Cassandra twirled a curl. “I care nothing for the American bird-watcher.”
“Perhaps you should,” said Daisy. “He might be more wealthy than the viscount. And he does have that house with the balcony.”
Cassandra furrowed her brow. “I don’t care. Lord Lumley is a far better catch, and if you continue to interfere with my getting him, Daisy, I’ll tell him everything I know.”
Daisy bit her lip. “You already told him about the fire.”
“I’ll tell him the rest,” Cassandra insisted. “I’ll tell him about Cousin Roman. You drank too much with him that night, too.”
“No I didn’t,” Daisy protested. “I had one glass of sour wine with Roman, no more than you had. This is the very first time I’ve ever drunk more than one glass. And no wonder. Tonight’s was a fine vintage.”
The others snickered, and Daisy’s heart sank. She would never win. Ever.
Drinking wine tonight hadn’t helped her in the least. Her fuzzy glow was now gone.
Everything was bleak.
Perdita sighed, oblivious to the tension. “I like Mr. King. In fact, I’d like to make him”—she gazed round the company to see if they were paying attention—“the king of my heart.”
Daisy couldn’t help being a bit scornful of her stepsister’s attempt at rendering the mushy feelings she felt toward Mr. King into something poetic.
But Charlie’s the king of
your
heart, Daisy,
a ridiculous voice inside her head told her.
Right,
she told it back.
And I’m a beautiful, wealthy heiress with a large bosom and a saint for a stepmother.
She did
not
have a
tendre
for Lord Lumley, not in the least. She only wanted to kiss him sometimes. And lie with him naked.
And
receive great pleasure from him—give it to him, too, if she only knew how—although that was neither here nor there.
None of that had anything to do with love.
Of course, she was still clueless as to what love actually was, but at least she knew what love
wasn’t
. That was almost as helpful.
She knew tingly feelings all over your body when you looked at someone didn’t necessarily mean that you were in love.
Nor did the odd daydream wondering how a certain man must appear with no clothes on signify you were in love.
And looking forward to private time so you could discuss a money-raising project you were working on together—a project that was a bit dicey and could fail and that might get one kicked out of one’s home, fear of which only a warm, naked hug and perhaps a few hot kisses could alleviate—well,
that
didn’t mean one was in love, either.
She was sure she was becoming very wise, in her own way, about love.
“Well, Perdita,” she said, “you barely know Mr. King, so it would be prudent not to get your hopes up in that direction. Did you notice how much the Spanish marquis liked you?”
Perdita glared at her. “
He
is not the king of my heart.”
“I hear the castles in Spain, particularly those along the coast in southern Spain, are much warmer than the ones up here,” Daisy said nonchalantly.
“I don’t care,” Perdita said. “Wait a minute. Is that my old gown you’re wearing?”
Daisy shrugged. “What if it is? You put it in the rag basket ages ago. I merely altered it.”
“It has no frills anymore.”
“Precisely,” said Daisy. “As you’ve proven tonight with your new sense of style, frills and flounces are all well and good in moderation, but too many of them mask a lady’s true beauty. You are more beautiful tonight than I’ve ever seen you, Perdita.”
Which was still a long way from beauty, but it wasn’t a lie. Perdita had inched closer to being acceptable in appearance, and Daisy wanted to give her every bit of encouragement she could to stay on a less flouncy, frilly path.
“You’re just complimenting me because you took my gown without asking.” Perdita roared.
“Ssshh!” Daisy held her finger to her mouth.
“Besides,” Perdita whispered loudly, “what would someone as plain as you know about true beauty?”
Daisy threw down her needlework and stood. “That’s enough. I don’t have to listen to your insults. I’m your stepsister, Perdita, or have you forgotten?”
Perdita made a disgusting scoffing noise that sounded as if she were sick to her stomach.
Daisy flinched. “Do you have
any
love for me at all?” she asked her.
Mona snorted. “Are you going to let her get by with spouting that nonsense, Perdy?” She always enjoyed a good sparring match between Daisy and Perdita and made no secret of the fact that she always wanted Perdita to win.
Perdita ignored Daisy’s question. “Your future is over. Mine has only begun.”
“Why do you say that?” Daisy felt hot anger rising through her body.
Perdita shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s true.”
Daisy’s anger burst from her in a torrent of words: “Don’t be so sure. I’ve had it with all three of you. I don’t intend to endure your lack of feeling much longer.”
Mona sucked in her cheeks. “Exactly what do you mean by that, young lady?”
Daisy instantly regretted speaking. “I won’t tolerate your cruelties.”
Mona was as still as a cat in the seconds before it catches its prey. “Don’t think you can fob me off. You speak as if you plan to leave us. But you wouldn’t leave Hester or Joe. And you certainly couldn’t support them if you took them with you. So I’m left to conclude that you’re suggesting that
we
shall be the ones leaving, Perdita, Cassandra, and I.”
There was a beat of silence. Daisy had no idea what to say. A deep-seated fear of her stepmother gripped her throat like a chokehold.
Cassandra sat up straighter. “Why, you’re wicked!”
“No,” said Daisy. “I never said that. And I’m
not
wicked. You are, not me. All three of you are.” That great anger was threatening to overwhelm her again.
“You’re up to something,” Mona said in menacing tones, “and I intend to find out what it is. And when I do, you’d best be prepared. Because a stepmother betrayed is a stepmother who will make you pay. Until it hurts. Oh, excuse me.” She put a finger to her mouth and reconsidered. “Until it hurts very
badly
.”
Perdita and Cassandra laughed. Thank God the Keep was so large and that the library was far enough away that the gentlemen couldn’t hear.
Shivers of disgust and fear ran down Daisy’s spine. “What have I ever done to you, except try to be a good sister and daughter? Why do all of you hate me so much?”
Mona merely arched one eyebrow.
Perdita stuffed a chocolate in her mouth and chomped in Daisy’s general direction.
Cassandra wore an awful smirk on her beautiful face.
“I’ll leave you to yourselves,” Daisy told them, sick to her stomach that they hadn’t bothered to answer.
Their mocking laughter followed her out. She’d never felt so miserable and alone in her life.
But even worse, she felt afraid. Mona had caught on that Daisy didn’t want her at Castle Vandemere.
Surrounded by a dozen gentlemen as wealthy or more than he and whose interests somewhat overlapped (Charlie had never claimed to be a bird-watcher), he decided he’d never felt so miserable and alone in his life. The whisky and brandy had made the travelers talkative, but eventually, even they grew tired. So it was with much relief that he stood when the men eventually called it a night a little after midnight.
“Sleep well, gentlemen,” he told them as they filed past him at the door to the library.
“I thought I saw a buxom maid or two about the premises,” said Mr. Woo in a leading fashion.
A few of the others made suggestive remarks about the maids, as well.
“Yes, well, even buxom maids need their sleep, don’t they?” Charlie said.
Mr. Woo lowered his brow. “The Highland experience doesn’t include Highland lasses?”
“No. It doesn’t.” Charlie couldn’t care less if the man were offended. He saw how hard the villagers had worked today. He’d seen the pride on their faces when he’d complimented their cleaning and cooking.
Obviously, Mr. Woo assumed Charlie was to provide opportunities for bedroom activities as part of their arrangement. Charlie knew the upper classes were used to getting what they wanted. But he refused to acknowledge the men’s more unseemly expectations.
Their bedchambers were situated on one long, candlelit corridor that turned at a right angle in the middle. As the first two visitors went to their rooms, escorted by footmen, Charlie couldn’t help wondering where Daisy was situated.
He knew she was on the floor above theirs. Was her room directly above his own? He’d like to imagine it was. He was sure she was fast asleep.
But there she was, striding confidently toward him. He should have known she’d yet be awake for one reason or another. She carried a sputtering candle in her hand and was still dressed for dinner. But now she wore a gorgeous pink blossom over one ear.
She looked breathtakingly lovely.
“Miss Montgomery!” Mr. King hailed her heartily. “You’ve not retired for the evening?”
“Of course not, Mr. King.” She smiled at him, completely alert, all signs of imbibing too much wine erased. “A hostess doesn’t sleep until her guests are down for the night. I’ve spent the last several hours outdoors, walking and reading in the gardens. Lasting daylight is one benefit of living in the Highlands in the summer. I feel quite refreshed.”
She looked round the group. “Does anyone require a small bite to eat from the kitchens?”
A chorus of
no
s rang out—they’d had plenty for dinner, they all claimed in a most hospitable manner. With the presence of Daisy, the men seemed to have perked up and become mannerly again.
Mr. King held out his arm. “Please join us on a midnight stroll down the corridor.”
She laughed. “I’ll be glad to.” Catching Charlie’s eye, she bestowed a small, close-lipped smile upon him.
He recognized that smile. It was her shy one. He’d have liked her on
his
arm, but he wouldn’t make a fuss this time. Mr. King was on his best behavior. He was the last of the guests to reach his bedchamber door. Once there, he bent low over Daisy’s hand and kissed it.
“Thank you,” he said, “for an extraordinary beginning to our Highland adventure. It will be a most interesting ten days.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, blushing.
Charlie couldn’t help feeling jealous.
Mr. King also exchanged a cordial good-night with him, but it was obvious their American guest much preferred the company of his hostess.
Alone at last in the corridor, Daisy hooked her arm through Charlie’s.
He relished the contact.
“Only nine days to go,” she whispered.
“Nine
long
days,” he whispered back.
She stifled a laugh. “We’ll make it.”
It was a brief moment of camaraderie, and he had a sudden, mad desire to make love to her right there, against the cold, stone walls of the corridor.
She drew in a small breath and turned to look at an elaborate tapestry.
Hah.
So she must have sensed the tension, too. Of course, it was still there. Their afternoon on the Stone Steps had done nothing but whet his appetite for her.
He didn’t know how he’d ever thought her plain.
“Good night, Charlie,” she said, suddenly stopping. “It’s past midnight, and it’s still light. Isn’t that amazing?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got to go,” she said.
“Wait—”
But she strode quickly away, around the corner, and then he heard the pat of her slippers on the stairs to her bedchamber.
On the third step, he found the flower that had been in her hair.
The Keep’s walls loomed over him after Daisy ran off. Charlie heard nothing. It was lonely after midnight in a strange castle, even with the eerie summer light. He felt an ache near his heart as he stared at the flower in his hand and bent to sniff it. The sweet, musky odor was pleasing, but it didn’t satisfy him nearly as much as the scent of Daisy’s skin.
He would bring it to her. The flower.
He knew he was being stupid. Daisy was a maiden. She was in his charge. He shouldn’t seek her out. Besides, he had no idea which room was hers. And many other people slumbered in nearby rooms. What if they discovered him where he shouldn’t be?
What would it mean for Daisy?
She’d be ruined. That’s what.
He knew if he walked up the stairs with this flower and found her that he would enter her bedchamber and close the door, and—
He closed his eyes.
Why was he torturing himself so?
Turn around, Charlie
.
With every bit of will he had, he turned himself around. Walked back to his own bedchamber, turned the knob, and—
A door next to his creaked open. “Lumley! Is that you?”
It was Mr. Woo.
“Yes,” Charlie answered, a bit annoyed.
“I want a midnight snack, after all.” Mr. Woo looked at him expectantly.
“Uh, I suppose I could walk with you—”
“I was hoping you’d get it for me. I’m sure all the servants are asleep.”
Charlie clenched his jaw. He was the host. He would have to comply with his guests’ wishes. “You’re right,” he said, and forced himself to smile. “What could I bring you?”
“A piece of bread and butter,” said Mr. Woo. “And a glass of wine. Cheese would be nice, too.”
Charlie nodded. “I’ll do my best. Just give me a few minutes.”
He walked down the corridor, made a few turns, crossed the great hall, and eventually came to the rear of the castle, where a fairly modern kitchen had been set up in the last decade. He found all that he needed for Mr. Woo and brought it back to him.
Mr. Woo nodded his thanks when Charlie entered his room and placed the goblet of wine and a plate of bread and cheese on a small table.
“Good night,” said Charlie.
“Good night,” Mr. Woo answered him. At the door, he added, “I see you got the smugglers’ bedchamber.”
Charlie turned back to him. “What’s that?”
“A servant told me today that your bedchamber has a secret stairway to the upstairs hall, at the end of which is a balcony over the gardens. In the old days, smugglers could make a quick escape.”
“Interesting,” said Charlie.
He wasn’t terribly excited about the news. The usual stairs were near his bedchamber and would carry him up to the next floor almost as quickly, which meant he was unlikely to be discovered by prying eyes either way if he ever went looking for Daisy.
Nevertheless, he was curious.
In his bedchamber, he felt the walls for the secret stairway and found it almost immediately near the fireplace. It was rather spacious, actually, and easy to ascend. When he came to the top, he opened the door and peeked out, entertained in spite of his rather dour mood.
The hallway was quiet.
Daisy was here somewhere, which made it a special corridor.
He looked to his right. There were the stairs that she’d rushed up—the stairs he’d almost decided to go up himself.
Good thing he hadn’t.
Good thing he’d been honorable and stalwart and mindful of his responsibilities.
He began to pull the door shut when he saw a scrap of something pink on the floor. A petal. A petal outside a bedchamber door.
“Dammit,” he whispered.
It could mean only one thing. She wanted him to come. She’d been hoping he’d come. She’d left the flower on the staircase for a reason.
A few minutes later, Charlie scratched at Daisy’s door, flower in hand, and felt a genuine stirring of happiness—combined with a bit of trepidation—when the door opened on silent hinges.
She stood looking at him with large eyes, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. “Oh, dear,” was all she said, her voice a mere whisper. “You
did
come.”
He entered, shut the door gently behind him, and placed the flower in her hair once more. “Did you not want me to?”
She bit her lip and looked away, then turned back to him. “No, I did want you here. But I figured I’d leave the decision up to you. If you came, then … good. If you didn’t, then—”
“Then what?”
“I would have been miserable.” She blinked up at him, her heart in her eyes.
“Of course I’d come.” He hugged her close.
“This is very bad.” She wrapped her arms tighter around his waist. “And I know that.” She pulled back. “But Charlie, I’ll never get married. I can tell you that right now.”
“You won’t? Why not?”
“It’s a long story.” She sighed. “I’d rather not go into it.”
“Does it have anything to do with your father?”
She nodded.
He pulled her close again and squeezed her tight. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. It was an accident.”
“I know,” she said against his chest. “But I can’t help my feelings, however complicated they are. At this point, I don’t want to wait for the future to reveal itself to me. I just want to feel what it’s like to be with a man I’m comfortable with, someone I trust. Right now.”
She looked up at him. Her words moved him. But the truth was, he was also already imagining her with no clothes.
She might have guessed because she slipped away from him to toy with a few figurines on a shelf. “Are you happy you’re here?” she asked him over her shoulder.
He was bewitched by her coyness.
“Of course.” He gave in to her obvious need for space, threw himself on the bed, and propped himself up on an elbow to watch her from afar. “I’ve been dreaming about being with you alone.”
She finished her nervous fiddling with the figurines and began to pace about the room. “Perdita is next door.”
“Good God.”
She stopped and looked at him. “She snores. Very loudly.”
He chuckled. “I’ve never been more glad to be next to a snorer.”
She sighed. “I’m nervous.”
He got up and went to her. “I’m not a wolf,” he assured her, his hands wrapped around her waist.
“I know.” She leaned again on his chest.
They stood there for a moment, breathing. He loved the feel of her warm palms pressed so trustingly against him.
“Can I—”
“Will you—”
They both spoke at once.
She pulled back and grinned. “I was going to ask you if you’d like to read with me.”
“And I was just going to ask if I could do anything to help you feel more at ease.” He allowed his mouth to tip up.
She picked up her skirts and practically raced to the bookshelf on the far side of the room. Scanning the titles, she pulled out a tome and held it aloft. “This,” she said. “And if you don’t like it as much as I do, I’ll be quite put out.”
“What will you do if I don’t—and you are?”
“I don’t know yet. But it won’t be pretty.” Her smile made the whole aggravating day worth it.
She headed to the bed with the book and paused. “I forgot. I need to put on my night rail. I’ll feel cozier.”
“I’ll get it,” he said, and pulled open several drawers before he found one.
She put her beloved book aside and took the garment. Then looked at him and bit her lip.
“I won’t look.” He turned his back and crossed his arms.
“Thank you,” she said.
It took a good few minutes for her to prepare herself—it seemed like a lifetime to him. He was tempted—sorely tempted—to turn around and peek.
“Done,” she eventually said.
She was already tucked in beneath the covers. The lamp on the bedside table sent a lovely glow over her features.
She held the book open. “I’m waiting for you.”
Oh. He’d been caught doing absolutely nothing but staring and admiring. He felt as if he were a student who’d been reprimanded by a schoolteacher. A very tempting schoolteacher.
“Please,” she said. “Make yourself more comfortable.”
“I’ve no modest way to disrobe,” he told her, and yanked his shirt over his head, exposing his chest and belly.
He had to restrain a laugh when he saw her eyes widen.
“You
will
keep your breeches on, won’t you?” she asked.
“Of course.” He strolled around the bed to the far side, lifted the quilt, and got into bed with her.
Immediately, there was delicious tension. She tried her best to hold on to the book and pretend that everything was all business, but he knew better. Her cheeks had flushed a lovely rose color, and she wouldn’t quite look at him.
“Daisy?” he whispered.
She turned to look at him. “Yes?”
“Read to me,” he said.
Her eyes lit with both relief and anticipation. “You’re going to like this. Poems by Robert Burns. He’s beloved by all of Scotland.”
“Is that so?” Charlie settled himself back on his pillow, his hands folded behind his head, and listened to her read a poem called “To a Mouse”:
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,
O what a panic’s in thy breastie,
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
She took a breath, but he interrupted her before she could go on. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but … I have no idea what you just said.”
“Oh!” She leaned closer so he could see the words. “It’s about a mouse turned up by a plow—”
“Really.” He was enjoying the closeness, her shoulder propped against his.
“And the farmer is feeling awfully guilty for destroying its home,” she went on.
“Is that so?” He lifted a lock of hair off her shoulder and put it behind her ear.
“And—” She looked at him, and her brows lowered. “You’re not really listening, are you?”
“Oh, I am,” he said. “Please go on.”
He lay back on his pillows again and didn’t interrupt her once. He already knew the poem by heart. So when she got to the last verse, he recited along with her, his eyes on the ceiling.
When they both said the last word together, she slammed the book shut.
He looked over at her and enjoyed seeing her mouth a big O. “You already
knew
it?”
“Yes,” he replied in his driest manner. “And I hated it. I hated it with a passion.”
“Did you.” She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Yes. So you’re going to have to punish me.”
She closed the book with a sigh. “I adore that poem. I’d like to meet that farmer. He seems so wise and kind.”
“What about the punishment? Are you a woman of your word or not?”
She merely scooted away from him. “I wonder if Robert Burns really did turn up a mouse—”
“‘The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men gang aft a-gley,’” said Charlie with a sigh. “No matter how well you plan, something can go wrong. Leave it to a poet to couch a harsh truth in such a lyrical way.”
“Exactly.” Daisy scooted back in his direction and turned on her side to face him. “But he’s right. You just never know what’s around the corner.”
“It’s what makes life exciting.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve always felt my life was meant to be exciting. Even though I live here, far away from everything.”
“I’ll bet you look out the window of your little turret in Castle Vandemere and dream big dreams.”
“I do. How did you know?”
He smiled. “I know you, Daisy Montgomery. And I like who I see.”
There was a beat of silence. Her fairy blue eyes gleamed with something soft and vulnerable. Something hopeful. And something inviting.
Charlie felt as if he were being pulled by some inexorable force toward her. She moved an inch toward him, and then their lips met.
“Charlie,” she whispered. “I like you, too. Very much.”
He lifted himself up, scooped her in his arms, and gazed down at her.