by Carmen Caine
Alistair tore his eyes from her breasts.
The boy’s mouth dropped open. “That’s a girl’s name!”
Eliza placed her hand over her heart and feigned surprise. “Ah, so you can speak? How pleasant it is to hear your voice this fine morn, sweet Abigail.”
“’Tis not my name,” the boy insisted.
Ignoring his sullen response, Eliza herded them through the breakfast parlor door, saying, “Come, dear Abigail. Let’s not be late.”
Alistair straightened his waistcoat and stepped forward to join them, when a familiar voice hailed him from behind, “What the devil? Do my eyes deceive me?”
He glanced back to see his friend, the dashing Sir Nicholas Hunter Blair, 4th Baronet of Dunskey, striding down the hall toward him. Standing over six feet tall, the baronet radiated a graceful masculinity and aristocratic breeding not only with his striking patrician cheekbones and strong noble jaw, but his cunning wit and keen eye as well, an eye that missed little—save where women were involved. He’d often puzzled Alistair in that regard, leaving him wondering if the women played him for a fool, or if he simply enjoyed letting them play the game.
Nicholas reached him and Alistair grasped the man’s shoulder. “That I’ve lived to see the day you grace a humble village inn instead of a fashionable London hotel. What brings you here, lad?”
Nicholas’ ice-blue eyes lit with a smile. “Why, you do, my dear fellow.” He nodded his raven head toward the breakfast parlor door. “That and a good, old-fashioned breakfast.”
Alistair snorted in disbelief. “Since when have you ever risen before noon? I’d wager you’ve yet to fall asleep.”
“And I must confess you are right,” the baronet admitted with an unrepentant grin. “Truth is, I stand in need of your help, but I’m rather curious, as well, as to why you abandoned Culzean for London this time of year, requiring me to chase you hither and yon, all over the country?”
“What’s the only reason that ever brings me here?” Alistair asked, his mouth twisting with scorn.
Nicholas clucked his tongue. “What has Charles done this time?”
Alistair heaved a long sigh and raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s a long tale, my friend. Let’s find a private place to speak, aye?” He couldn’t chance the children overhearing.
They strode to the parlor door, and Alistair stopped and peered inside. It was a small room, pleasant enough, with windows overlooking the courtyard, and containing a sideboard set laden with a variety of muffins, cakes, and eggs. The children squirmed impatiently at the large oak table in the center of the room, clearly displeased with having to wait, as Eliza hovered behind the little girl, attempting yet again to tie a ribbon in her unruly red locks.
He meant to tell them not to wait, that he’d eat elsewhere, but Eliza chose that moment to bite her lip in concentration and he found himself wondering just how those soft, pink lips would taste.
“Where did he find her?” Nicholas’ whispered words were followed by a long, low whistle.
At the sound, Eliza and the children glanced up.
“Please, eat.” Alistair nodded at the sideboard. “I have a matter to attend. There’s no need to wait.”
As Eliza bobbed a curtsey, he spun on his heel, brusquely waving his friend to follow.
“She’s a bit out of his league, is she not?” Nicholas began.
“No’ her,” Alistair interrupted, irritated. After trying a few doors, he found a small, empty sitting room with two shabby velvet chairs and a small table, both placed before a fire long grown cold. No sooner had the door closed behind them, he added, “It’s the children, Nicholas. Charles’ children. Their mother died and he could only bother himself to have them dumped on Lady Prescott’s doorstep before vanishing off to the continent in search of new pleasures.”
“Ah, my dear fellow, I find myself no longer interested in Charles’ latest escapade.”
Alistair didn’t like the lusty gleam that lit Nicholas’ ice-blue eyes.
“Who is she?” Nicholas demanded.
Alistair moved to a nearby chair and folded his arms over the back. Nicholas’ well-deserved reputation as a rake made him an undesirable candidate to spend time with Eliza.
“No one you need know,” Alistair said.
The man’s keen eyes narrowed in the instant before he crossed the room, the heels of his boots drumming the wooden floor. He seated himself in the chair beside Alistair and stretched his long legs as he inspected Alistair from head to toe.
“A bit defensive, are you? I’d say, even possessive.”
“She’s no concern of yours,” Alistair replied.
“Come, come,” his friend pressed with a charming smile. “It’s not like you to be defensive over a lass, Alistair. Is she—”
“Leave it be,” Alistair cut him short. “I’m not jesting, lad.”
The man studied him for a moment, then a slow smile spread over his face. “Then let us speak of other matters.” He withdrew a coin from his waistcoat pocket and began flipping it in the air. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“And why, when surely a letter would do?”
“With mail coaches bogged down by the snow and roads impassable, it’s no wonder you haven’t gotten them. I sent three. But then, perhaps Lady Prescott lost them for you?” He snorted. “There is matter of great delicacy, best dealt with in person, as it requires I take you into my confidence and provide an explanation.”
“Explanation?” Alistair echoed, now suspicious.
Nicholas widened his grin. “An explanation as to why you’ll arrive at Culzean to find my guests most likely already there for a most delightful house party.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. “Guests? Pray tell, what house party is this?”
“Why, yours, my dear fellow,” Nicholas answered smoothly. “I couldn’t invite her to Dunskey without a misunderstanding. I’ve only just met the lass.”
Alistair groaned. “You invited your lover to Culzean?”
“No, no, not lover. Not yet. She misunderstood. She’s bringing chaperones. Her cousin, some captain, who will no doubt cause problems.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. Then, with a mischievous grin, he leaned forward. “Perhaps I should demonstrate the pain of the word, aye? Now that I find you here at an inn with a delightful…unless, of course, you’re not fancying her in that way…” He let his voice trail off.
Alistair locked gazes with him. “She’s not to be trifled with, Nicholas.”
A tense silence drew out between them.
After a moment, Nicholas relaxed back into his chair. “Then I fancy I’ll enjoy watching.”
“Why Culzean?” Alistair set the conversation back on track. “I fail to—”
“It’s a bit of a situation, if you must know,” Nicholas cut in. “And really, why let that astonishingly grand castle of yours simply rot? You can host a house party with far greater ease than I can. Having it all at Culzean is quite the tidy solution.”
“For who?” Alistair grated, but then his attention snagged on the word ‘all’. Catching the hidden implication, he lifted a brow. “Having it all at Culzean?”
Nicholas laughed. “We’ve talked about this before,” he replied, dancing around the issue.
An indirect answer from Nicholas didn’t bode well—especially where women were involved. “Say it, Nicholas,” Alistair ordered. “Have done.”
“It’s nothing, really. Just a few guests for a month or so. The rest won’t even arrive until the, uh, spring ball.”
There it was. The dark, treacherous water lurking under the fresh hay. “Spring ball?” Alistair queried in a low, dangerous voice.
Nicholas shrugged, unperturbed. “A celebration of completing Culzean’s renovation. What worthier cause than that? And may I remind you, that you owe me.” He stressed the words with a lazy grin.
“How so?”
“That card game last summer, at the Gordon’s wedding party.”
Alistair didn’t break his stare. “Do you refer to the card game…that I won?”
You? Nicholas mouthed the word, lifting both brows as if in surprise.
Alistair studied him in an attempt to gauge whether or not his response was genuine. With his consummate acting skills, it was often difficult to tell.
The baronet clapped his palm to his forehead in embarrassment and grinned his widest yet. “Did you win, Alistair?” he asked in astonishment. “Zounds, you did, didn’t you? What a merry blunder. I was certain you stood in my debt. I fear it’s too late to change plans now. I’ve contrived to make a right jolly celebration of it.”
Alistair opened his mouth, prepared to share his own opinion on that score when Nicholas raised a staying hand. “But before we discuss it further, perhaps you’d care to hear how it all came about? Lady Kennedy had a hand in it,” he quickly added.
At the mention of his stepmother, Alistair surveyed his friend in a sudden new light. “Pray tell what is this concerning then?”
“It was during a game of Hunt the Slipper at Lord Brexley’s ball,” Nicholas replied with a devious twinkle in his eye.
Alistair leveled him a look. The only version of Hunt the Slipper that Nicholas ever played involved copious amounts of wine and women. “You were drunk then,” he said bluntly.
“At least, Lady Kennedy thought so.” Nicholas chuckled, but then his expression sobered. “I heard her claiming she’d soon find the proof she sought, at last, the ‘irrefutable proof’.”
The ‘irrefutable proof’…his father’s dying words.
Alistair crossed to the window and looked out over the snow. Obsessed with building the grandest castle in Scotland, the old earl had bankrupted the Kennedy estate. His solution? Legitimize and make Alistair the heir, thus saving his legacy with his son’s self-made fortune. Alistair had always known Lady Kennedy would eventually strike back and contest the will. It had only been a matter of time—even though the courts had assured him the old earl had provided solid proof of his legitimacy and his claim stood unshakable. He’d found his legitimacy astonishing, especially after the manner of his upbringing. It was no small wonder Lady Kennedy did, as well. Yet, irrefutable proof? Now? After almost four years from the day when he’d received a letter from Foster, the Kennedy piper, informing him that his father had requested his immediate presence—at his deathbed.
The mad gallop through the wind driven rain that night had proven fruitless. The old earl hadn’t wished to make peace with his estranged, eldest son as Alistair had hoped.
Exhausted and wet to the bone, Alistair had burst into his father’s chamber to find him with Lady Kennedy at his side.
Even now, Alistair could feel the heat of his father’s gaze as he’d rasped in a labored whisper, “Save the castle.”
“The castle?” Alistair had asked.
But the harsh old man had turned to his wife and clutched her arm. “The piper keeps the proof, the irrefutable proof that Alistair is my legitimate heir. The castle. Save the castle.”
The shock that rolled over Alistair was dispelled by the venomous look his stepmother directed at him. Her face twisted into a mask of fury that would live forever in his memory.
“You have outwitted me for now, with this false evidence of your mother’s marriage,” she spat. “But I know better. She was a mere scullery maid. I’ll find this irrefutable proof and set this travesty to rights.”
“Perhaps Lady Kennedy convinced the old piper to finally speak, aye?” Nicholas’ deep voice cut through his memories.
Alistair looked at his friend. “Foster knows nothing of the matter.”
“You trust the man?”
“I trust Foster with my life,” Alistair swore. “Without Angus Foster, I would be nothing.”
It was true. Upon his mother’s death, as a wee lad, Alistair had been sent to his father. But the earl, having already remarried and fathered another son, saw Alistair as either an embarrassment or—as Alistair suspected—a threat to the purse strings of his new wife’s fortune. The earl refused to acknowledge him, and allowed his stepmother to put him to work in the stables. He’d been frightened, lonely, until the piper, Angus Foster, had taken him in as his own. Alistair grew to love the man as a father.
Hard work and Lady Luck favored Alistair. He accumulated a vast fortune and, given his wealth, it was no small wonder that his debt-ridden father had named him heir. Of course, Lady Kennedy hadn’t objected then. The earl had squandered every penny she’d possessed. Her only means of support lay in letting Alistair inherit to save the estate—and herself and her son, Charles, along with it.
Alistair gave a bitter laugh. “Lady Kennedy’s timing is impeccable. I’ve only just settled the last of the debt and set the estate to rights. The family coffers are no longer dry.”
“Ah, but you’ve yet to hear the worst.” Nicholas rose. “She’s once again taken up residence in Culzean.”
Alistair retained his share of determination. The windswept lands of his heritage sang in his blood. After spending his life’s work saving Culzean, he’d no longer give up the castle without a fight.
He locked gazes with his friend. “How fast can you ride?”
Nicholas’ eyes lit. “We ride to roust her from your home?”
“No.” Alistair shook his head. “I ride to make sure she stays—until I can find out exactly what she’s up to and lay this matter to rest, once and for all.”
“Even better,” Nicholas replied with a grin.
Chapter Five
The Castle on the Sea
Eliza rapped her knuckles on the breakfast table for the third time. “Slower, children.” She softened the criticism with a smile. “Forks are to be used, not fingers.”
The boy tossed her a dark scowl. Oh, he was a challenge, that one.
“Miss Plowman,” Lord Kennedy’s deep voice sounded from the breakfast parlor door. “Might I have a word?”
Eliza’s stomach flipped. Darting a quick look in his direction, she got the general impression of the man standing there, formidable and aloof in his white linen shirt and a pair of dark gray trousers that hugged muscular thighs. After the embarrassment of hopping through his window the night before, she didn’t quite have the courage to look him in the eye. Already, her cheeks heated.
She rose and bobbed a curtsey. Then, striving for a calm and proper tone, softly replied, “Certainly, my lord.”
He stepped into the parlor and motioned toward the far side of the room. She followed until he stopped.
“An important matter has come to my attention, Miss Plowman,” he said. “I must return to Castle Culzean with haste. I’ll be leaving the children in your care.”
“You’re leaving?” she blurted.
She looked up into his face. He was clearly distracted and tense, the tendons taut on his neck.
“Yes.” He nodded and her gaze caught on his dimpled chin. “My men will escort you and the children safely to Culzean.”
She felt only relief at his words—a selfish sort of relief. He made her uncomfortable. They’d known one another only two days and, already, her heart pounded at his every look and her cheeks threatened to burn a dozen shades of red. She shouldn’t be responding to the man in such a way. After all, she’d just been jilted, hadn’t she? Her heart should be a bitter, broken shell. It certainly shouldn’t be trying to sing every time she carried on the most trivial of conversations with her employer.
“Miss Plowman?” His gentle inquiry intruded upon her thoughts.
Eliza started and cursed the heat that crept up her cheeks. Good heavens, had she been staring into the depths of his brilliant green eyes? Licking her suddenly dry lips, she managed to croak, “Yes, my lord?”
To her shock, his gaze dropped to her mouth and noticeably lingered there before returning to her eyes. “I’ll see you in ten days’ time, Miss Plowman,” he said, then turned on his heel and left her staring at his broad shoulders until he stepped out of the room. What was it abou
t the man? His sheer primal intensity sent shivers down her spine.
The scrape of a chair on the wood floor brought her back to the present.
The children. Why couldn’t she remember them? She should have had them bid their father goodbye. Of course, the man had left without so much as a grunt in their direction. Had he no heart?
The look of disappointment and anger on her young charges’ faces told her they had noticed as well. Determination shot through her and she rushed to the door and burst into the hallway. Lord Kennedy was halfway down the corridor.
“My lord!” she called.
Lord Kennedy checked his stride and turned.
“Wait there,” she ordered, and after catching the raise of his brow, whirled and hurried back into the parlor. “Come, children.” Eliza grasped each by the hand and marched them out of the room and down the hall to their father.
As they stopped in front of him, a raven-haired man with startling blue eyes stepped from a room to Lord Kennedy’s left. A charming smile pulled at the corner of the man’s mouth. The expensive cut of his coat and the quality of his fine leather boots, marked him as a noble.
Eliza directed her attention to Lord Kennedy. “My lord, your children wish to bid you farewell.”
The newcomer’s brows danced in surprise. “Alistairrrr?” he drawled.
“Enough, Nicholas,” Lord Kennedy warned before stepping forward with a slight bow. “My apologies, Miss Plowman. Children,” he addressed them in a pleasant rumble, “I fear I find fatherhood rather foreign to me. I meant no disrespect.” He looked down at the small, serious faces peering up at him before adding, “I will see ye in Culzean soon. I bid you farewell.”
Eliza smiled, pleased with his genuine response. The children remained silent. “Children?” She gave their shoulders a nudge.
The young boy rewarded her effort with a sullen scowl.
Eliza struggled to hold her temper in check. She’d taken his father to task on his behalf, and the young rapscallion chose to repay her with this kind of behavior?
Lord Kennedy’s deep chuckle echoed in the hall. “Then it is good day, Miss Plowman.” He graced her with a smile dangerous enough to sweep her straight off her feet. “I must be going—as soon as I find my hat.”
