case he’d taken the wrong route.
She finally reached the back door, which was still bolted. She peered through the panes anyway. Robey’s truck was still out there, but no sign of Tag. “Bollocks!” Where the bloody hell had he gone? She retraced her steps, hoping he’d found his way back to the front parlor from wherever it was he’d gone. She was climbing the last short set of stairs, the length of one hallway away from putting the lantern back on the hook, when someone stepped out of the corner niche on the last landing.
“Hey, there you are.”
She jumped at least a foot, letting out a small squeal of surprise and hobbling the lantern badly.
He grabbed her arms, steadying her so she wouldn’t stumble backward off the riser. “Sorry,” he said, still holding her arms as she steadied herself. “I was looking for a bathroom. A working bathroom,” he amended.
“We have twenty of them, but none of the ones in this part of the castle are functioning.”
“I believe I’ve managed to stumble onto most of those.”
There was strained humor in his tone, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of the awkward direction t
heir relationship had taken…
or because he was still looking for a working loo. “A bit of advice. Where the electricity isn’t working? Nothing is working.”
“Ah.”
“Speaking of which,” she nodded at the other passageway that branched off from the top of the stairs. “How have you been managing navigating the south wing without a lantern?”
“I have good night vision.”
She swore his lips curved slightly.
“I thought you’d have figured that out by now.”
She swallowed hard as the tension arcing between them took a decided turn back in time. She realized then how much better it would be if they could somehow find their way back to being the people they’d been with each other last night. She wasn’t sure that was possible, but at the moment, it didn’t feel quite so improbable. “Yes, well, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?” she said, trying for light and unaffected. She realized then that he was still holding her arms, and that they were standing exceedingly close on the small landing.
“It’s quite a conglomeration of construction, this place,” he said, very conversationally. And apparently not in any hurry to let her go.
Of course, she knew he’d release her if she wanted him to. Or the Tag from last night would have. Which brought up the question of why she hadn’t pulled away from him already. Why she wasn’t pulling away from him now. “Most of the lowest floor, the part that’s underground, is original, dating back almost seven hundred years. A large part of the entry floor of the main house and the base of the north tower have stood since the sixteenth century. They were built by the first Sinclair of Ballantrae. Every Sinclair chief since has rebuilt or added something to it.” She could hear the hint of breathlessness in her voice, wondering if he could. Hopefully he’d attribute it to her being startled.
And not the real reason. He affected her. Irritating, enigmatic, cocky and occasionally arrogant
…
all things that weren’t exactly libidinal enhancements in her book. And yet her body had its own set of standards, and was clearly in charge of deciding exactly what was a turn-on
and what wasn’t at the moment. “
The, uh, result is a complete hodgepodge of architectural styles. A lot of uneven staircases that lead to nowhere, nooks and crannies at every turn, and—”
“Wou
ld this be considered a nook…
or a cranny?”
He was flirting wi
th her. She’d wondered for a mo
ment if it had been wishful thinking on her part, or on the part of her libido anyway. But now she was certain. Ten hours ago her heart would have gone pitty-pat. And other body parts would have danced right along with the beat. Now? She could only be suspicious. “Why are you doing this?”