by Cready, Gwyn
“Tis not illegal to have Scots blood running in one’s veins. At least not yet.” He inclined his head toward the food. “Do you mind if I . . . ?”
“Not at all,” she said, nibbling the fruit. “Please, go on.”
He took a seat. “However, my grandfather is more than just a Scot.” He blew on the first spoonful of soup. “He is the chief of Clan MacIver.”
She stopped chewing. “Good Lord.”
Scots blood would be an awkward thing in the highly regimented caste system of English noblemen. But to have a clan chief in one’s family—especially if one was a senior army officer—would have to be a social and political time bomb. The clashes between the clans and the English army had long made the borderlands a bloody and dangerous place. Sir Walter Scott had made a name writing stories about it, not to mention any number of other historical fiction writers.
“Your father married the daughter of a clan chief?”
Bridgewater froze. He put down his spoon. “I think I have answered all the questions I should care to, if you don’t mind.”
She flushed, realizing her rudeness. She’d asked the question as if she were examining the breeding history of a horse she was buying.
“I’m sorry. That was rude.”
He bowed. Then he leaned back in his chair, considering her closely. “It’s odd. You ask about things most people already know.”
“Do I?” She struggled to keep her face neutral.
“Aye. My grandfather. The peacock. The castle on the distant hill. Where is it you call home? That is not an English accent, nor even Welsh. There is something guttural and German to it to my ear, and yet it is not German.”
“No. I am from—” She considered. “Penn’s Wood. In the colonies.”
His pupils widened. “Penn’s Wood? The land of William Penn?”
She nodded, pleased he knew her home. “Do you know him?”
“I have been introduced, yes.” A wry smile came over his face. “He’s a bit of a frothing dog, don’t you think?”
“William Penn?” She’d never thought of William Penn being anything except the figure on top of the Philadelphia City Hall and the face on the oatmeal box.
“I am not a religious man,” he said, returning to his soup, “and religious men make me wary; anyone with fanatical leanings does.”
Not a religious man? The man whom she’d first seen on his knees, praying? She thought his statement was a convenient untruth, though what or who it was convenient for, she didn’t know.
The cheese was marvelous—fresh, with a grassy tang. She wondered if there were cows out on those darkening hills. Cows, peacocks, cannons, border intrigues—this was better than a novel, she thought. Then she remembered Bridgewater’s bruised side and battered face and felt guilty for her blithe observation.
“And what brings you to Cumbria?” he asked, looking absently into his bowl as he scraped out the last spoonful. He stopped for an instant, obviously startled, then broke his gaze and brought the soup to his mouth. “My apologies,” he said distractedly. “We have an agreement. No more questions.” He pushed the bowl away, tapping his fingers on the table. Whatever had come to him was still occupying his thoughts.
She finished the cheese, watching the ebb and flow of tension in that aristocratic profile.
Then he stood. Affability restored, he carried the decanter to the bookcase she’d opened, snagged her glass from the floor, and refilled it for her.
“Was that the man who beat you?”
“Who? The guard? No,” he said amiably. “He and his companion held me.”
His fingers brushed hers as she accepted the glass, leaving a warm tingle. She gazed at her hand as if she’d never seen it before.
“Is something wrong?”
She hid her hand, startled. “No. It’s nothing.”
He refilled his own glass and sat down again at the table. That look of smoky desire had returned to his face, and she felt a light giddiness spread through her, like the bubbles in champagne.
“Do you let the soldiers borrow your books while they’re here?” she asked. “Or the townspeople?”
He looked at her in some surprise. “No. Of course not.”
Panna’s desire to keep her twenty-first-century self under wraps battled with her irrepressible evangelism on the topic of library access, and she knew which would win. “Oh, but you should!”
“I’ve spent half a lifetime building this collection. You can hardly expect a man to let his books be scattered like seeds to the wind.”
“But that’s exactly the right analogy,” she cried. “Think about how much knowledge you could sow by sharing your books with the people who live around here.”
“Do you have a library like this in Penn’s Woods?”
“I do.”
Something flickered in those gray-blue eyes. “Your husband’s?”
“Oh, no,” she said, the quickness of her reply surprising her. “I’m a widow. The library is just one I can use. In fact, I help take care of the books there.”
“A library keeper?”
“Yes.”
He studied her appraisingly. “How very interesting. I have heard of such a thing, though I admit I have never heard of a woman doing it. And this gentleman, the one who owns the library, he is wealthy?”
She could hardly blame him for assuming the library’s owner was male. She imagined there weren’t many women owners of anything in the eighteenth century. And in this case, the “owner,” as it were, certainly was. Andrew Carnegie had been as rich as they come.
“He is.”
“And how does my library compare?”
How like a man to ask such a thing. She looked around the vast room, her eyes trailing up the towers of wood and glass to take in the gleaming volumes. Her fingers tingled for the chance to hold them. Yet, what a thing to lavish on a single person. “For an individual, your collection is immense, and from the pieces I’ve seen, I think you have a very, very fine eye.”
“Do I hear a ‘but’ in there?”
The rare man who listened to more than the words spoken. “Well, where I come from, a library is judged not just on its collection but upon the number of books it lends out. We call that its circulation. Your circulation, I am afraid to say, is one.”
It dawned on her that she had no idea if his circulation was one. For all she knew, he had a wife and family who used it. She flushed, realizing how he might interpret the question.
His eyes twinkled clear blue. “And the man who owns your library? How large is his circulation?”
She searched his face for deeper meaning, but his features seemed pointedly unreadable. “Well, size is not the only thing that matters, of course.”
“Is it not? I believe you just said it was.”
“All right, yes, size is important. Very important, in fact,” she added, walking the perimeter of the room to avoid looking into those eyes. “But there is range to be considered as well.”
“The wider, the better, I suppose.”
She gave him a look. He was alluding to more than range. She could see the laughter in those warm eyes.
“Yes,” she said carefully, “width is certainly a benefit.”
“Though you would argue for distinguishing oneself with commanding depth in a few important areas, too, I’m sure.”
“Yes, as well as the sensitivity with which the collector—”
“Aye, the sensitivity. Always a concern. Then you would say his library exceeds mine in all important aspects.”
The twinkle had turned to a kaleidoscopic glitter, and she flushed from her neck to the tips of her ears. “His collection is larger—”
Bridgewater put a hand over his heart. “Ooh. A crushing blow.”
“—but as for the rest . . . I don’t know. I would have to, well . . .”
“Sample it?”
His eyes met hers, only for an instant, but a seismic shock rattled her knees. Charming bastard. She downed a swig of b
randy to moisten her throat. “Hmmm.”
“That can be arranged, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sure it can. Take heart, though. A man with a humble collection can still make an impact.”
“Humble!”
“It’s a matter of attitude, attentive execution, and something with which you may not be closely familiar: humility.”
“Ouch. I withdraw to lick my wounds.” Bridgewater stretched his long legs and leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Well, I am sorry to hear his collection exceeds mine. That is indeed discouraging. However, nothing inspires a man to achievement like another man’s success.”
“I think perhaps we should close the topic of libraries.”
He chuckled.
It had been a long time since Panna had flirted with a man. The flutter in her chest and the charge of connection was like sunshine and fresh air to someone emerging from a lingering illness. It left her feeling both exhilarated and a little light-headed.
She had come to an odd, high window seat. Unlike the other window seats, which were of normal size and depth, this one jutted out an extra two feet from the side of the building and stood a good twelve inches taller, which made Panna assume it offered the best view. However, she found it nearly impossible to get into it, given her gown and the glass in her hand—that is, until she spotted a swing-out step, about a foot off the floor, built into the wall.
She opened the step.
“Oh, dear.” Bridgewater cleared his throat.
“What?” She hopped on the wood. The step was quite steady.
“I—well, never mind.” He shook his head.
“I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“No, I, er, wouldn’t think so.”
Once she sat down, she noticed another odd feature of the seat. It angled slightly downward toward the half circle of windows in which it was located, which made sitting upright a sort of isometric exercise. In addition, about a foot before the seat reached the windows, the angle of the incline became even more acute.
“This is very strange,” she said.
His cheeks reddened. “It belonged to the man who built this place.”
“Not you?”
“Oh, no. This castle was built three hundred years ago and has changed hands a number of times in the never-ending tumult of the borderlands. Most of it was destroyed in a fire forty or so years ago—the same year as the plague. Only this wing remains.”
“I see. And the seat?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Tis referred to as the surveying seat.”
She took in the sweeping view of the ramparts, the river, the buildings in the town, and the seemingly endless hills beyond. “I can see that. But the incline? And the odd height?”
“The story is told that the lord of the castle, apparently a roguish sort, designed it to give himself a standing view of all of his holdings—holdings that evidently were meant to include his lady . . . or, at least, whoever his lady was at the moment he decided to, er, take his survey.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh.”
The seat would accommodate a man standing, one foot on the swing-out step, and a woman, lying on her back, with her body angled downward and her head angled even more.
“Good God!” Panna exclaimed. “The view of his holdings would be directly between her—”
“Aye.”
Talk about seeing the world through rose-colored nipples. She suddenly wondered if Bridgewater had ever used it for such a purpose, though the extent of his discomfort on the topic suggested either he hadn’t or he didn’t care to have someone thinking he had.
She didn’t know how to respond.
“As you said,” he murmured, “a room with a view.”
“Indeed.”
Quite speechless and blushing as well, Panna scrabbled to remember the topic that had preceded the discovery of this amazing seat. The depth and breadth of his library’s circulation had been almost as fraught with pitfalls. Determined to find a safer topic, she said, “There is one thing quite singular about your library, however.”
“Oh?” He sat up, as relieved as she was at the change of subject.
“Yes, you have two stories of shelves, and no ladder to reach the upper story.”
His face broke in a wide grin. “Do you know that you are the first person to notice? The army has been here three months and not a single officer has said a word.”
She hopped off the seat and continued walking around the room, scanning titles as she went. Milton, Hobbes, Fletcher, Newton—even a Bible grand enough to make her wonder if it was a Gutenberg.
But she didn’t stop to admire any of them, for while she was not exactly sure what she was looking for, she knew for certain the item did not come bound in leather.
She could feel the energy in the room shift and change as Bridgewater followed her with his eyes, and she wondered if she might even use that to help her identify what she was looking for. She reached the table at which he sat when the empty soup bowl caught her attention.
Scratched into the bottom were the words “They know.”
The pause in her step nearly gave her away, and he regarded her closely, but she managed to keep her attention on the bookcase in front of her.
“Your collection certainly reflects a wide range of interests,” she said, pulling the first thing out of the air she could think of while wondering about the message in the bowl. Who knew? The army? And what did they know? Reeves was obviously a well-trained and loyal servant.
“Thank you,” he said. “I was lucky to have a very fine tutor.”
She wondered if he was collaborating with the Scots, just as he’d been accused of. Of course, with the perspective of three hundred extra years, she knew the Scots would lose their independence to England and not gain it back completely even in her time. Were their struggles to remain free any less honorable than the struggles American colonists would be fighting three quarters of a century from now? Of course, in the eyes of a ruling power, a group fighting for its freedom looks both traitorous and dangerous.
“Your father must be very proud.”
At the mention of his father, Bridgewater’s expression hardened. She could see him wrestling with a response. “My father and I are not close.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It has been a great loss for me. Perhaps not as much for him.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is a great loss for him,” she protested, though the look on Bridgewater’s face said otherwise. “Charlie’s father—Charlie was my husband—wasn’t an easy person to get along with. Charlie’s older brother really resented it, and they were estranged. They ended up reconciling when Charlie’s father became ill. Charlie’s father always said the thing he regretted most in life was not doing what he needed to do to have his son in his life.”
Bridgewater shifted his weight from one foot to the other. She could see the enormous pain in his eyes.
“I think perhaps the situation with my father is different.”
“Don’t give up hope,” she said. “There’s always a chance people can mend their ways.”
He bowed. “I will do my best.”
She thought it best to let the subject drop and returned to her examination of the bookcases. A telltale flash of silver caught her eye.
The hinges were difficult to see—someone had attempted to camouflage them with brown paint—but a few scratches exposed the metal beneath. Her eyes followed the vertical line separating metal and wood upward to where it met another line running horizontally the length of the bookcase. About four feet below where that line ended, she saw a slight impression. She slipped her fingers in and slowly swung the heavy, book-filled door open.
A hand pressed it closed with a soft but definitive click.
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”
Bridgewater had appeared at her side without a sound, and the pain in his eyes had been displaced by something colder.
“Oh.” The change in h
im disorientated her, and she found herself edging backward, clutching her brandy.
“I would appreciate if you took care not to mention the door to anyone.”
“Of course.”
He searched her eyes, evidently taking a measure of her trustworthiness. “If you cross me, you will suffer for it.”
“I won’t. I told you I won’t.”
She fought the trembling that had overtaken her knees, and his hardness abated a degree.
“I beg your pardon,” he said after a long moment. “You have been most kind. But a man cannot trust everyone.”
“Certainly. I understand.” Though she was not quite sure she did.
He found the book she’d left on the floor and picked it up. “I would like you to have this,” he said. “Raise my circulation to two.”
She felt odd taking it after his unsettling behavior. “I don’t know.”
“Please.”
She relaxed. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the book and tucking it under her arm.
“It has been a long time since anyone has cared for me,” he said. “You made me quite content.”
He took her hand and kissed it. His hand was soft and strong, and despite everything, she found herself lingering in his clasp.
A knock sounded at the door.
They froze. The alcove was half a room away. She began to run, but Bridgewater grabbed her arm, uttered a picturesque oath, and shoved her behind the door he had just forbidden her from entering.
SIX
“GOOD EVENING, CAPTAIN.”
“General.” Bridgewater came to formal attention and waited. He had hoped his brief sojourn as a sparring partner for his half-brother’s guards had been all the army time he would have to serve today.
His visitor released him with a disgusted wave, the flawless queue of iron-gray hair flapping against his coat. “What happened to your face?”
“The colonel and I had a disagreement.”
He clucked his tongue. “Idiot.”
Bridgewater said nothing. He could still feel the softness of the woman’s skin against his lips. How the time with her had quenched the loneliness within him. Talking so openly had perhaps been foolish, but only a lover’s sort of incaution. He had not said a thing she couldn’t have learned from any inhabitant of the borderlands, if in fact she had entered the room not knowing it already.
