by Lily Maxton
To Ian, Townsend epitomized the worst of his class. He had no profession and didn’t seem to want one, either—from everything Ian had observed, he was content to while away his days, sleep until noon, and live off his brother for the rest of his life. He was flippant, idle.
Townsend was the prime example of a younger son from an upper-class family with a certain amount of wealth, drifting through life on charm and other people’s affection and an aversion to effort.
It wasn’t that Ian disliked Townsend, exactly. But to someone like Ian, who’d worked for everything he had, who’d never been handed a thing in his life, Townsend was a creature he couldn’t contemplate and cared even less to know.
And maybe Ian should have felt guiltier about what he’d said the night before, but he didn’t. Ian was perfectly content to ignore Townsend and go about his work and be ignored in return, but Townsend wouldn’t let him. He was always making jests and being so damn nice, no matter how many indifferent replies he received in return.
If Ian was vainer, he might have thought Townsend was attracted to him, but he’d seen the man with one of the tenant families once, and it was the same with them—he was smooth, attentive, kind. It probably added to his self-importance, having people like him.
Ian would be a fool to think he was special.
He opened the door with a little too much force, but at least he kept his expression bland.
“Mr. Cameron, good morning!”
Georgina, not her brother, stood in front of him, and if she was nearly as amiable as her older sibling, for some reason, it didn’t grate on him quite as much.
“I never had a chance to ask you how you’re settling in.”
“Very well.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie.
Ian was used to being alone. He preferred things that way. His work kept him occupied, and through the course of a day he might speak to Lord Arden or the tenants, but that was more routine than friendship.
Staying at Llynmore, living with other people…it was something of an adjustment.
At least he had his own room, though.
“A castle takes a little getting used to after living in a cottage,” he added.
She smiled. “Llynmore takes some getting used to after anything, I think, but we’ve all fallen in love with it.”
“All of ye?” he asked, before he could stop himself. He should have thought it through more before he spoke. Words were powerful. They could be revealing, unintentionally, and he wasn’t always easy with them. He usually spoke with more care.
“All of us? Who do you mean?”
“Your brother…seems like he would prefer the city.”
Georgina only smiled kindly. “Robert does like the city, but he’s quite at home here, too. And the whisky isn’t good in the Lowlands.”
“No, it isna.” Ian felt the smallest smirk curling his lips. It wasn’t the Lowlanders’ fault they couldn’t produce good whisky with the kind of taxation and regulations that England enforced, but still, he was proud of the Highlands.
“You two have something in common, then.”
Something in common with Townsend? The idea was both startling and unwelcome. Ian preferred to think of the ways they were different, not the ways they were the same.
“He took the ferry to Skye not long ago and brought some back with him. Which, now that I think about it, might not technically be legal”—though she didn’t seem too concerned about the legality of the matter. Most people weren’t, when it came to Highland whisky—“I’m sure he would be happy to share it.”
Drinking with Townsend sounded like an all-around bad idea.
“Aye,” he said noncommittally.
“I’ll leave you to your work,” she finally said. “Let us know if you need anything.”
When Georgina had left, he leaned against the shut door, uneasy about the conversation they’d just had but not sure exactly why.
He didn’t think he’d be able to focus on quarry numbers, so he decided to distract himself by going to the library. Annabel had said he was welcome to the books any time he wanted. This usually wasn’t an offer he made use of, but she’d mentioned, in passing, a new volume on astronomy.
It took him a while to locate the book, picking his way through several titles before he found it. When he left, volume in hand, Robert Townsend was stepping across the threshold.
They nearly collided.
He should have been prepared.
He wasn’t.
Somehow he never was, when it came to Townsend.
Ian looked up into dark eyes. The light spilling into the room was murky, muted. Instead of making Townsend look wan, it cast intriguing shadows across his face. His jaw seemed harder, his eyes deeper and more mysterious.
Ian felt his breath hitch.
Townsend, apparently unaware of the effect their closeness had on Ian, flicked his gaze toward the book. “What are you reading?”
No greeting. He spoke like they were friends, even though Ian had never met someone he was less likely to be friends with, and he bristled at the familiarity. But then, when Townsend’s words finally registered, a trill of panic shot through him.
It was an overreaction, but Ian loved very few things, and the things he did love, he kept close to his heart, guarded almost jealously.
The stars were one of them.
His grip on the book tightened, and he tilted it so Townsend couldn’t see the title. “That’s none of your concern.”
Townsend faltered only a little, only for a beat of silence. “No, it’s not,” he said with an easy smile. “Anyway, I imagine I’d rather not know…”
Ian tensed, ready for an insult, or something condescending.
But he finished with, “I suspect you read agricultural books for your work. It would probably be over my head.”
What?
Ian had no idea if he should take that comment seriously. It was self-deprecating. Too self-deprecating. Ian suspected he was being toyed with.
No one could possibly be as kind as Robert Townsend pretended to be.
He was aggravated, suddenly. More with himself than anything else. It didn’t matter if Townsend’s friendliness was an act or not. Ian shouldn’t care either way.
“You’re right,” he said. “It probably would be over your head.”
An instant of hesitation, subtle, but there. Triumph sang through his veins. And if some part of him felt guilty, he shoved it aside. Even on the small chance that Townsend’s comment was genuine, it was his own fault, for trying too hard, for not realizing he was a nuisance.
Then Townsend smiled, a slight thing, with only one side of his mouth tilted. Ian’s eyes followed the curve. “Are you trying to hurt my feelings, Cameron?”
Townsend sounded amused, and whatever tinge of guilt Ian might have felt vanished completely in a wash of hot shame. It was a misstep. All his cool politeness undone with a pointed remark.
Townsend had to know now that Ian had been lying…annoyance wasn’t the same as complete indifference. And Ian had a feeling his annoyance with Townsend wouldn’t be quite so barbed if his pulse didn’t surge every time the other man glanced toward him.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Townsend said, slipping past Ian, so close their shoulders brushed, so close Ian caught a hint of clean soap and skin. “I need to select some books that aren’t above my reading capability.”
There was no real anger behind his voice, only amusement, and it made Ian feel very, very small. Like he’d made a fool of himself with that one thoughtless comment. He shouldn’t have said anything at all.
Without another word, he left Townsend in the library, his shoulder still warm where they’d brushed against each other. A part of him was tempted to look back, but he didn’t. Instead he forged ahead, listening to the patter of rain against the castle windows.
He’d made a mistake coming here, he realized. He couldn’t continue feigning indifference when he was around Townsend all the time, and ev
en irritation was too big a thing to reveal, especially when it was shot through with lust for the last person Ian should let himself be attracted to.
As soon as the rain let up, he’d begin work on his cottage. He needed to move out of the castle…and away from Robert Townsend…as soon as humanly possible.
…
“Kent?” Mr. Worthington said to Robert. “How delightful. We hail from Surrey!”
They were eating breakfast in the great hall—the table in the drawing room, where they usually dined, was too small for both the Townsends and all of the guests. Unfortunately, the hall—which had been built sometime in the fifteenth century with the aim of containing a large number of people rather than comfort—was a drafty place with shadows lurking in the corners. Even in the summer, even with a fire blazing in the massive hearth, the room was still on the cool side.
When the Townsends had first arrived at Llynmore Castle, several parts of it had been in disrepair, half the rooms unused, dark and dusty, old furniture covered with sheets. During the past two years, Theo and Annabel had begun to slowly update the castle, focusing first on the great hall.
A timber ceiling, beams painted in bright yellow with diamonds of blue and red, had been installed in the hall, and the cracked plaster over the stone walls was redone in bright white paint. Lush rugs rested in the middle of the floor, and richly colored tapestries lined the wall.
At times like this, it wasn’t difficult to imagine this room as the bustling place it had once been.
“And Lord Arden had no idea he was the heir to an earldom?” Worthington continued.
“None,” Georgina said.
“It’s almost as good as fiction.”
“My husband is a writer,” Mrs. Worthington explained. “He’s always looking for stories of interest.”
“What sort of things do you write?” Frances asked him, perking up with interest. Frances had, in her youth, been an actress for a short time. It was a fact she didn’t divulge to casual acquaintances, but she still delighted in things that were on the borderline of respectable.
“Travel journals.” Frances looked disappointed at this, but Mr. Worthington didn’t notice. “It’s why we’re in the Highlands, in fact. I’m working on a memoir of our journey.”
Robert felt a flash of unease. The Townsends already had a reputation for eccentricity, between Theo’s penchant for seclusion and Eleanor’s recent marriage to a former prizefighter.
They weren’t scorned because the Arden earldom was an old one, and though not the wealthiest earldom around, their landholdings were nothing to scoff at. But the last thing Theo would want was someone writing all about them for the world to see. If there was one thing his brother valued, it was privacy.
Robert caught the gaze of Miss Worthington, who sat across from him, and she smiled. She was an attractive woman with large brown eyes and a gently sloping face. There were no sharp edges to her, just a rounded chin, soft cheekbones, and pillowy lips. “This is the first time I’ve been outside England,” she said.
“And how are you finding it?” Robert asked.
“It’s quite…remote, at times.” And then she added quickly, “Though it is beautiful, of course.”
He smiled to reassure her. “I understand what you mean.”
“I’ve read books about the Highlands. I’m quite fond of Walter Scott’s poems, but reading about Scotland does not quite do it justice.”
Robert didn’t like to think of Walter Scott.
Because when Robert thought of Walter Scott, he inevitably thought of Ian Cameron. When Robert had first seen Cameron, he’d been in a green and brown kilt—he didn’t always wear it. He seemed to switch between trousers and the traditional Highland garment fairly easily.
On this first encounter—which hadn’t been much of an encounter at all—Robert had been walking and found himself near Cameron’s cottage. The man was digging a plot for a garden, hair tousled and glinting like copper under the sun, kilt rippling a bit in the wind. He remembered thinking Walter Scott would probably salivate if he’d seen Cameron—the proud Highlander, working the land. Walter Scott seemed to have a tendre for that sort of thing.
For some reason, he hadn’t stopped to introduce himself. Cameron hadn’t looked up, and Robert had continued on.
“And how are you liking it?” Georgina asked Mr. Hale, who sat next to her. The traveling group consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Worthington, their daughter, Alice Worthington, and a Mr. and Miss Hale, who were the niece and nephew of Mr. Worthington.
John Hale, a curly-haired, pale fellow whom Robert suspected wasn’t terribly fond of the outdoors, was quite reserved. His sister, Catherine Hale, while similar in looks, seemed to be the opposite in personality.
“It is…” Mr. Hale paused, as though trying to articulate his thoughts. “Very—”
Miss Hale jumped in, the dark curls at her temple practically quivering in excitement. “Remarkable. I’ve never felt more alive than I have these past weeks.”
Her brother lapsed into silence, staring down at the herring on his plate as though he might be trying to commune with it.
“Do you think the earl will be back soon?” she continued. “I’ve never met an earl.”
Mrs. Worthington gave a little sigh.
“Not for a few weeks yet,” Robert said amiably.
“We could stay a few weeks, couldn’t we?” She looked toward her uncle.
Mr. Worthington shook his head. “We could stay a week or so, perhaps, but we must be continuing on at some point.”
“But surely you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Townsend?” Miss Hale shot him a winning smile.
He had a feeling Miss Hale was a girl who was used to getting what she wanted.
Miss Worthington caught his gaze again, this time with a flash of sympathy in her eyes. “Of course not,” Robert said, “but I think Mr. Worthington has already made his plans.”
“Mr. Cameron,” Georgina said suddenly, looking past Robert’s head, “join us!”
Robert glanced back. Cameron had stopped, one foot across the threshold and one foot behind, as though he’d seen them all and begun to rethink his decision. On Georgina’s insistence, he’d been dining with the family on the somewhat rare occasions when he wasn’t busy with other work.
Robert could understand her reasoning—the housemaids and the cook ate together in the kitchen. Cameron, who wasn’t really a house servant, but also wasn’t part of the family, would have been eating alone.
But whatever formalities they shunned in private, it was a little different when they had guests. Georgina should have just let him retreat before anyone had noticed he was there. He didn’t belong at the table, and Robert doubted he would feel comfortable there, either. The whole situation would probably just end up as fodder for Mr. Worthington’s book—they were oddly friendly with the servants. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d had housemaids at the table!
Trapped, Cameron came forward, and Robert was forced to make introductions. If the Worthingtons thought it was odd that their factor was eating with them, they politely didn’t remark on it.
After Cameron filled his plate at the sideboard, he took the empty seat by Georgina. Robert couldn’t help but think of the last time he’d seen him, in just his shirtsleeves. Now he wore a plain but sturdy black coat and tan waistcoat. A cravat was knotted simply at his throat.
Miss Hale stared at Cameron’s profile—winged eyebrows, a straight, broad nose, thin lips, and a hard, square jaw. He was striking, not exactly handsome, but certainly compelling to look at. His face was slightly weathered from the work he did outdoors, his skin a little tanned. Ian Cameron was a young man—no more than five years or so older than Robert—but Robert felt the differences between them when he looked in the mirror.
“You’re a real Highlander?” Miss Hale blurted out.
Cameron blinked at her. “Aye.”
“But you’re dressed like an Englishman.”
“I wasna aware I had to
dress a certain way to be a real Highlander.” Cameron’s voice was polite, his expression bland, but his eyes had narrowed slightly, a tiny line appearing between his eyebrows. Robert had never noticed this sign of displeasure before, and even knowing it, it was subtle.
Miss Hale must not have noticed, because she leaned forward as though she were going to ask him something else.
“I hope there isn’t a similar requirement to be English,” Robert cut in. “I’m always losing my quizzing glass and walking stick. And don’t even ask me about the sad state of my cravats.”
Miss Hale laughed. “Your cravat looks perfectly fine to me,” she said, and the conversation was drawn away from Cameron. Which, Robert realized, was what he’d been hoping would happen. And it annoyed him like hell.
The man was stone cold. He certainly didn’t need anyone to defend him. Much less Robert. It was stupid to have some sort of gut reaction to jump to the defense of someone who didn’t even like him.
…
What was Townsend playing at?
Ian was almost positive Townsend had jumped into that conversation to deflect attention away from Ian.
It was maddening.
Ian wasn’t weak. He knew how to protect himself; he’d been doing it for years. He didn’t need Townsend to do it for him. He didn’t need anyone to do it for him.
And the idea that Townsend had been observing him closely enough to tell he was bothered in the first place didn’t rest easy with him. Why should Townsend even care? Especially after their last couple of encounters.
Ian wasn’t used to receiving something for nothing. He didn’t trust it.
While he stewed in his thoughts, the conversation turned to books.
“Like my daughter, I enjoy Walter Scott’s poems,” Mr. Worthington said, “but I find myself most often reaching for other travel narratives.”
Ian listened half-heartedly. He didn’t read very much.
