A Stranger's Promise (Lords of Chance Book 1) Page 11

  Minutes later, he galloped down the castle drive and under the arched entrance just in time to see a fine barouche roll to a stop before the castle doors. Thankfully, the rain had dwindled to a drizzle. He eyed the vehicle with a scowl. What fresh hell was this? Already, he found the house party beyond tiresome.

  A man hopped from the carriage and with a broad smile, waved as Alistair cantered past, headed for the clock tower and stables. By the time he’d seen his horse settled and returned the way he had come, the wind and rain had driven the newly arrived guests inside. The fact he’d escaped the wearisome charade of greetings put him in a perversely good mood and, in an effort to keep it that way, he dashed to the back of the castle and entered through the kitchens.

  “My lord!” the cook cried. “We didnae expect to see ye.”

  Apparently not, for the entire staff froze and stared like frightened rabbits.

  He smiled. “Never fear, Madam, I am only passing through.” He waved them back to their business and turned up the servants’ stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He detoured first to his room for fresh, dry clothes, then resumed his ascent to the nursery.

  At the sound of muffled laughter, he turned the handle and eased open the nursery door a crack until Charlotte came into view. She sat with the children at a table set for afternoon tea. His heart warmed at sight of the familial gathering. When he’d decided to take in his niece and nephew, it hadn’t occurred to him that he might be starting a family. Duty dictated he care for his kin, and duty was as far as he’d gotten. It also hadn’t occurred to him that he might fall in love—ever—much less with a woman in his employ. He couldn’t fail to miss the parallel with his own parents’ relationship.

  As Charlotte smiled at Charlotte, his attention snagged on Charlotte’s delicate jaw. He slid his gaze down the graceful line of her neck to the rise of her breasts above the blue muslin bodice. He drew his eyes up the line of her spine and locked his gaze on her recalcitrant curls. They clustered at the nape of her neck simply begged to be twisted around his fingers. As he watched, she tilted her head back, lifted her nose high, and held her tea cup high in the air with her pinky extended.

  “One sips their tea, Oliver,” she said in an overly exaggerated, prim-and-proper falsetto. “And one must lift the nose in disdain.”

  The children giggled.

  Alistair bit back a laugh, delighted to have caught her in a playful mood.

  “Say it again,” the children urged. “Say it again.”

  “Speak softly, children,” she urged in a hushed voice. Then, much to their delight, she lifted her nose again and mimicked a high-society lady’s snooty drawl. “My deaaahhhh, however do you do?”

  He pushed the door open a few inches more and caught sight of Meg, who sat by the fire. Her gaze met his and she opened her mouth, but he placed a finger to his lips and shook his head. She nodded, ever so slightly, and sent him a knowing smile.

  “Pleaaaaase have a seat,” Charlotte said in lofty tones. “Would you cahhhre for a drop of teaaaa?”

  The children snickered. “More,” they chorused. “More.”

  Charlotte laughed and, squinting into her teacup, set it on the table. “I fear there is no tea left. We drank it all.”

  “Losh, Charlotte, you don’t need tea to make us laugh,” Meg teased. “Do Lady Toffee Nose again, will you, now? I haven’t laughed so hard in ages.”

  As Charlotte squealed and clapped her hands, Oliver leapt from his chair and, with the first real smile Alistair had seen on his small face, bowed and asked, “Lady Toffee Nose, may I have this dance?”

  Charlotte lifted her nose so high in the air that a curl slipped free from her bun and coiled softly over her shoulder. How soft would her flesh feel beneath his lips? How would she taste? His body rushed with heat at the thought.

  “But dancing might wrinkle my fawwnncy gown, my lord,” Charlotte objected in her high-pitched, wobbly voice. She fanned her face with an imaginary fan. “And it mustn’t be the waltz—such a scandalous dance. Let’s dance a Scottish reel, but will you promise to mind my toes?”

  “Nae,” Oliver sniggered. “I shall step on them.”

  “Then, I shan’t dance with you.” She sniffed and waved her imaginary fan again. “Besides, the musicians seem to have fallen asleep, do you not think so, Sir Oliver?”

  Charlotte scrambled to her knees on the chair and began to sing. Meg joined in, clapping her hands to a rousing, jolly melody.

  Again, Oliver bowed. “Please, Lady Toffee Nose.”

  She made him wait, drawing out the suspense, then finally said, “Very well.”

  Charlotte stood from the table and pranced to the center of the nursery where she curtseyed as Oliver bowed. They began to dance, laughing and twirling in a lively reel.

  Charlotte looked so light on her feet, so carefree that Alistair found himself smiling, and when she twirled past him for the second time, he couldn’t resist. As she spun, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Alistair caught her about the waist abd swung her around until she stood in his arms, face to face.

  She froze.

  Charlotte’s singing came to an abrupt end, but Meg’s voice carried on a bit before melting into laughter.

  Alistair looked down at Charlotte and smiled. “Shall we dance, Miss Atchenson?” He leaned closer. “Or should I say, Lady Toffee Nose?”

  Charlotte stared, eyes wide and cheeks growing pink.

  “That must be a yes.” He pulled her close—much closer than propriety allowed—then cocked a brow at Meg and announced, “I, however, shall dance the waltz.”

  Charlotte tensed, but Meg gamely began to hum once again. The children joined in and he turned her in a twirl in time with the rhythm. She moved with perfect grace and fit so well against him. The top of her head just reached his chin. Wrapped in his arms, the perfume of her hair and the warmth of her body kindled a hot desire that made his body sing. He couldn’t resist sliding his thumb an inch or two over the small of her back in an intimate gesture no one could see. Her head snapped up and he read in her eyes a combination of shy embarrassment and excitement. Aye, if she every fully unleashed that bold lass, he’d be powerless to resist her—but then, he already was.

  After circling the nursery floor twice, he stopped.

  She didn’t immediately step away, but stared up at him, her lips parted. He saw the unspoken question in her eyes. She wanted to know his intention. He’d never wanted anything in his life as badly as to show her exactly what those intentions were, but now was neither the time nor place.

  Instead, he lifted a brow and directed the conversation to safer ground. “Am I so frightening?” She frowned, and he added, “You look as though you’ve seen the ghostly piper, Charlotte.”

  She started and stepped out of his hold.

  “The ghostly piper?” Oliver asked as Charlotte returned to her seat at the table and Jane climbed into Meg’s lap in her chair near the hearth.

  “Aye, the piper.” Alistair tossed him a warm smile and went to the table. As he took his seat opposite Charlotte, he bumped a table leg, rattling the china.

  Oliver skipped over to hop into the chair next to him. “A real ghost?” he asked.

  “Aye, a real ghost.” Alistair grinned. “On stormy days such as these, you will hear the skirl of his pipes on the wind. Listen.” He put a finger to his lips and nodded at the window and the gray skies beyond.

  The creak of Meg’s rocker stopped and silence descended in the nursery as they held their breath so that only the gusts of wind battering the windowpanes could be heard.

  After a few moments, Charlotte glanced uncertainly at him and Meg resumed her rocking.

  Alistair resumed the tale. “It was years ago and on one such a day, that the Cassilis piper went for a wee wander into the cliff caves below the castle,” he said in a low stage voice. “He took his dog and pipes along with him, wanting to play a good Scottish tune to banish the ghosts and evil spirits that had gathered in the caves. Only…” he let his voice trail away, then added in a whisper, “he never returned.”

  “Never?” Oliver breathed.

  “Never,” Alistair repeated in a lower, deeper voice.

  It was too much for Jane. She squealed and buried her face in Meg’s ample bosom. “There, there, lassie,” the nursemaid chuckled, “it’s only a tale.”

  “A tale to scare children.” Charlotte sent him a chastising look.

  The devil, but he wanted to kiss her.

  With a playful wink that dared her to object, he lowered his voice even more, “Aye, wee children are frightened by the tale—and grown folk, as well.”

  At the wink, a fine blush crept up Charlotte’s cheeks, but she lifted her chin and said, “Foolish folk.”

  The fire her eyes reignited the desire to taste her pink lips. The lass was too tempting.

  “But the ghost—” Oliver was saying.

  At Jane’s whimper, Charlotte turned to the boy and scooped up a spoon, then brandished it in a mock threat. “Enough talk of such things. I’ll rap the knuckles of the next person that mentions this piper and his ghosts.”

  How could he resist? Staring straight into her lovely hazel eyes, he leaned close to Oliver and said, “Aye, lad, the piper vanished…but his dog came back—shaking in fear and with not a hair left on his wee body.”

  Charlotte tossed her head. For a moment, he thought she’d back down, but to his great delight, she rapped the spoon across his knuckles. Alistair seized her hand. She tugged back, but he held her eyes. She parted her lips as if to speak, but only stared.

  Understanding struck. She cared for him…just as he cared for her. The realization made his heart soar. He would reel her back from Edwards—he had to. No doubt, it would be a fine, intricate dance
—but he was an excellent dancer. Slowly, he drew his hand away, letting her fingers slip through his. Only then, did he become aware of the others in the room, of Jane wailing and Meg shushing her as she lumbered to her feet.

  “Losh, lassie, it’s time for a wee nap,” the nursery maid cajoled. “Let’s leave these folk to their dreary tales.” With a broad smile, she hefted Jane over her shoulder and carried her out of the room.

  Oliver stood and leaned over the table. “The dog. Did its hair grow back?”

  Alistair chuckled. He hadn’t a clue, but he wasn’t above embellishing the tale. “Aye, but it took a year or more.”

  “Will he play his pipes tonight?” Oliver cast a serious glance out the window.

  “Och, now, he might, lad.” Alistair laughed, then recalled the mysterious man in the forest. Alistair faced Charlotte. “I’ve seen you and the children wandering about in the afternoons. Have you come across a man wearing a green hat with a red feather near the Swan Pond?”

  She blinked in surprise, but shook her head, “Nae, my lord.”

  Oliver sat back in his chair with a thump and fell silent.

  The mood in the room had shifted. He sighed. The magic of the moment had fled. He should have known better. Suppressing another sigh, he rose.

  Charlotte stood. “Thank your father for the tale, Oliver.”

  Father. He’d forgotten she thought him the wayward father. Of a certainty, she would be cautious with him, thinking him a scandalous rogue. But in this matter, Oliver came first. He couldn’t deliver another blow to the lad in his current vulnerable state. Who knew what it would do to him to learn that his true father had abandoned him entirely. He looked at the lad’s inscrutable face staring stoically ahead. Aye, he’d have to figure out just how to step into the role of ‘father’—no matter how foreign the word felt.

  Charlotte nudged Oliver’s shoulder, but the boy shoved his chair back and ran from the room.

  She started to follow, but Alistair caught her arm. “Time,” he said softly. “The lad needs time.”

  She lifted her lashes, her brow furrowed. “He’s an angry boy, my lord.”

  “Aye, he has every right to despise his ne’er-do-well father.” Charles deserved nothing less.

  Her lashes fluttered. “I must find him before he finds mischief.” She dipped into a curtsey and disappeared into the boy’s room.

  Alistair sighed. She’d slipped through his fingers once again.

  He left the nursery and reached the main floor when the dinner gong sounded, but the thought of sitting across the table from Captain Edwards curdled his appetite. Alistair ordered men to investigate the area around the Swan Pond, then decided to skip the evening meal altogether.

  No doubt, such a scandalous act would entertain them all. Lady Cassilis and her ilk could retire to the Blue Drawing Room afterwards and engage in hours of salacious gossip over the nature of his disappearance and his failure to execute the duties of a good host. He let an acidic chuckle escape. Ah, they’d never see he had done his job right well for them. Truly, what more could a host do but provide the old biddies such an enchanting evening of gossip?

  He entered the study and divested himself of his coat and vest and tossed them over the back of a chair. With a quick tug, he freed his cravat, then settled comfortably in his shirtsleeves near the fire.

  His headache had vanished. No doubt, Charlotte had something to do with that—just as she had in giving him the blasted headache in the first place. He yawned, then leaned his head against the soft velvet of the chair and smiled. She’d fit so well against him, been so soft as they’d waltzed. And the teasing manner with which she’d rapped his knuckles with the spoon… If only she would let her true self out more often. Why did she hide herself? Had Captain Edwards played a role in that? Whatever the case, he would make her forget him. His blood stirred at the thought of just how he would make her forget.

  Wind howled outside and rain pinged against the windowpanes. He pictured Charlotte’s pink lips and soft curves. He’d had his hands on the small of her back. What would her flesh feel like beneath his fingers? If he’d pulled her just a little closer, her breasts would have pressed against his chest. Desire wound through him. He relaxed, and pictured her, head bent back, rising on tiptoes to meet his mouth as he lowered his head to kiss her. Alistair closed his eyes. She would be so sweet…so very sweet…

  A sharp knock on the door startled him awake. Bleary-eyed, he glanced at the clock on the mantle. Ten-thirty. Had he slept over an hour?

  Another knock sounded. “Enter,” he called.

  The door opened and the old piper entered, his aged brows knotted with worry.

  “What is it?” Alistair demanded.

  “It’s the laddie,” he replied. “We have been searching everywhere, but he’s not been found. He may have left the castle.”

  Alistair started. “Oliver?”

  The piper nodded and Alistair tossed a glance at the darkness outside the window. Recalling the lad’s inordinate interest in the piper, he wondered if he’d venture out in such stormy weather.

  “Bloody hell.” He rose and headed for the door. “I’ll lead a search of the cliffs and the shore.” Alistair brushed past the piper and the older man fell in alongside as he strode down the hallway. They reached the grand staircase and descended to the main floor. “Send men to search the stables, and anywhere else the lad’s been known to wander,” Alistair ordered as they reached the last step.

  A footman carrying a hooded, black oilskin cloak met him at the door, as another opened the outer castle doors. Alistair swirled the cloak over his shoulders as he crossed to the threshold. He squinted into the inky rage of the storm as men gathered behind him with oil lanterns.

  The wind howled as he took a lantern from the nearest man and started forward. Pellets of rain stung his cheeks and wild gusts tore at his cloak as they made their way through the darkness toward the cliffs. The waves crashed against the rocks below and blasts of salty wind stung his nose. He and his men shouted Oliver’s name, but in vain. The roaring winds ripped their voices from their throats and he feared the boy would never hear them, nor they him. The thought gave his step an extra urgency as he descended the slippery, rock-strewn path leading to the shore.

  Once at the beach, they spread out over the rock pools. Alistair wiped rain from his face and studied the cave-pocked cliff rising dark and dangerous above them. Surely, the lad wouldn’t go into the caves, especially on a night as this and after hearing the piper’s tale. The winds whistled through the abandoned, crumbling arches like ethereal pipes playing in the night. Alistair raised his lantern and headed for the entrance when shouts from behind stopped him in his path.

  The man reached them and shouted, “We found him, my lord.”

  Alistair strained to hear. “You found him?” he shouted back.

  The man nodded. “In the castle.” He said something else, but the words were drowned out by the wail of the wind and the pounding surf.

  Relief flooded through Alistair, quickly followed by irritation. He hurried with his men up the path and through the castle doors to find himself cold and wet despite the oilskin cloak. As a footman peeled the garment off his back, Foster rushed forward to greet him.

  Pushing back his wet hair, Alistair half growled, “Where is he?”

  The old piper hesitated. “Charles’ apartments, my lord.”

  Alistair paused. “Charles’ apartments?” What was he doing there?

  He caught sight of Edwards on the grand staircase above with other guests. With a scowl, Alistair strode down the corridor and headed for the rear stairs.

  Minutes later, he donned a dry, white, loose-fitting linen shirt and a pair of gray trousers, then left his chambers for the finely decorated rooms that had served as his stepbrother’s private apartments.

  Candlelight spilled from the open bedroom doorway into the dimly lit hall. Alistair paused under the lintel, taking in the finely crafted four-poster bed, the settee, desk, armoire…and Charlotte.

  She sat on the floor, knees drawn to her chest and her cheek resting against one knee, her attention on the boy curled up in the corner. Asleep on a pile of linens, Oliver clutched a large, full white laundress’ apron tightly in his arms. Alistair’s frustration melted away. The lad missed his mother.