A Scot's Surrender (The Townsends)

by Lily Maxton

  “That time of year thou mayst in me behold

  When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

  Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

  Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.”

  Ian glanced around and realized that everyone else was hanging off Townsend’s every word, too.

  He wasn’t the only one. He was just like the rest of them. And still, when Townsend spoke, Ian listened. As the poem unfolded, he felt himself frowning. He wasn’t an expert on poetry, but the poem was clearly bittersweet, words bringing to mind the passage of time and decay. If someone had asked him to guess what sort of poetry Townsend liked, this wasn’t what Ian would have picked.

  He wouldn’t have thought he had that kind of depth in him.

  “In me thou see’st the twilight of such day

  As after sunset fadeth in the west;

  Which by and by black night doth take away,

  Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.

  In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,

  That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

  As the deathbed whereon it must expire,

  Consumed with that which it was nourished by.”

  The guests leaned forward, as one, almost imperceptibly. Ian did not. But every part of him was tensed, waiting. Townsend paused, held it for a beat—not above a bit of theatricality, which didn’t surprise Ian at all—and then finished.

  “This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,

  To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”

  Everyone burst into applause. Except Ian, who thought it was pointless to applaud him, even if Townsend’s voice was still echoing in his mind, and his fingernails were still digging into his palm.

  Townsend glanced around. “Would anyone else like to read? Or should I continue?”

  Miss Hale practically bounced from her seat. “Mr. Cameron?”

  Ian felt himself stiffen. His skin grew cold at the thought of reading in front of an audience. “No.”

  “Oh? But I would love to hear you read.”

  His throat tightened. “No. I—”

  “It’s all right,” Townsend said. Ian’s gaze cut toward him, to find the other man studying him with dark, observant eyes. Ian looked away. “I’m quite happy with monopolizing the selection—I would rather not hear Macbeth in an isolated castle, anyway. I’m a coward, I’m afraid.”

  Miss Hale laughed, and the moment passed.

  Ian barely heard what was said next. Had Townsend just tried to protect him again? It was just like at breakfast. He’d diverted the guests’ attention away from Ian when it became more than he was comfortable with.

  While Ian grew increasingly irritated, thinking about situations where Townsend tried to use these prior kindnesses to hold some kind of sway over him, Townsend seemed unconcerned. He shuffled through the book, casting one more winning smile across his captivated audience before he returned to the page.

  “Let me not to the marriage of true minds

  Admit impediments. Love is not love

  Which alters when it alteration finds,

  Or bends with the remover to remove:

  O no! it is an ever-fixed mark…”

  “Cameron.”

  Nearly an hour later, the guests were retiring and Ian moved toward the door, only to be stopped by Townsend.

  “I wanted to have a word with you.” His voice was hoarse from reading for so long. He sounded tired. It was a vulnerability Ian didn’t want to notice.

  Ian waited for everyone else to filter out, pretending to study a tapestry hanging on the wall. It depicted a hunt—a group of noblemen cornering a boar—and was clearly old. The edges were frayed, the lighter colors muted until the bolder aspects stood out in flashes—the red of a hat, a blue piece of sky, the dark green of leaves.

  “Annabel—Lady Arden found those stored away,” Townsend said over his shoulder. “She could afford to replace them with better ones, but I think she’s attached to these.”

  Ian knew all of this. He’d been there when Annabel had found the tapestries in a crate in one of the storerooms. Had been there when she’d pulled them out, eyes bright with excitement. She’d always tried to make a friend of him.

  They were friends, he supposed. But they weren’t close. Ian wasn’t truly close to anyone. His deepest thoughts, his secrets, his fears—these were things he kept to himself.

  “I wouldn’t say anything, but truthfully, I think they’re a bit of an eyesore.”

  Ian glanced at him.

  “I was never much of a hunter,” Townsend continued. “These depictions are cruel. Look at the boar—it looks terrified.”

  Ian looked. “Aye,” he agreed. He snared rabbits sometimes, for meat, but he didn’t hunt for sport.

  “My father didn’t much care. He was more interested in studying animals than killing them.”

  He wasn’t sure why Townsend was confiding in him. And he wasn’t sure why he was interested in hearing more, but he tilted his head slightly, and the other man took it as a sign to keep talking.

  “He was a physician, but he liked all science. That’s how my sister Eleanor found her love of entomology—he used to point out beetles to her, and he knew all sorts of unusual facts. My mother grounded him, I think, kept him from spending too much time in his head, or buried in a journal. They complemented each other.”

  Townsend fell silent. Another person might have shared something about their own life, their own family, in return, but Ian’s family was one of those many things he kept to himself, and Townsend didn’t ask.

  “Have you looked closely at the hearth?” he said instead. He strode toward the fireplace and pointed toward a faint etching in the stone. “This might be my favorite part of the castle.”

  Ian, reluctantly interested, followed.

  “It’s a coat of arms. Annabel and Theo are thinking about having it redone.”

  Ian leaned closer to look at the stone in the flickering light. “What is it?”

  “A murderous unicorn.”

  Ian thought he was joking, but when he squinted, he could make it out—a unicorn head, its mane flung out in angry waves; it appeared to be snarling, though Ian wasn’t sure how a horse could snarl.

  And were those fangs?

  It must have been quite a feat to etch the image in stone.

  “According to Annabel, unicorns are supposed to be dangerous when they’re free. The coat of arms of Scotland shows a chained one. This must be an unchained one.”

  “It’s…” Ian wasn’t sure if he could think of a word to describe the image.

  “Delightful?” Townsend supplied.

  Ian felt his mouth twitch and hoped the other man hadn’t seen it.

  “Of course, to be captured they have to be lured by a virgin, first. Which I suppose is what one would expect from an animal with a giant cock symbol on its head.”

  Ian, taken by surprise, snorted, the amused sound loud and abrupt in the empty room. He would have taken it back if he could, stifled it, if he could, but it was too late. Their eyes met, and Townsend grinned. His teeth flashed white in the dim light, the corners of his eyes crinkling. And it felt, for a moment, like they could be friends, if they wanted to be.

  No, Ian thought, on a surge of uneasiness.

  Townsend had tried to play nice with him before. He’d made jokes before. Ian had been able to ignore him, before. Were Ian’s feelings toward him changing? Maybe Townsend was just getting more amusing.

  That must be it…his jests were getting better…that was all.

  With the moment broken, Ian realized how close they were to each other, heads bent as they studied the coat of arms. He straightened and stepped back. “What did ye want to tell me?”

  “I wanted to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For looking at your things. I shouldn’t have.”

  That…wasn’t what he’d expected.
For a moment, Ian’s mind was blank. He didn’t know many people who would admit a wrongdoing so readily, so calmly.

  It made him respect Townsend, just a little bit more.

  But he didn’t want to notice any of Townsend’s good points. He didn’t want to respect him, even a little. Didn’t want to think he was amusing. Didn’t want to give this attraction any opportunity to sink its claws in. Even if Townsend was inclined toward men—which Ian wasn’t at all sure of in the first place—Ian worked for the estate. He wasn’t idiotic enough to get involved with the earl’s brother, when he would be the one with his livelihood at stake if things turned sour.

  He’d already been in danger of losing his position once, due to one of Annabel’s schemes, and that was for a far lesser transgression than committing illegal acts with Lord Arden’s brother. He wasn’t going to risk his position again.

  Anyway, even if Ian wasn’t Lord Arden’s factor and Townsend wasn’t Lord Arden’s brother, Ian had never approached a potential lover without first seeing hunger in their eyes, without being absolutely sure—it was too dangerous, otherwise. It was a little dangerous regardless—some men were hungry and hated themselves for it.

  If Townsend was hungry, he hid it well.

  And Ian had never approached a potential lover he knew he would see again, either, which meant Townsend was untouchable for more reasons than one. This self-imposed rule also meant it had been a very long time since Ian had fucked anyone, and even when he’d had more opportunity, it had still been a precarious thing. Ian could count the number of lovers he’d had on one hand, and they had all been so long ago that the memories were dull and faded.

  That was probably all this was, then. This spark of awareness. This heat. It had been too long and there’d been too few and Townsend was always underfoot.

  And that was all it would be. All Ian could allow it to be.

  “You’re too kind,” Ian said eventually. Most people would mean that statement as a compliment. Ian didn’t.

  Townsend huffed. “I’m too kind?”

  “People take advantage of kindness.”

  He smiled suddenly. “I’m kind but crafty…the perfect combination. Don’t worry on my account.”

  Ian felt like scowling. “I wasn’t. But I don’t wish to see Lord Arden return to find his home being ravaged by the Worthingtons.”

  Townsend’s expression shifted subtly, though his smile was locked in place. He didn’t like it when Ian called his competence into question by bringing up his brother, and Ian knew it. If Townsend was kind, then Ian was cruel.

  “Ravaged by the Worthingtons,” he said sardonically. “That should be the title of a book. Speaking of which, you seemed distressed by the idea of reading in front of a room earlier.”

  Ian’s head jerked back. It was a low blow, and he hadn’t been prepared for it. Hadn’t been prepared to absorb it coolly, without flinching, as he would have liked. Townsend’s eyes narrowed on his reaction.

  Townsend might be kind, but when he was hit first, he hit back. Ian wished a part of him didn’t admire Townsend for it.

  “I don’t entertain on command,” he said.

  “Like me?” The other man lifted an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. He propped himself against the wall, as though this were the sort of conversation he had every day. “Can you read?”

  Ian’s pulse clamored in his ears. “Of course I can read. Don’t be a fool, Townsend.”

  “Then, if I gave you a book right now and asked you to read a few lines out loud…”

  Damn it. This wasn’t something he discussed. It wasn’t something that was even a weakness—until he was around people like the Townsends and the Worthingtons, who were determined to turn it into one.

  “I wouldn’t have become a factor if I couldna read. But I read…slowly.”

  “What do you mean?” Townsend’s face was impassive. If there’d been any judgment there, Ian probably wouldn’t have continued.

  “I learned to read as an adult. I didn’t go to school and my parents didn’t know how, so I had to teach myself. I can read and write letters with some effort. Sometimes I’ll read passages from books on farming or livestock, if there’s something I need to learn, but anything else…it takes too long.”

  He didn’t add that he liked stories. Or that he liked poetry…particularly when Townsend was the one reading it.

  Townsend absorbed this. “I see.”

  Ian wished he had some idea what the other man was thinking. “Does that satisfy ye?”

  “Does that mean you didn’t read any of The Adventures of Constable Whitley?”

  For a second, Ian simply stared at him, bewildered. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I am simply curious.” He lifted a shoulder. The motion seemed a bit forced to Ian, but he continued before Ian could dwell on it for very long. “I don’t know if my plan worked. I didn’t notice anyone behaving strangely around you. Or at least not any more strangely than usual.”

  “What should we do, then?”

  “The stolen items have to be somewhere. If the rain holds off tomorrow, I’ll have Georgina take everyone to the stables, and I’ll search the rooms.”

  “By yourself?”

  He cocked his head. “Worried about me again, Cameron?”

  “It would go faster with two people,” Ian said, choosing to ignore his remark. “And since it involves me, I should be there to make sure it’s done properly.”

  A smile twitched at the corner of Townsend’s mouth. Ian did his best not to stare at his lips. “Don’t strain yourself by asking nicely,” he said drily. “Very well. Tomorrow.”

  With a nod, and that amused smile still hovering around his mouth, he left. Ian watched him go with the unsettling feeling that he’d just agreed to an assignation.

  Chapter Seven

  Morning came and rays of sunlight attempted to filter through the clouds, though the clouds remained obstinate and kept shifting to block the sun. Robert ate breakfast dutifully and then dutifully declined a short excursion to the stable, claiming a late night. Everyone else welcomed a chance to go outdoors and agreed.

  He watched Georgina struggling with a pair of metal pattens, a contraption meant to keep her shoes an inch or two off the muddy ground.

  “Do those actually work?”

  “They’re better than nothing,” she said, which didn’t sound like a clear yes or no. She lowered her voice. “I’ll keep them out for as long as I’m able. Be careful.”

  “I am always careful. Exceedingly so.”

  His sister didn’t look convinced. He gave her a hand up and watched her leave with the other guests, chatting merrily the whole time. His sister was a good actress…perhaps that should worry him a little more.

  Less than thirty seconds after Georgina was gone, the air seemed to shift around him, and he felt, rather than saw, Cameron’s presence. “Well?” the other man said from behind him, voice tinged with impatience.

  Robert ran a hand through his hair. He was tired. He’d spent several hours working on Constable Whitley the night before and had only managed to force himself from bed because he’d remembered he had plans.

  With Ian Cameron, of all people.

  Robert turned. The Highlander was, in true contrary fashion, one of those people who were at their best in the morning—his face was alert, gray eyes sharp and observant. He’d probably bounded out of bed at dawn and wrestled a few sheep.

  Robert would need at least three cups of tea before he even imagined bounding anywhere, let alone wrestling sheep.

  Cameron’s brows lifted at the sight of him. Unlike Robert, he hadn’t perfected the one-eyebrow lift—he was resigned to raising his whole brow to show surprise or ridicule. And, at the moment, he was definitely displaying the latter.

  Robert spoke before Cameron could. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t?”

  “You were about to say something disdainful. I don’t wish to hear it.”

  “Because
ye stayed up late drinking?”

  “That didn’t disprove my point.” Robert brushed past him and heard the heavy tread of the other man following.

  “There’s ink on your hand.”

  Robert started. He hadn’t put his gloves back on after breakfast, and sure enough, there was a smear of dried black ink across his palm. His hand clenched to hide it. He waited, tense, for Cameron to say something else about the matter but was met only with silence.

  Miss Hale’s room was first. They quickly rummaged through but found nothing of interest. Robert did come across a half-written letter to a friend, but if Miss Hale had any devious, criminal plans, she didn’t commit to them in writing.

  She did, however, mention Ian Cameron no fewer than three times. She was obviously smitten.

  Robert set the letter down and laughed slightly, remembering Miss Hale flittering about Cameron like an encouraging bird while the man remained as taciturn as ever.

  “What is it?” Cameron was by the armoire, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

  He opened his mouth and then closed it again. He realized this was an invasion of privacy, and though these people weren’t as close to him as the servants whose rooms he’d already searched, it seemed unkind to discuss the letter. He’d only read it to make sure there was nothing pertinent in it. As he’d searched the room, Cameron’s horror at discovering Robert had gone through his things had been at the back of his mind the entire time.

  He’d done his best to search quickly for the missing items without dwelling on anything else.

  Of course, this brought the unwelcome realization that he wasn’t all that tempted to examine Miss Hale’s belongings in the first place. Cameron, on the other hand, was a mystery he’d very much like to unravel.

  But there would be no unraveling. He had a feeling if he attempted to unravel Cameron, there would just be spikes underneath, waiting to cut him.

  “Nothing,” he said. “We should continue to the next room.”

  Miss Worthington’s room was right beside Miss Hale’s, so it was the logical place to go, though Robert found it difficult to suspect her of anything.

  He was absentmindedly glancing under furniture when Cameron startled him.