by Lily Maxton
When the earl wasn’t looking, Annabel cupped her hand over her mouth and whispered, “Later,” to the girl.
“Why don’t we meet in an hour for the tour?” Annabel suggested. “I’m sure you’ll want to unpack your things and rest for a while?”
“That sounds splendid,” Robert said.
“I’ll have our maid show you to the spare rooms,” she said. “I need to check on Willoughby and tell my aunt we have guests.”
The earl opened his mouth—probably to protest her choice of phrasing—but Annabel spun quickly toward the door before he could make a sound.
After she’d told Catriona to start making up the extra bedrooms, she sprinted toward the kitchens, where she’d last seen Fiona and her niece. She sagged in relief when she saw that they were still there. Mary was sitting on a stool, kicking her small legs back and forth. Her mouth was lined with milk from the mug in front of her. In the background, a fire blazed in the hearth. Fiona, who’d been staring into the flame, looked up when Annabel rushed in, her brows knitting together.
“What is it?”
“Lord Arden is dead,” she said without preamble. “The new earl just arrived to take residence.”
Fiona blanched. “Here? Why would he want to?”
Annabel tried not to be insulted. She loved this castle with every piece of her heart, but she knew what her sister meant—it was about two hundred years out of style, and if one grew bored without the pleasures of society…well, they’d be bored almost all of the time.
“Why do aristocratic men do anything? Ennui?”
But then, was Lord Arden a jaded aristocrat? He’d only just inherited the title. For all Annabel knew, he might have been a humble gentleman farmer before his inheritance. Except humble wasn’t a word she’d ever use to describe him.
Unpleasant, yes. Dour, maybe. Condescending, certainly.
Not humble.
“Do we—” Fiona licked her lips as her voice went hoarse. “Do we have to leave?”
When Fiona had shown up at Llynmore Castle a week before, she’d been frightened and shaking and barely able to speak. She was slowly getting better, but she still jumped whenever Annabel approached too quickly or too quietly. She still looked lost when she stared out the window, as if she couldn’t remember where she was.
Even if Annabel had somewhere safe to take her, which she didn’t, Fiona needed more time to heal from…from whatever it was that had happened. Fiona hadn’t told her the specifics yet, only that it was imperative they weren’t found, and Annabel didn’t want to push. But she had the horrible suspicion that her brother-in-law had abused Fiona. She wouldn’t even speak her husband’s name. She’d visibly flinched when Annabel had said it.
Seeing that reaction in her sister, who’d once been so vital and so innocent, had brought a rush of guilt that nearly forced her to her knees.
Annabel was older. Annabel should have protected her. Annabel hadn’t even had any inkling that something was wrong.
She’d been a fool.
But she’d do everything in her power to protect her now.
She impulsively dropped a kiss to Mary’s head and the little girl looked up. “Aunt Bel!” she said in a tone that was a cross between a protest and a giggle. But she had a short attention span where food or drink were involved. The next second she was back to sipping from the mug, clasping it between her hands in a selfish grasp.
Annabel’s heart squeezed. “I don’t know,” she finally told Fiona. “Not if I can help it. For now, stay out of sight. It might be best if you keep to the servants’ areas…you can move into Catriona’s room.”
Fiona nodded, but her lips were pursed so tightly that deep grooves bracketed her mouth. Annabel took her hand, rubbing it between her palms to bring warmth back to the cold skin. Slowly, a plan began to form in her mind. “I need to speak to Aunt Frances. Everything is going to be fine. I promise.”
Lord Arden had come to claim what was his, but men could change their minds. Especially with a nudge or two in the right direction. And no man of honor would forcibly remove a frail, sickly woman and her only companion.
If Aunt Frances could buy them some time, Annabel could focus on persuading Lord Arden that residing at Llynmore Castle was more trouble than it was worth.
With any luck, the forbidding earl would be gone by week’s end.
Chapter Three
“This is the great hall,” Annabel said at the start of the tour, waving her arm vaguely to encompass the high-ceilinged room and ancient dining table and tapestries. The cavernous space was a burden to heat and to light. When it was only Annabel and Frances sitting down to dinner, which was most of the time, they dined in the drawing room instead, where a single fire and a few tallow candles sufficed.
“Positively medieval,” Lord Arden said, looking at a somewhat faded red-and-blue tapestry that depicted pompous-looking men on horseback, cornering a wild boar with their hounds. She’d found the dusty things buried in a chest and had painstakingly beat them with gentle little swats, because she hadn’t wanted to damage them.
She was quite proud of her tapestries.
“It is a medieval castle,” she said through gritted teeth before turning to Georgina, who, unlike her brother, didn’t make her want to kick something. “The spy hole is just up there,” she said, pointing to a landing that was hidden from sight. “The chieftain could watch and listen if he wanted to see what his guests were up to.”
“Not a very trusting sort, were they?” Robert said.
“I suppose they had to be vigilant for plots on their life,” she said. “It was a turbulent time.”
As Lord Arden moved throughout the room, an intermittent clicking noise sounded as he brought his leg down. She also noticed him leaning on his walking stick from time to time, a device of dark wood and an unadorned brass head that appeared too plain to be a fashion accessory. She wondered if he wore an artificial limb.
Amputations weren’t entirely uncommon in soldiers. Was that what he’d been before he’d inherited the earldom? She could see him as a soldier, arrogant and meticulous. Or as an officer, arrogant and meticulous and barking out commands. Either seemed more likely than a gentleman farmer.
They moved from the tower house toward the east range while Annabel talked about how it was more recent than the rest of the castle—and by “recent” she meant it had been added on in the second half of the seventeenth century.
“At that point, there was more focus on the family and a desire for more private rooms,” she explained, “rather than the openness of the older castles.”
They made their way to the drawing room, a simple space with a table in the center for dining. A small sideboard and a pier table lined the inner wall, while two tall sash windows took up the outer, and a couple of winged armchairs rested near the hearth. She’d hung another tapestry in this room, and before Lord Arden could criticize it, she hurried forward to where Aunt Frances sat in one of the chairs facing the fire, huddled under a blanket.
Annabel quickly made the introductions.
“We haven’t had guests in so long,” Frances said in a thready voice. “When was the last time, Annabel, dear?”
“It was several months ago,” she said. “You remember, don’t you? A group of English aristocrats were touring the countryside and stopped here when they saw the castle.”
“Ah yes,” she said. She coughed delicately into her hand. “My memory isn’t what it once was.” Aunt Frances smiled at Lord Arden. “I hope Llynmore Castle is to your liking. I’m rather fond of this place. Annabel and I have done our best to turn it into a home.”
It was a long, long moment before Lord Arden spoke. “And you have, Mrs. Blair. It’s quite…welcoming.”
Annabel had to hide a smile. His attempt at sparing an elderly woman’s feelings was almost charming. Or it would have been, if Annabel hadn’t already seen firsthand how blithely he insulted.
“I suppose we’ll be leaving soon, though?” Frances
glanced between Annabel and Lord Arden. “We wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Er…yes. In due time,” the earl said, while his siblings glared at him.
Annabel bit the inside of her mouth to keep from grinning.
Frances coughed again, her slender shoulders trembling. She waved them on. “Please, don’t let a frail old woman keep you from your tour. I’ll get back to my novel.” She slid a pair of spectacles onto her nose and hunched over the book, nose nearly brushing the pages.
Annabel waited to follow the others out of the drawing room, ducking her head back into the doorway just long enough to wink at her aunt. Frances, who was now sitting upright and looking as hale as a woman twenty years her junior, gave a quick bow from her chair.
There were some decided benefits to having a former actress for an aunt, Annabel mused with a shot of satisfaction.
As they continued down the dimly lit passage, she heard the hissed conversation between the brothers.
“You can’t force her to leave.”
“Actually, I can.”
“Didn’t you see how frail she was?” Robert protested. “This is her home.”
Lord Arden’s cane struck the floor with a little too much force. “This is my castle,” he said. He paused. “I won’t throw them out on the streets. I’ll make sure something is arranged first. I’m not that heartless.”
“Congratulations, Theo, for not being that heartless,” Robert said sarcastically before he quickened his pace.
Lord Arden fell behind, and for a split second, Annabel thought she saw a tired man, a weary man—his shoulders slumped and his footfalls were heavy—and then he became aware of her gaze and he straightened.
He stepped back to let her into the room that served as a library. As she slipped past him, she realized she was closer to him than she’d ever been. Their gazes caught, inadvertently. His eyes, up close, were rich brown with lighter flecks of honey-gold around the middle. Up close, he smelled a little like bergamot, a scent she’d always enjoyed.
She moved into the room quickly, preferring him farther away. The library was bigger than the drawing room, with more furniture. A round table for cards and another for writing, a long blue-and-rosewood settee that was looking a bit worse for wear, and several armchairs of varying colors were scattered about the length of the room, a bit chaotically.
A wealthier person’s library would have been filled with books, but she and Aunt Frances only had two bookcases, one of which was filled with all the volumes they’d collected throughout the years.
Eleanor, Georgina, and Robert were already there, perusing the selection. Eleanor had a book about insects open in her hands—and appeared completely absorbed. Georgina, she noticed, had gone straight to a Daniel Defoe.
Robert smiled at Annabel—he smiled easily, and often. She liked that in a man. Between the two brothers, the charm and the good looks had gone to the younger.
Theo had sterner features that were a little more mismatched—a rock of a jaw; high, almost brutal, cheekbones; thick brows; a slightly hooked nose. They both had dark, deep-set eyes and sable-brown hair, but Robert’s face was more carefully crafted. Lord Arden’s face reminded her of something stark and bleak—the cold clarity of stars on a winter night, or the way the wind felt when it picked up right before a storm.
And like those cold stars or an oncoming storm, looking at Lord Arden made her feel oddly restless.
The man in question was standing at the other bookcase, which, instead of holding books, contained things she’d found on her walks—shells and water-smoothed pebbles from the sea loch, a glass bottle that had washed ashore. He frowned, his gloved fingers tracing one of the shells.
She felt herself flushing. She didn’t know why. She didn’t think she liked it.
“How remarkable,” Robert said, coming forward to look at the objects.
“A bit cluttered,” Lord Arden said absentmindedly, as he examined a broken shell.
Her nails dug into her palms. She forced herself to breathe deeply before she turned and pasted a smile on her face to continue the tour.
After they were finished in the library, she led them toward the nearest spiral stairway. “There’s not much more on this level,” she said. “If we go up, I can show you the spy hole to the great hall.”
She noticed, belatedly, that Lord Arden had stopped, staring at the steep, winding steps with a heavy frown. His siblings, who’d been chattering amongst themselves, fell silent.
“Oh,” Annabel said into the awkward silence. “Forgive me. I wasn’t—”
His gaze shifted, and then hardened. “It doesn’t matter,” he said curtly. “I’ll stay here.”
Annabel nodded uncertainly, and they continued up the stairs without him. For an instant, she’d seen a flash of uncertainty in his eyes, before it was hidden once more. She was quite certain it was an expression he hadn’t meant for her to witness—he didn’t seem like the type of man who liked to be vulnerable in front of anyone, let alone a stranger.
Other than the bedchambers, there wasn’t much to point out once they reached the top of the stairs, so they continued toward the original part of the castle and the loft that concealed the spy hole.
“Where is your brother sleeping?” she asked Georgina. None of the bedchambers she’d told Catriona to prepare were accessible without using the spiral stairways.
“The maid found him a spare room toward the north tower.”
She blinked. “That part of the castle is in disrepair.”
“He wanted to be far away from the bed chambers.”
“Why?”
Georgina lowered her voice so Robert and Eleanor wouldn’t hear them. “On the journey here he slept in the cart each night. He wouldn’t take a room at the inns. Robert thinks he has nightmares.”
Annabel’s chest constricted. “Nightmares?”
“From the war. When he first came back he switched rooms, too, so he wouldn’t be close to us. He didn’t even want us to come here with him, but eventually he relented.”
Annabel fought against the softening she felt in her heart. It didn’t matter if he was haunted by whatever he’d seen in the war. It didn’t matter if this one thing made him human. He was still the man who wanted to force her from her home, who was putting her sister in danger, whether he did it knowingly or not.
She didn’t want him to be vulnerable. Didn’t want to care. So she stiffened her spine and hardened her heart.
Aunt Frances’s act had bought them some time. Now she needed to find a way to make him leave for good.
Chapter Four
Theo paced back to the library. The clicking sound his fake leg made when it was fully extended was loud in the silence, but there was nothing he could do about that. At some point, when no one was around to mark his slow progress, he would have to practice the spiral stairways. He didn’t doubt he could navigate them, but he’d rather accustom himself to the stairs when his entire family and an unwanted guest weren’t waiting for him to continue the tour.
After his wound had healed and he’d first been fitted with a wooden leg, he’d had to relearn how to walk with the new appendage, how to go up and down inclines, how to navigate uneven terrain, how to mount and descend stairs. Though all the stairs he was used to had shallow, even steps—they weren’t the treacherous, tiny, labyrinthine things of Llynmore Castle.
It had been a painstaking, slow process. More than once, he’d been so frustrated he’d felt like breaking his walking stick in half or throwing the wooden limb in the fire. Eventually, though, walking had come more easily, stairs had come more easily. He just wished new obstacles didn’t keep throwing themselves in his path.
The surgeon who’d performed the amputation told him he was lucky. Lucky that his wound wasn’t worse. Lucky to be alive, at all.
Though sometimes, in the middle of the night, when he woke from memories that were so heavy and vivid they nearly suffocated him, with the iron scent of blood thick in his nostrils, wh
en he didn’t know if he’d been silent or screaming, he wasn’t sure how lucky he felt.
He found himself drawn back to that shelf of collected things. He didn’t know why he was drawn to it. Really, it was an eyesore. There was nothing elegant about a pile of rocks and shells and discarded things that no one had any use for.
Nothing elegant…and yet, there was a joyous sort of whimsy that made him want to delve deeper, look closer, touch and explore. He shoved aside the impulse. They were childish inclinations, and he’d long since outgrown childish inclinations. Or perhaps it hadn’t been very long—only since he’d stepped onto the battlefield.
And lost a piece of his soul.
The promise of this place had been like a beacon of light in the dark. When he’d returned to his aunt and uncle’s home after the injury, he’d felt trapped, as surely as if shackles had been tightened around his wrists. There’d been stories of his heroics on the battlefield, and they’d asked him incessant questions, confused by his reluctance to answer, startled when he’d switched bedrooms so he’d be farther away from the rest of the family, concerned and maybe even a little frightened when the servants told them they’d heard him screaming early one morning.
Their guests came expecting to meet a charming war hero, only to be disappointed by the taciturn, wary man they found in his stead.
He couldn’t very well ask his own aunt and uncle to stop inviting guests or to leave him the hell alone when all they’d shown him and his siblings was generosity.
But he couldn’t stay, either. His aunt and uncle lived in a country house not far from London. They were a popular couple, and guests were always coming and going. There was too much noise at their house, too many people, too many questions.
He wanted silence, he wanted peace, he wanted quiet.
He wanted to be alone.
He couldn’t force his siblings out with a clear conscience—they deserved a home of their own. And though his aunt and uncle were kind, it was difficult to forget that you were living on someone else’s charity, day after day. Anyway, his siblings weren’t the problem. They hadn’t pressed him to give more than he was capable of giving.
