“Mr. Ross! Should you be inside the house?”
Lucas gritted his teeth but it was Christina who answered. “Papa has asked Mr. Ross to do some additional work on the plans for the grotto,” she said. “He is to be permitted to come and go as he pleases so that he may use the library.”
That was even more helpful to Lucas’s search than he had hoped. He shot her a grateful look. “Thank you, ma’am.”
They went outside and walked side by side down the uneven path toward the hothouses. Tall cedars shaded the path, but even so it was bright, the sunlight startling after the shade inside. Lucas could not focus on the day. All he could see was the tiny icon that had belonged to his brother. Unlike him, Peter had been brought up in a religious tradition all his life. He had loved the little icon and had told Lucas that it would protect him on his travels. It seemed it had failed him.
He squared his shoulders. Now, more than ever, it seemed that something had happened to Peter at Kilmory Castle. He could ask the duke directly how Peter’s icon came to be in his collection, but the danger was that if Forres really were implicated, his inquiries would do nothing other than cause suspicion. He needed to tread carefully.
He looked at Christina. She had not stopped to collect a bonnet and so his view of her face was unimpeded. She looked preoccupied, a little distant, as though she was thinking about something that troubled her.
“Wasn’t there a Russian lad met with an accident around here a few months ago?” Lucas asked. Then, catching Christina’s upward glance, “I read about it in the Edinburgh newspapers.”
He thought she relaxed very slightly. “I see,” she said. “Yes, there was a young man, scarcely more than a boy, really. He was attacked and robbed whilst out walking on the cliffs near here. It was terrible.” Her voice had softened into regret. “I felt so sorry for his tutor having to take his family such terrible news.”
“Had you met him?” Lucas said. His heart pounded as he waited for her reply.
“He dined at the castle,” Christina said. The stiffness was back in her voice, as though she did not want to talk about it. “They all did, all four of them. They were young men on a tour of Europe who had wanted to see something of the west coast because it has such a wild and romantic reputation.”
A cloud covered the sun for a moment. Lucas thought he saw her shiver.
“What was he like?” he asked.
A sudden smile lit her eyes. “Oh, he was charming! Funny and sweet and eager for the experience of travel and so young...” Her smile vanished. “It was a dreadful tragedy,” she said. “We were all very upset.” She spread her hands. “I tried to help...afterward. The tutor wanted to return to Edinburgh as quickly as possible. He was a superstitious man. I think he was afraid something might happen to another of his charges.”
“Probably afraid for his job,” Lucas said. He could only imagine what his stepfather might have done by way of retribution to the man who had failed to protect his only son and heir.
Christina slanted a look up at him. “You are a cynic, Mr. Ross.”
“On the contrary,” Lucas said. “I am a realist.”
Christina sighed. “The authorities investigated. They sent men from London but they could not find the culprits. They think he fell foul of some ruffians who make a living from highway robbery and theft. It is unusual these days, but not unheard of.” There was vivid regret in her expression. “I am only sorry he was so unlucky to fall in with such a band near Kilmory.”
To Lucas’s mind there had been nothing of bad luck about it. He wondered if robbery alone would have been sufficient motive for murder. It seemed unlikely. Peter had been rich and his possessions valuable, but there had been no need to kill him for them.
“The papers were full of the lurid details of the case,” he said. “It was a sensation.”
“Really?” Christina’s expression showed her distaste. “Well, scandal sheets will print anything if they think it will sell more copies. How unpleasant to make profit from it, when it was such a tragedy. That must have hurt his relatives even more.” She fell silent for a moment. “He spoke of his family, you know,” she said. “His father, his brother...” A frown touched her eyes. “There had been some estrangement, I believe. He was so happy to find his brother again. He hero-worshipped him, as young men are so inclined to do. I often wonder—” She hesitated. “How his brother must have felt when he heard the news.”
He felt angry, cheated, despairing...
Lucas felt an echo of that anger ripple through him. Of course she could not know of his connection to Peter, but it hurt to hear her speak of him; it felt like an open wound. It was even worse that she spoke with such compassion when it could have been the jackals in her smuggling gang who had stabbed his brother and taken the signet ring from his finger and the clothes from his back and had sold his belongings.
He cleared his throat. “You are always worrying about the feelings of others,” he said. “What makes you grieve for his brother when you do not even know him?” The words came out more harshly than he had intended, but she did not seem surprised.
“I know what it is to lose someone dear to me,” she said quietly. Her blue gaze was clouded. “My mother died when I was young. My life changed completely.” She looked away across the sweep of the park. “One is so unprepared for loss,” she said, half to herself, “and yet one’s whole future can change in an instant. I think it better not to love than to lay oneself open to that pain.”
“You have too much of a loving spirit to do that,” Lucas said roughly.
Don’t become like me, he thought. It was too late for him—he had cut himself off from love many years before when his stepfather had cast him out. Christina was different, though. She cared too much for people to deny the love that was in her.
“I am sorry you lost your mother at a young age,” he said. “I imagine that must have been very hard for you. But it does not mean that you should never risk loving someone again.”
Something flickered in her eyes, like a door closing. Lucas had the strangest sensation that she was deliberately shutting down the memory. “I imagine you must have found it difficult, too.” Her gaze appraised him. “You mentioned that you were an orphan.”
“My mother died when I was twelve years old,” Lucas admitted. “Yes, it was hard.”
“And your father?”
“I never knew him. I was illegitimate, a bastard.”
He heard her catch her breath at the bitterness of his tone. He had not intended to show his feelings quite so openly. It was completely unfamiliar to him, uncomfortable, strange. Yet her gaze on him was steady and sure, with no pity, only compassion in it and the same understanding she had shown that night in the tower when he had admitted he was orphaned.
“It is hard for a boy to grow up fatherless,” she said. “I imagine you had to learn very quickly how to survive.”
“Yes,” Lucas said. “I begged, I stole food, I picked pockets, I was cold, always hungry. There were plenty like me in the back streets of Edinburgh.” He shrugged. “As I grew older, I got work sometimes. I didn’t want to be a thief all my life.”
“How did you come to train as a servant?” There was a spark of interest in her voice that was not feigned. “It must have been difficult to persuade anyone to give you that chance.”
“By a very roundabout route,” Lucas said truthfully. He did not want to lie to her. In fact, the urge to tell her everything was dangerously strong. He did not understand why. “We were speaking of you,” he said. “Do not think that I had not noticed that you turned the subject.”
She laughed. “Oh, I am a very dull topic.”
“I don’t believe that,” Lucas said. “I heard that after your mother died you gave up your own future to raise your younger brothers and sisters.”
Again he saw that flicker of expression in her eyes, a flash of pain, but her voice when she answered was quite steady.
“Who told you that?”
/> “Servants talk,” Lucas said. He was not even sure why he was pushing her on it except that it interested him. He wanted to know more about Lady Christina MacMorlan.
“Of course they do.” She sounded weary. “Well, there was not a great deal of future to give up.”
“I heard there was a betrothal,” Lucas said. “A marriage of your own.”
“It was hard for them.” She swept aside her own loss with a dismissive wave of the hand. It was as though it simply did not count—or was too painful to remember. “My little sisters were so young when mama died. And Papa... He could not cope on his own. He needed me.”
“You worked very hard to keep your family together,” Lucas said. “You still do. The whole village is your family now.” She had put everyone else first for years, he thought. She had taken the love that might otherwise have been lavished on a family of her own and had given it freely to those about her. It was generous, it was endearing, but it was also maddening that she had so little thought for her own needs and desires. He wondered what those desires had been before the Duke of Forres’s selfish whim had set them aside.
“Family is important.” She spoke simply. “People are important. We all need to belong.”
“I don’t agree,” Lucas said. He thought of the Black Strath, the estate his father had left him, another place where he did not belong. “I have no real home,” he said, “or family, and I am happy enough.”
“Are you?” Suddenly the look in her blue eyes was keen and far too perceptive. It felt as though she could see right through him: see the hopes he had cherished of building a relationship with his brother and the pain of loss; see the fierceness with which he rejected all ties that could bind him, hurt him. He had a rule to keep himself apart. He had broken it for Peter and had suffered for it. He would never take that risk again.
“Well...” She brushed the matter away as though she had realized that this was not the sort of conversation she should be having with the gardener. “I do not suppose we should be discussing such personal matters,” she said. A hint of color came into her face. “I am not sure why I talk to you so much, Mr. Ross. It is quite inexplicable.”
Lucas smiled at her. “Perhaps you view me as a confessor figure,” he suggested. “Like a priest.”
She gave a snort of laughter, quickly repressed. “Anyone less like a priest...” she said.
The cedar walk opened out into a broad expanse of parkland. Christina paused, her gaze fixed on the distant boundary where the bank and ditch of the ha-ha separated the park from the bracken-and-heather-clad hillside beyond.
“Did you go to see Eyre?” Lucas asked. He wondered if the riding officer had kept his word.
Christina’s gaze came back to fix on his face. “No,” she said. “There was no need.” She frowned slightly. “Word came this morning that he had released Callum MacFarlane. Perhaps he has some humanity in him after all.”
“I wouldn’t bank on it,” Lucas said. “You heard that he burned a barn over at Kilcoy when he was hunting for the peat-reek? Unfortunately he did not trouble to check first whether anyone was inside.”
He felt a shudder rack her. She turned to look at him, face pale, eyes frightened. “What happened?”
“Some children almost died,” Lucas said harshly. “They had been playing and hid in fear when they saw the riding officers coming. They breathed in the smoke.”
He heard her catch her own breath. “Will they live?”
“No one knows,” Lucas said.
There was silence but for the soft crunch of the path beneath their feet, then she sighed. “I heard that you yourself met Mr. Eyre a few nights ago,” she said. “At the Kilmory Inn.”
“Your spies are very good,” Lucas said, amused. It was a sharp reminder that he needed to be very careful. “We played a game of cards,” he said. “I beat him.”
“I don’t suppose anyone else is prepared to play with him,” Christina said.
Lucas shrugged. “I’ll play cards with any man for money and a drink.”
“Yes,” Christina said. The look she gave him was opaque. He could not read it at all. “That reminds me of something I wished to discuss with you, Mr. Ross.”
“Oh?” Lucas said.
She did not speak immediately and he could not see her face as she was half turned away from him. The sleeve of her spencer brushed his arm. He heard her give a little sigh, and then she stopped and squared her shoulders, tilting her face up to his.
“We need to talk about your drinking habits, Mr. Ross,” she said. “It has come to my attention that you spend almost all your spare time and most of your pay in the Kilmory Inn.” She frowned a little, wrinkling her nose up. “I hope that you do not have a problem with alcohol?”
“That is quite a question,” Lucas said, “from a woman who took refuge in the peat-reek to escape her guilt and her grief.”
“Mr. Ross!” Christina’s eyes flashed. “You are—”
“Presumptuous,” Lucas said. “Insolent. I know. In general, it is not a good idea to use drink as an escape.”
She had turned away from him, her lips set tightly, anger in every elegant line and curve of her body. “That was different,” she said. “You know it was. Whereas you... I hear you visit the inn almost every night.”
Lucas sighed. He could hardly tell her that he only frequented the Kilmory Inn in order to pick up clues about his brother’s death. And something about Christina’s resolve to tackle a difficult subject touched him. She thought he might have a problem. She wanted to help.
“Lady Christina.” He softened his tone. “I do not know what you have heard, but I assure you that I am not reliant on drink.”
A frown still marred the smooth skin between Christina’s brows. “You may think so, Mr. Ross, but I assure you that it is all too easy to become dependent without realizing. My brother—” She stopped abruptly.
Lucas put his hand on her arm. “I am sorry about Lord Lachlan,” he said. The entire castle, the entire village and probably all of Scotland knew that Lachlan MacMorlan’s life was slowly unraveling.
Christina shook her head and Lucas knew she was rejecting his comfort. It was not appropriate for him to offer it; no servant should presume so far.
“I am merely perturbed that if you drink too much you will not be able to work effectively,” Christina said abruptly. Lucas saw her fingers clench on the handle of the basket. “My concern is entirely practical and in the interests of the estate.”
“I am in no danger of putting a garden fork through my foot,” Lucas said. He did not bother to call her on the lie. They both knew her concern for him had been personal, and she betrayed herself again a moment later when she said hesitantly, “If you have spent all your wages and are in financial difficulty I could give you an advance on the next week.”
This time Lucas caught her elbow and pulled her to a halt. “Your concern for me is very sweet,” he said softly, “but quite unnecessary.”
Confusion flickered in her eyes. “I am concerned for the smooth running of the establishment at Kilmory,” she corrected. “I spoke only out of duty.”
“Not quite,” Lucas said pleasantly. “You care about people, not just their ability to work.” He saw her take a breath to contradict him and continued, “You are concerned that no one starves in the village and that your father’s tenants have their grievances addressed justly and that you look after all your relatives and dependents. Duty is cold. You are not cold.”
Her color deepened but she did not correct him. He could feel the resistance in her, though, the need to break away from him and restore the fragile barriers she had erected between them. He was not inclined to let her destroy that intimacy. Suddenly he wanted to make her see, make her understand that there were times when she should put herself first. He gave her arm a little shake so that she looked up at him again.
“What about you,” he said a little roughly. “Who takes care of you, Lady Christina?”
The co
nfusion in her eyes deepened. Seeing the vulnerability there, Lucas was ambushed by a fierce desire to kiss her. Exasperation and frustration warred in him. Here was a woman who spent so much time caring for others that she did not even understand his question. She did not consider her own needs and neither did anyone else. For some reason that made him furious.
It also disturbed him. He did not like the warmth and protectiveness that possessed him whenever he saw Christina. Warmth, affection, belonging—none of these had any place in his life. They were emotions that weakened a man and made his judgment falter. He did not want to feel. He did not want to care.
She was still looking at him, her chin tilted up slightly, the sunlight on her face, that lush, sensual mouth. Lucas felt his body harden again, his blood running hot.
Hell and the devil.
He stepped back, sketching a bow. “Excuse me, Lady Christina,” he said a little abruptly. “I will leave you here and go to the drawing office. Good day to you.”
She looked nonplussed for a moment—could she really not see how attracted he was to her?—and then nodded. “Good day, Mr. Ross.” She sounded as cool and collected as ever.
Lucas watched her walk away, a neat, precise figure in her summery yellow gown and spencer. She carried the wicker basket over one arm and looked as unpretentious as any country lady. He smiled wryly as he watched her pass the laundry and pause for a word with the maid hanging out the washing before knocking at the door of Hemmings’s cottage and disappearing inside. Lady Christina MacMorlan, her life’s work to care for others. He was damned if he knew why her happiness mattered to him, but it did.
CHAPTER TEN
CHRISTINA PUT DOWN the sheaf of papers she was holding, took off the glasses that were pinching her nose and rubbed her eyes. They felt dry and gritty. She felt tired after hours of wading through the household expenditure. She had forgotten that that evening they were due to dine with the minister and his family, and, even though it was a short journey, she should have gone upstairs to get ready so much sooner.
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