Authors: Melody Thomas
Guilt assailed Christel. She had no right to be suspicious of him or his motives for everything he did. He had been her uncle's ally during the war.
Perhaps that was the problem. He had been so quick to betray his brother. But even that was not a fair assessment. There were many in Scotland who'd fought on the side of the colonists; they either held the same political aspirations for Scotland as the colonists held for America, or they held a vengeful grudge against England. They were Highlanders mostly, but they did not fight the British in exchange for silver and gold.
“Thank you for the strawberry jam.”
Leighton scooped up her hands and pressed the backs of her fingers to his lips. “You are most welcome. As always, I am your humble servant. However, I now need a favor. My horse has run into a lamentable spot of bother and has come up lame. I need to take the other horseâ”
She pulled her hands from his. She
needed
that horse. It was her lifeline into the village. Lord Carrick
trusted
her with the horse.
Outside, the commotion generated by the barking dog drew their attention. “Mum,” Heather said in a slightly breathless apology from the doorway. “You have a visitor coming up the road.”
“A visitor? Here?”
“Blue says it be his lordship hisself, mum, from Blackthorn Castle.”
A moment later, Christel stood in the salon at the front of the cottage, staring out the window. The rider was still far away, but she had no doubt as to his identity.
With an uncharacteristic consideration of female vanity, Christel barely quelled the impulse to check her reflection in the looking glass as she turned into the room and leaned flat against the window.
Leighton's silence drew her gaze up. He stood in the doorway. “And here I was hoping that you and I might grow to share a
tendre
for the other.”
“When you were outside, you must have seen him coming. Why did you not tell me?”
Leighton didn't even have the grace to look contrite. “I was curious. 'Tis as simple as that.”
“Nothing is ever simple with you, Leighton. You need to go.”
Looking for her cloak, she edged past him into the corridor. He grabbed her arm, turning her. “I know his heart better than you do, Christel. He might be free of his marriage, but he is not free of the past. He has never been the man you believed him to beâ”
“Candor has always been your one
honest
quality, Leighton. But you do him an injustice.” She pulled her arm from his grip. “ 'Tis up to you whether you tell him you slept here last night. But I do not want your reunion with him to take place in my cottage. Now take the horse if you must and go.”
He adjusted the brim of his tricorn and regarded her with a glance that was at once cool. “Before you decide to take him beneath your wing, Christel, ask him why Saundra walked up into that light tower and jumped. Dare him to tell you the truth.”
C
hristel was shaking in fury when she walked to the front door a few moments later. She drew in her breath as much to calm her nerves as an excuse to look down at her dress. Her navy serge might have been worn and a bit out of date, but it was well cut and altered from her mother's old things to fit her perfectly. No one could find fault with her looks. She pulled open the front door with a screech of rusty hinges and walked out onto the porch into the sunlight.
Blue exited the stable carrying a halter, looked to the road then at the cottage. Christel waved him back to the stable. Beyond the paddock, the morning light touched the sea visible in the distance. The same brisk wind that made distant whitecaps slipped beneath her skirts. No cloak, gloves or bonnet protected her against the cold gust pressing her skirts firmly against her legs.
As Lord Carrick brought the horse to a halt outside the picket fence that had once guarded the yard from rabbits, he raised the collar on his cloak. He tipped his French cocked hat with his finger. “I hope I have not come at an inopportune time. Anna and I thought we would check how you weathered the storm.”
“Anna?”
Christel realized suddenly that he was not alone. Anna's small face peeked out from inside the folds of his cloak. She smiled brightly at Christel. “Papa asked if I wanted to come see you. I said yes. It has been ever so busy at Blackthorn since Sir Jacob arrived. He has
both
of his daughters with him.” She wrinkled her nose. “Miss Catherine stares at Papa and blushes too much, and Miss Ruth cannot talk at all.”
The sound of barking signaled Dog's approach, saving Lord Carrick from a requisite response. “Oh, let me down, Papa.” Anna wriggled out from beneath his cloak. “Let me down. Hurry!”
He lowered her from the horse before she fell. A moment later, Dog skidded around the corner of the dilapidated picket fence, scrabbling in the snow for purchase.
Anna giggled as Dog greeted her with sloppy kisses and a wagging tail. She knelt down in the snow. “Is he not the best dog, Papa? Have I not told you so?”
Lord Carrick eased off the saddle. “All the way here.”
“Hold out your hand, Papa.” His daughter giggled. “That is how you greet dogs. Is that not right, Miss Christel?”
His reluctance to offer his hand made her laugh. “He does seem to like everyone except you.”
Lord Carrick quirked his lips. “And you would have me risk my fingers?”
“If one truly likes a dog, I find 'tis important to try. Sometimes past experiences have taught them to be cautious.”
“Indeed.”
She felt herself blushing, and it was suddenly being borne home to her that in not wanting to bring attention to her thoughts, perhaps she was doing just that.
Aware that she was leaving them in the cold, she said, “I am afraid I was not prepared for guests. But please come inside.”
Snow crunched beneath Lord Carrick's boots. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his breath visible in the crisp air, his eyes no longer shaded by his cocked hat. “We are not expecting tea and crumpets,” he said almost gently.
A hint of citrus touched her senses as his cloak brushed her arm. “Would you prefer instead tea with scones and strawberry jam?”
Anna clapped her fur mittens together. “How did you know? Strawberry jam is my favorite, Miss Christel. Oh, Papa, may I?”
He nodded and she ran inside with the dog barking at her heels.
Christel turned to Lord Carrick. Beneath his cloak, his fitted riding jacket opened slightly to reveal a cream waistcoat. “You have guests at home?” she asked. “What do they think about your leaving?”
Stomping snow from his boots, he followed the swing of Christel's arm through the door. “I did not ask their permission to go, so I would not be privy to their thoughts.”
Unexpectedly she smiled. She took his cloak to dry in the kitchen and found Heather coaxing a fire to life in the hearth while Anna stood next the table holding a scone and telling Heather how much she liked strawberries. Leighton was not present. Christel took a moment to enjoy Anna's enthusiastic reception of the scones before asking Heather to bring tea to them in the salon.
Since her return, Christel had been cleaning the cottage. Against the wall she'd moved everything she would eventually sell. A bifold door had closed off the room from the rest of the cottage.
She hesitated in the doorway. She watched as Lord Carrick took a turn around the cluttered space, his eyes touching on items that had belonged to her mother and father. Light barely sifted through the crack in the heavy curtain. Satins, silks, and half-made bodices draped the chairs and table. Her mother's old dress dummies still wore remnants of costumes and clothing faded by dust and time. “My mother was a seamstress for many of the gentry in Ayrshire.”
“I know.” He picked up her old drawing tablet on the desk in front of the window.
She slipped the tablet from his hands. “Has anyone ever told you it isn't polite to rummage through another's possessions?”
His mouth crooked in a lopsided grin. “As a matter of fact, no.”
A small oval portraiture on the wall was his next point of interest. He peered more closely. “Are these your parents?”
With the stroke of her hand and her mother's encouragement, she'd captured that long-ago image on canvas. “Aye.”
“The artist has some talent,” he said.
She drew open the curtains. “I thought so as well at the time.”
“Are you the artist?”
She tied back the curtains. “I painted that portraiture on my first trip to America.”
Christel remembered sitting on the shores of the River York and watching the wind ply the sails of the tall-masted trading ships. She would paint them, too. “My mother used to tell me that I had the ability to create something beautiful from nothing and give it color and life and a story filled with passion.” She turned into the room. “It did not matter whether the painting or drawing was any good. Back then it had never occurred to me that my own worth should be measured by another's approval.”
She looked at the discarded tablet on the desk. “I owned a small dress shop in Williamsburg,” she said, lifting her gaze to his. “But I have not drawn anything in a long time.”
“Perhaps you should start painting again,” he said.
Candlelight flickered in his eyes. And she could not stop the seditious catch in her breath. His was not the presence of authority but that of a man whoâfor one instant, one tiny instantâmade the whole world go away.
Heather appeared from the kitchen just then. She glanced at Christel, then set down the tea tray on a gateleg table that sat in front of a threadbare settee.
Heather had arranged the tray with porcelain cups rimmed in violets, plates and silver flatware. It included scones, seedcake, a square of sugar and the strawberry preserves. Nothing matched, but together the chaos worked to make an appealing setting. Heather arranged the cups with nervous hands, nearly dropping the creamer filled with milk. The poor girl spared Lord Carrick a cautious glance and a hasty apology.
Christel stepped forward to save her from herself. “That will be all, Heather. I will pour the tea.”
“Is Anna still in the kitchen?” Lord Carrick asked.
“Aye, my lord.”
Heather shut the bifold, leaving Christel alone with Lord Carrick.
“She has never been in the presence of such an esteemed peer,” Christel explained as he sat next to her on the settee and watched her fingers test the teapot before she lifted it to pour.
“That might account for
her
nerves, but I am not sure what accounts for yours.”
“Mine?”
He leaned forward. “You have not asked me why I am here.”
“You mean you are not here to reassure yourself of my health after the snowstorm?” Thrumming her fingers, she pondered him. “If your intentions were of a lascivious bent this day, you would not have brought your daughter. Though I am not sure if she is here as your chaperone or mine. You cannot have come for my tea, yours is far better.” She studied him. “My conversation is witty, but hardly worth traveling five miles in the snow for. Alas, I am stumped.”
A half smile played on his lips. But rather than answer, he sat back, completely at ease, making her uneasy. “Have you contacted your grandmother?”
No, she had not. Twice in the last few weeks she had ridden the horse as far as Maybole, but she'd turned back before she'd reached the road to Rosecliffe. She folded her hands in her lap, feeling much like she'd felt in the interview with the dowager countess. “Why
are
you here, my lord? I thought you would have left Blackthorn Castle by now.”
“The
Anna
is in Prestwick being refitted. I will be here through next month.”
“The dowager should be pleased that you will be here for Christmastide.”
“You could seduce me into staying longer,” he suggested. “My grandmother's offer was a thousand pounds, I believe.”
Christel almost choked on the tea. He raised a brow at her. “Ooops,” he said.
“She
told
you.”
“Grandmamma is a known meddler into all things that are not her business. But she does not stand up to torture.”
“You
tortured
her?”
“Aye,” he said readily. “A game of chess has that effect on her. 'Tis notoriously slow, and she has the endurance of a week-old kitten. And here you were being so honorable not to tell me what you and she discussed that morning in her salon.”
“Maybe I did not tell you because I
was
planning to take her up on the offer? A seduction takes time.”
He chuckled. “Aye, that is why you flatly turned down my overture on the beach, impugning my honor and injuring my sensibilities beyond repair.”
She looked at him, unsure if he was joking. His eyes were on her, hooded like a hawk's. “Have you already prejudged every facet of my character and condemned me to the gallows, Christel?”
His words served to remind her that she had treated him as people had treated her in the past, and the reminder shamed her. Still, she was not sure what she had said that morning on the beach that was not true. “Do you
not
buy your mistresses town houses in Mayfair?”
“It is not the statement to which I took exception. 'Twas the implication that I had mistresses while married to Saundra. Where else would you have heard the gossip?” He raised a brow, daring her to refute him. In fact, his assertion was correct. “I was guilty of a lot of wrongdoing in my marriage,” he said, “but adultery was not one. Unless you count the sea as my mistress. Believe it or nay, I do have some honor left.”
“I never thought you did not.”
He cast her a sidelong glance. “Thank you for that bit of confidence,” he said in chiding self-mockery. “I thought I would have to spend more time convincing you, and here we are only a half hour into my visit.”