by Nora Roberts
Estelle shrugged. “I don’t know yet. That depends on Lord Cameron, and how satisfied he is with my work.” She sighed. “Though it will seem more like a holiday, living and working in such a beautiful place as this.”
The boy and his brother exchanged quick looks, before glancing away. Estelle felt a shiver along her spine. Just a quick tremor. But it left her with an uneasy feeling. As though these two shared a secret. A not very pleasant one.
Satisfied with the fire, Fergus lumbered out of the room and returned minutes later, handling Estelle’s bags the same way he’d handled the logs. As though they weighed nothing at all.
“Bring them in here, Fergus,” Arley called, leading the way to the bedroom.
When the luggage had been deposited on a long wooden bench, Fergus gave a nod of his head, then left the room.
Estelle stared after him. “Can he speak?”
His brother nodded. “Sometimes. A few words, though not many. Mostly he just lives in his own world.” He seemed eager to change the subject. “Desmond told me to see to your things, Professor. Do I have your permission to unpack your bags and hang your clothes in the wardrobe?”
“Of course. Thank you, Arley. But just the larger case. The smaller one contains personal items. I’ll unpack them later. I’ll just take this and go over some of my notes.” Estelle picked up her briefcase and carried it to the sitting room, settling herself on a sofa in front of the fire.
Just as she sat down, another knock heralded the arrival of a stone-faced man carrying a silver tray.
“You’d be Professor Sinclair,” the man said as he set the tray on the table next to the sofa. He was a big man, with broad shoulders and large, work-worn hands. His white hair had been cut razor-sharp, adding to the harshness of his stern, narrow face. There was a look of tension about him in his stiffly held arms, in his brown eyes, which peered unblinking, and in his mouth, which turned down into a hard, tight frown.
“I’m Alfred Snow, Desmond’s brother and the cook here at Castle Clough for more than forty years.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Alfred. I envy you living and working in such a beautiful place.”
“Huh.” That was the only acknowledgment the man made. But his frown, Estelle noted, deepened. “I hope this will hold you until dinner.” Alfred lifted the linen covering to reveal a pot of tea, a tray of little sandwiches, and a lovely arrangement of sliced fruit.
“Oh, Alfred, that’s more than enough. Thank you.”
Estelle’s smile elicited no matching response from the cook.
“I wonder if I might have a chance to meet Lord Cameron before dinner.”
Alfred’s lips thinned. “His lordship’s still locked away in his meeting.”
Just as he said that, a man poked his head in the doorway bellowing, “Alfred, where the hell is…?”
He stared at Estelle, who jumped up and stared back at him. She had a quick impression of dark, flashing eyes, thick black hair, and a face that might have been handsome if not for the scowl that marred its features.
She knew from photographs she’d seen in her research that this was the new Lord Cameron. In his university days he’d been part of the wealthy and titled, following the sun and the parties around Europe. Now in his mid-thirties, he it was rumored to have rediscovered his roots and had returned to Scotland to raise prize cattle and carry on research in veterinary medicine.
His photographs hadn’t done him justice. They didn’t reveal the cleft in that strong jaw or the hint of danger that flashed in his eyes.
For several seconds he merely stared at her.
Alfred Snow said dryly, “Lord Cameron, this is Professor Sinclair.”
The man frowned, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Desmond should have told me the professor had arrived.”
The cook gave a negligent shrug of his shoulders. “You were meeting with the bankers and told him not to disturb you for any reason.”
“Yes. Well. I must return to the meeting. I just broke away for a moment.” He recovered his wits and strode closer, extending his hand. “Welcome to Castle Clough, Professor Sinclair. Or should I call you Doctor Sinclair?”
He was tall, well over six feet. Estelle’s own five-and-a-half-foot stature seemed small by comparison. When she placed her hand in his she felt a rush of heat and blamed it on their proximity to the fire. Or perhaps it was the anger she could sense in him. Anger mixed with frustration. “Those are such stuffy titles. I much prefer Estelle.”
“Estelle.” If he had any reaction of his own to her touch, he gave no indication. If anything, his frown became more pronounced. He dropped his hand to his side. Curled it into a fist. “My family and friends call me Rob. I prefer it to Lord Cameron.”
“I’ll remember.” Estelle tried a smile, hoping it might put him at ease. “Now that you’re here, perhaps we could talk about some of the things I’ll be doing.”
“I’m a bit…rushed at the moment.” He bit off the words with a trace of annoyance. “Perhaps you could join me for dinner, and we can talk then.”
Stung by his dismissal, she merely nodded. “Of course.”
He seemed not to notice as he turned to his cook. “I’m looking for Fergus.”
“This time of day he’d be hauling logs for the fire. I’ll fetch him.”
“Fine. Tell him to go up to my uncle at once. Until dinner, then, Profes—Estelle.” Without a backward glance he strode out of the room.
Alfred Snow waited until he was out of earshot, then said dryly, “His lordship has a bit on his mind these days.” He paused in the doorway between the sitting room and the bedroom, watching Arley hanging clothes in the wardrobe. Satisfied that the orders were being followed, he nodded to Estelle, then exited the suite, closing the door firmly behind him.
Estelle dropped down onto the sofa and stared into the flames of the fire. The notes from her briefcase lay forgotten on the coffee table. The tea and sandwiches no longer held any temptation. She’d arrived at Castle Clough as eager as a child at Christmas. This had seemed like the offer of a lifetime. A chance to see for herself all the lovely things that, until now, had never been viewed by anyone outside the Cameron family.
Now she was feeling more than a little uneasy. As though everyone around her knew a secret. A secret they had no intention of sharing with her.
What a strange reception.
Lord Cameron was either rude or distracted. She had, after all, dropped everything to come clear across the ocean at his invitation. Yet he couldn’t even give her a moment of his time.
As for Desmond and Alfred Snow, they looked at her as though she were intruding on their turf.
Arley and Fergus seemed nice enough. But even they gave the impression of knowing something that she didn’t.
She slipped off her shoes and curled up in a corner of the sofa, closing her eyes as weariness overtook her.
She hoped it was just the exhaustion of the overseas flight and the long drive from the airport. But she had the distinct feeling that something was very wrong here. Something dark and sinister was in the wind. And like Alice, she had fallen down a long, dark tunnel into a strange, alien world.
2
“WE’VE GONE OVER all the documents, Lord Cameron.” Gordon MacKinnon was as round as he was tall, with soft, pudgy fingers, the nails carefully manicured. He sat hunched over the desk, tracing a finger around the rim of the bulging folder crammed with papers. “Each bank draught was signed by your father and properly witnessed.”
“And the time limit? Is there any legal way to extend it?” Lord Cameron stared into MacKinnon’s sad, hound-dog eyes.
“Perhaps…” The man shrugged and glanced around at the other men seated in the library, seeking their agreement. “Perhaps if you were to go to Griffin Mackenzie and ask for an extension…”
“He has already made it clear that it’s out of the question. What about a loan? The estate is showing a profit. Certainly this house, and especially the land, c
an be used as collateral.”
Bank vice president Maxwell answered in a gravel voice that grated like nails on a blackboard. “Your father already used the land and castle as collateral, your lordship, when he went to Griffin Mackenzie for money to finance his…various endeavors.”
Lord Cameron rounded on him, but before he could open his mouth to protest, Gordon MacKinnon interrupted. “Maxwell doesn’t mean to malign your father’s reputation, your lordship.” His voice was calm, soothing. “He’s just stating the facts, the same as the rest of us.”
“I know, Gordon. I know.” Lord Cameron ran a hand through his hair as he studied the bank officials, all dressed in identical dark suits and crisp white shirts. His own scuffed boots and slightly frayed cuffs attested to the fact that he’d been working in the fields until their arrival. He had to keep working. It was the only way to hold on to his sanity.
“The fact is,” Gordon MacKinnon said softly, “your father, for whatever reason, chose to plunge his estates deeply into debt. We’re not here to cast blame. We’re here at your request, to help you find a way to hang on to your inheritance.”
The others nodded their agreement.
Lord Cameron lowered his voice. “Thank you, Gordon. I appreciate that. But if the bank will extend the notes, I may have a way. I’ve sent for an expert on antiquities from Smythe-VanPell Auction House in New York. I’m told they’re the best in the business. When Professor Sinclair has finished cataloguing the assets, I’ll agree to a sale.”
The bankers’ eyes widened in disbelief.
MacKinnon spoke for all of them. “You refused to allow public tours of the castle, and you rejected out of hand the idea of turning it into an exclusive hotel. And now you’re saying you’d strip Castle Clough of all its priceless antiques?”
“What choice do I have? I’d rather sell every piece of furniture, every rug and wall hanging, before I’d turn my home into something no better than a tourist trap or a cheap motel.”
“Hardly cheap.” MacKinnon glanced at the others.
“People pay very good money to sleep in a castle. Especially one that’s known to be haunted.”
Annoyed, Lord Cameron walked to his desk and stared morosely at the thick file detailing the debt left by his father.
Gordon MacKinnon watched for several minutes before clearing his throat. “I know this is painful, your lordship. But Griffin Mackenzie is a very wealthy and powerful man.”
“And you have no intention of going against his wishes.”
MacKinnon pursed his lips. “Perhaps Griffin Mackenzie is just what Castle Clough needs. He can give the land and buildings the infusion of cash they need to properly represent our country in the next millennium. And at least it will stay in the family, so to speak. After all, he was once your brother-in-law. What is even more important, it will keep your family name free of scandal. The press need never hear of it. Your father’s reputation need never be tarnished by rumors of debt and doubt.”
He could see he’d struck a nerve. Lord Cameron winced and sank down into his chair.
Gordon MacKinnon pressed the issue. “I hope you’ll give this matter your utmost consideration, your lordship. Griffin Mackenzie is the one man in Scotland who has enough influence to see that there’s never a hint of scandal about this.”
He paused dramatically before glancing at the others. “Gentlemen, I believe Lord Cameron has enough on his mind for one day.”
The men got to their feet and shuffled toward the door.
A scowling Desmond Snow stood just outside the closed doors of the library, waiting to escort them to their waiting car and driver.
As Gordon MacKinnon took his leave, he turned and said softly, “When you’ve had time to think this over, I think you’ll realize that Griffin Mackenzie is your best—your only—solution, your lordship.”
“Ah, Professor Sinclair.” Desmond Snow stood at the foot of the stairs, glancing at his watch as Estelle descended. “You’re right on time. His lordship admires punctuality.”
“So do I.” She managed a smile. The nap had refreshed her. That and a long, scented bath. She had put aside her earlier fears, dismissing them as nerves. She’d dressed in a simple navy blazer over a navy wool dress and had pinned her hair into a no-nonsense knot at her nape. Perched on her nose were round glasses. On her feet were sensible pumps.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the dining hall.” Desmond led the way, with Estelle trailing behind.
He opened double doors and stepped inside. “Professor Sinclair is here, your lordship.”
Estelle paused in the doorway. The room was enormous. Dark wood paneling, with great stone fireplaces on either end. In the middle of the room was a table massive enough to seat at least twenty or thirty people. It appeared incongruous with only three table settings at one end.
Lord Cameron had been staring into the flames. He turned to greet her, and she was struck by the look in his eyes. Sadness, she thought. Or worse, the very depths of sorrow. Then he blinked, and the look was gone.
He held out a hand in greeting. “Come and warm yourself by the fire. Will you have some wine?”
“Yes, thank you.” She could feel such strength in his fingers as they closed around hers. It would seem that Lord Cameron was powerful not just in terms of wealth and social standing, but in physical condition as well. It was surprising, considering his life of ease. Perhaps, she thought, in recent years he had discovered the value of hard physical work. Or maybe he simply worked out with a trainer. Whatever his regimen, it seemed to suit him.
She took the seat he indicated, sinking comfortably into the oversize masculine wing chair. She glanced at an ancient sword, its jeweled hilt winking in the firelight. This man looked strong enough, and dangerous enough, to make use of it.
He handed her a glass of white wine. “How are your accommodations?”
“Just fine.” She sipped. “Actually, they’re better than fine. The suite is lovely. And finding myself surrounded by so many beautiful antiques is sheer bliss.”
When he merely looked at her, she flushed and added, “As you know, my specialty at Smythe-VanPell is Scottish antiquities. Now that they’re all around me, I can’t help cataloguing them in my mind.”
“I see.” He nodded and settled himself into the chair across from her. “I suppose even when you’re not working, you actually are, in a way.”
“Exactly.” She smiled, reminding herself to relax. There was something about this man that made it difficult. Perhaps it was those dark, piercing eyes, staring at her as though she were under a microscope. Or the tight set of his mouth, making her think he was wishing he could be anywhere but here.
He was distracted, she realized. Forced to be here while his mind was on other things. Or perhaps other, more interesting people.
He sipped his wine. “About this…cataloguing. Is it something you can do quickly? Or does it require a great deal of testing?”
“It takes a great deal of time and study and testing to determine the value and authenticity of most antiques. But I can often tell at a glance if certain items are worth the time involved. That sword, for instance. Though I’d have to examine it more closely, I’d estimate it to be from the fifteenth century.”
He arched a brow, the only indication that she was correct. “Can you do the testing here? Or would you need to ship the items back to New York?”
“I’m qualified to do most of the work here, if you prefer. If I find anything questionable, I’ll recommend that it be shipped to New York for further tests.”
“I see.” He looked up when Desmond entered.
Behind him was the lad Fergus, wheeling a chair. As he got closer, Estelle could see an old man huddled beneath a plaid blanket. A thatch of white hair topped a face that was deeply lined.
“Uncle Charles.” At once Lord Cameron’s tone softened, as did his eyes. “Thank you, Fergus.” He dismissed the lad and wheeled the chair himself until it was positioned close to the
fire. Then he knelt beside it and said, “We have a guest. This is Estelle Sinclair, from Smythe-VanPell Auction House in New York. Estelle, this is my uncle, Sir Charles Cameron.”
“Sir Charles.” Estelle offered her hand, and he accepted it, drawing her closer as he studied her.
“Did I read that you are a professor and that you earned your doctorate in Scottish antiquities?” Despite his age and infirmity, the old man’s eyes were blackbird-sharp, as young and inquisitive as a child’s.
Estelle smiled. “Guilty as charged.”
He arched a shaggy white eyebrow. “In my day we never had any doctors or professors who looked like you, Dr. Sinclair.” He glanced at his nephew. “Our expert isn’t at all what we were expecting, is she, Rob?”
“Not at all.” In fact, the picture he’d had in his mind was of someone old and doddering, and a bit eccentric. But there was no question of this woman’s credentials. She had come highly recommended.
Rob stood to one side, watching the interaction between this stranger and his uncle. Charles had a way with people. He could cut through the walls they built around themselves and lay them bare, or draw them into the circle of his friendship in the blink of an eye. He’d always trusted the old man’s instincts. “By the way, Uncle Charles, she prefers to be called Estelle.”
“Estelle.” The old man looked down at the hand resting in his. “Did you know that your name means ‘star’?”
She nodded and gave him a smile before withdrawing her hand from his grasp. “Are you interested in names, Sir Charles?”
“I’m interested in anything and everything, my dear, no matter how trivial. It’s always been my blessing and my curse.”
He accepted a glass from his nephew and sipped, then nodded. “Scotch. Neat. Excellent, Rob. You never forget.”
