A Stranger's Promise (Lords of Chance Book 1) Page 13

  Alistair knit his brows in thought. “Thomas? The same Thomas Graves who worked my father’s estate as a footman when I was a wee lad?”

  “Aye.” The old man nodded. “One and the same, my lord, though he’s always been a worthless fellow, a rabble rouser, drifting from fight to fight.” He shook his head in disgust.

  “So, what has this Thomas to do with Nicholas?” Alistair prodded.

  “He’s struck it rich,” the shopkeeper answered. “A man who’s not done a day’s honest work in years. ’Tis odd. How he came into money is a mystery, but ‘twill be no mystery in how he loses it, with all the drink he’s after.”

  Alistair’s dark eyes turned speculative. “Where might Thomas be now?”

  “The man rides off north every morning, but returns to Maidens drunk afore the sun sets.”

  Alistair nodded his thanks and turned back to Charlotte. He held out his hand and told the man, “We’ve come for Lady Cassilis’s rouge.”

  “Ah, then step inside, step inside.” The shopkeeper waved for them to follow as he disappeared into his shop.

  The pleasant scent of wet wool and dried lavender greeted Charlotte as she stepped over the dye-shop’s threshold. A long worktable ran down the center of the room, holding a collection of black iron pots and wooden tubs filled with crushed leaves and water. Discarded stems littered the floor and skeins of wool hung from the rafters, intermixed with bundles of dried flowers, leaves, and herbs. A large set of wooden shelves lined one wall, filled with rows of tiny clay pots.

  Near the back of the shop stood a small table stacked with books, and one book in particular drew Charlotte—a leather-bound cookery book, like her mother’s. She picked the book off the shelf and slowly ran her fingers over the cover, then leafed through a few pages. Emotion choked her.

  “That’s fine workmanship there, lass,” the shopkeeper said as he shuffled through a mound of paper-wrapped packages on his worktable.

  Charlotte looked up and smiled. “My mother had one like this.” She blinked back tears and turned. Alistair watched from his position near the door. She averted her eyes. Strange. She hadn’t wept over her mother in years. She had no wish to do so now in front of onlookers.

  “Lady Cassilis’s rouge.” The shopkeeper picked up a small package from the counter on the left wall and offered it to Charlotte.

  Accepting it with a quick dip of thanks, she crossed the room and stepped out into the street as Alistair and the old man spoke.

  The scattered clouds had vanished entirely, leaving the sky a rich, bright blue. Birds twittered from nearby trees. A dog barked in the distance. She closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight on her face and the distant lull of waves breaking on the rocky shore.

  At the sound of a boot scraping wood behind her, Charlotte glanced up as Alistair stepped from the store, a solemn smile on his lips.

  “Shall we?” He nodded toward his horse.

  The thought of sitting across his had thighs the entire way back both unnerved and excited her, but the notion was unwise. “I have been enough trouble, my lord—”

  He closed the argument by plucking the rouge from her grasp.

  The return journey was far more intimate. Alistair’s hand rested on her hip. He walked the horse at a slow pace. She hid a smile. He behaved like a green lad with a pretty girl. But he was no green lad. He felt so large and warm around her. She found it difficult to think of anything other than his thighs flexing beneath her buttocks and the warm chest she leaned her shoulder against.

  “Join me at dinner tonight,” he said suddenly.

  She snapped her head up. “Dinner?” she repeated.

  He shrugged. “Why no’? Culzean is my home and a governess at the dinner table is common enough.”

  An image flitted across her mind of shocked dinner guests, when they heard her flavorful brand of French. A snort of laughter escaped her lips before she quickly cleared her throat, and said, “Not I, my lord. I fear you would regret it.”

  He lifted a brow. “Why? Are your manners uncouth? How do you eat? Do you snuffle the soup?” The corners of his mouth curved upwards. “I confess, now I am curious.”

  “My lord, I may very well astonish you by drinking the rose water from the fingerbowls. Trust me, your reputation is the better for not knowing.”

  He gave a hearty chuckle, in which she joined, but then his gaze dropped to linger on her lips.

  “What of the ball?” The amusement had faded from his voice. “It will be thrown in my honor at the end of the month. Surely, you cannot refuse to attend?” He shifted beneath her and his hand slid lower on her hip.

  Charlotte swallowed. It was dangerous to be so close to the man. “Surely, my lord, you wouldn’t chance such a thing. I fear I dance like a—”

  His dark lashes lowered and he shushed her with a finger on her lips. His finger lingered a heartbeat, then slid down over her bottom lip.

  “I have danced with you already, have I not?” he asked in a thick voice. “You were a feather in my arms, Charlotte.”

  Her heart thudded wildly.

  Alistair suddenly pulled rein. He hugged her close, then swung his long leg over the pommel and slid from the saddle. They touched the ground and he lowered her feet until she stood. He stared a moment then pressed his palm into the small of her back, locking her into place against him. Charlotte shivered at the hunger in his eyes. She was lost. She knew it. She couldn’t resist the man. He placed a finger beneath her chin and brushed the line of her jaw with his thumb.

  He bent down and whispered over her lips, “I want to kiss you, Charlotte.”

  “Please,” she whispered back. Please.

  He smiled. She closed her eyes, at first feeling awkward, but forgot everything with the first light brush of his mouth against hers. He pressed several soft kisses on her mouth, tasting her longer each time, while his thumb stroked her cheek.

  “So sweet,” he murmured against her mouth, then his tongue traced the seam of her lips.

  Her mind whirled when his fingers slid along the sensitive flesh of her neck, then cupped her nape. He flicked her bottom lip, softly at first but with an increasing, yet gentle intensity that coaxed her mouth open. She shivered at the press of her breasts against his chest.

  His tongue skimmed the inner surface of her bottom lip, then ventured deeper. She tensed, caught off guard. Captain Edwards had kissed her before, but never like this. The man had smashed his lips against hers and she’d been only relieved when he stopped. But this? She shuddered, savoring each brush of Alistair’s tongue dancing over hers.

  She melted against him. He tightened his hold and plundered her mouth. Shiver after delicious shiver slid down her spine. Tentatively, she pushed the tip of her tongue between his lips to taste him. He moaned, his fingers sliding up her neck and tangled in her hair as his mouth devoured hers. His hand slid from the base of her spine up the line of her back and pressed her hard into him. The ridges of his chest pressed her breasts.

  He tore his lips away abruptly. “Smoke,” he said in a hoarse whisper. He glanced over his shoulder.

  The next instant, her nostrils stung with the smell of smoke. Alistair dashed to his grazing horse and vaulted into the saddle as Charlotte scanned the sky.

  “There.” She pointed to a plum of smoke visible through a break in the trees ahead.

  “It’s the old icehouse,” he said. “Come, Charlotte.”

  She lunged toward him and Alistair stretched out a hand. She grabbed his arm and he swung her up into the saddle behind him.

  “Hold tight,” he ordered.

  She threw her arms about his waist and pressed her cheek to his back an instant before he kicked the horse into a mad gallop. The horse leapt forward, running so fast that the trees flew by in a blur. They went no more than a quarter mile before Alistair turned the animal from the road. The horse sailed over a low hedge and raced through the underbrush.

  As they neared the fire, smoke hung heavy in the air. Alistair drew rein near what appeared to be a door carved into the side the stone hill. A column of black smoke funneled through the opening.

  “Nae! Please!” cried a faint voice.

  Charlotte froze. “Oliver!” she gasped in horror. “He’s inside. But how—”

  Alistair leapt from the saddle, then raced to the door. Charlotte slid from the saddle. Her heart nearly stopped. There was too much smoke. He would never make it out. Oliver—A sob clogged her throat. Alistair reached the door. Flames licked the doorway. Alistair yanked his arm up to shield his face.

  Fear nearly buckled her legs. The flames, he was so close to the flame. Tears streamed down her face. She stumbled toward him. Alistair whipped off his coat and swung it over his head. Her heart thundered. Charlotte spotted movement in the trees near the door. It couldn’t be. She veered toward the trees.

  Oliver lunged from within the trees. “Nae!” he shouted, and raced toward Alistair.

  Charlotte whipped in the direction of Alistair. “Stop!” she shouted.

  He ducked his head in readiness to dash into the smoke.

  “Alistair!” she shouted as loud as she could.

  He twisted and looked at her. She pointed to his right. He turned in that direction—then flung his coat aside and shot toward Oliver.

  Alistair reached Oliver and swung the boy up into her arms, then crashed to his knees, Oliver sobbing. Charlotte reached them and cried out at sight of a smoldering spot on the upper sleeve of Alistair’s shirt. She dropped to her knees beside them and slapped at the cloth until it no longer smoked. A raw, red burn marred the muscled flesh on his upper arm.

  “You will live,” she told him in a matter-of-fact voice, despite the thudding of her heart. “Painful, to be sure, but not life-threatening. Tha
nk heavens.” She suddenly felt weak, and plopped down onto her backside beside them.

  A crash sounded inside the cavern. Charlotte cried out and yanked her gaze on the open doorway.

  The fire cannot hurt us,” Alistair said. “It will burn out inside the cavern.”

  To her surprise, flames no longer tried to escape. Alistair held Oliver close as the boy clung to him as if he would never let go.

  Finally, Alistair stirred. “What happened, lad?” he asked.

  Oliver buried his face in Alistair’s shoulder and sobbed, “Why does my father hate me?”

  Alistair frowned. “Hate you? I do not—”

  “Not you,” Oliver lifted his head, his tears leaving trails on his soot-covered cheeks. “My father. Charles.”

  Alistair closed his eyes.

  Charlotte frowned.

  “I know who you are,” Oliver whispered. “You are my uncle.”

  Charlotte stared.

  Uncle?

  Chapter Eleven

  You’re my uncle.

  Alistair sighed. So, the lad knew the truth. “Who told you I wasn’t your father?” he asked softly. “How long have you known?”

  Oliver’s lips trembled and tears streaked his grimy cheeks. “My mum. She always told me my da’s name was Charles. When she…” He blanched. “He left us at Lady Prescott’s door, told us you’d come and that you were a good man, unlike himself. Said you’d see us raised good and proper…” The sobs racked his thin shoulders.

  Alistair gathered him closer. So, the boy had known from the start. It explained the sullen challenges and the refusal to participate. It even answered why he’d crept into Charles’s bedchamber. What of Charles? At least he’d seen his children to Lady Prescott’s door before running off who-knew-where.

  “It’s no matter, lad.” Alistair patted his nephew’s shoulder. “Fathers are the men who rear you.” It had been that way for him, anyway, with Foster.

  Oliver wiggled out of his grasp. “Why didn’t you deny us?” he asked.

  He met the boy’s gaze steadily. “I know how dangerous it is to live without roots. I may not have fathered you, Oliver, but I’ll be a father to you now. I swear it.”

  To his surprise, the lad vehemently shook his head. “Father,” he spat, looking angry at the mere word. “Nae. I would rather call you Uncle.”

  “Aye, then.” Alistair clamped his hand on the lad’s shoulder. “It does no’ matter what name I am called. You are home. Where you belong. You’re a Cassilis, of my own blood, and a member of the clan, and that’s all there’s to say on the matter.”

  At the thud of approaching hooves, they looked up as men emerged from the trees. Another loud crash sounded inside the ice house.

  “Damnation,” Alistair cursed. More smoke billowed from the icehouse door. More brandy kegs must have caught fire.

  Alistair released Oliver and rose. “There’s little worth saving, lads,” he informed the men.

  After completion of the new icehouse the previous year, he’d used the old one to store empty brandy kegs and wine barrels. There was nothing left of them now. And since the icehouse was made of stone, once the fire died, there would be no real harm. He didn’t believe the fire could jump from within the cavern, but Alistair instructed his men to stand guard until they were certain the fire had died. He then returned his attention to Oliver, who now stood alongside Charlotte. The lad pulled a felt green hat with a broken red feather from inside his shirt.

  “I came here to fetch you this, sir.” He extended the hat toward him. “You said you wanted the man.”

  Alistair accepted the hat. “You have seen this man before?”

  Oliver nodded earnestly. “He comes here often.”

  Alistair turned the hat over in his hands. Strange. “Do you know his name? Where he’s from?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “How did the fire start?” Alistair probed.

  Oliver dropped his gaze. So, this question made him uncomfortable.

  “You were inside the icehouse, I take it?”

  Oliver nodded and Alistair’s chest tightened. If the boy had been trapped inside… He shook off the thought. You could have been harmed,” Alistair said in a stern voice. “You are to stay in the castle proper and not wander about the estate. If you have a matter of concern, you will speak with me first before taking matters into your own hands. Do you understand?”

  Oliver nodded.

  “Come, let’s return to the castle,” Alistair said.

  Charlotte looked pale, and he read the remnants of fear in her eyes. A sudden gust of wind tugged at her loose, errant curls. He wanted to hold her close, tell her all would be well, but he could do nothing now but wait.

  Her eyes dropped to his arm. “You’re injured. You need treatment, my lord.”

  He hardly noticed the pain. He enjoyed the softness in her eyes so much more. “After a bit of ointment, all will be well,” he said.

  After retrieving his horse, they set off for Culzean again, a somewhat bedraggled party covered in grime and walking in silence. Alistair carried the hat. Who was the man, and what was he doing in the ice house? Alistair glance at Oliver. How had the boy known the hat was there to begin with?

  The pain of Alistair’s burn grew with each step, but for a time, he distracted himself tolerably well with Charlotte’s slender, winsome form and the memory of her kiss. Her lips had tasted so sweet, so pure. He could only think of devouring them again—and more besides.

  They reached the castle and were greeted by Foster and a mix of worried servants and guests. A doctor was summoned. Alistair found himself swept up the stairs. On the second floor, he came face-to-face with Lady Cassilis.

  She’d heard news of the fire. “A fire? In the icehouse? How is that possible?” Her gaze fell to the green hat he still clutched and she paled.

  Alistair’s thoughts snapped to attention. The woman had clearly seen the hat before. He folded it over in his hands.

  She noticeably flinched, then, head held high, she sailed down the corridor toward her apartments.

  He arched a brow. Perhaps, he merely had to find the owner of the hat to discover how Lady Cassilis planned to wrest Culzean from his grip.

  “Your arm, my lord,” Charlotte’s soft voice sounded by his side.

  Alistair looked down to see her still standing there, holding Oliver’s hand. A frown marred her brow.

  He smiled gently. Those lips. How he wanted to kiss them. “I’ll tend to it now, lass,” he promised. As an afterthought, he added, “Do not forget, Miss Atchenson, I fully expect you to join me at the dinner table this evening.”

  Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to protest.

  But he cut her off with the whispered words, “If you’re not there, I’ll fetch you down myself.”

  * * *

  The dinner hour found Alistair with his arm treated and properly bandaged. With the icehouse fire doused and with no real harm done, he’d settled in his study with Nicholas to ponder the recent events.

  “Odd.” Nicholas tapped his long finger on his glass of whisky. “How could the lad set such a blaze?”

  “He clearly didn’t set the blaze.” Alistair nodded at the hat. “The hat’s owner must have.” Again, Lady Cassilis’s reaction played in his mind. What was her relationship with the man? He rubbed his bottom lip in thought.

  “I’ll ride out to Maidens in the morning. Maybe folk there have seen the hat and can shed some light on the matter,” Nicholas offered. “I’ll see what this Thomas has to say about his newfound wealth, as well. No doubt, if I buy him a drink, he’ll sing like a songbird.”

  “No doubt, indeed,” Alistair agreed.

  The dinner gong sounded.

  Alistair thought of Charlotte and smiled. He would wager she had found some excuse to avoid dinner—not that he’d let her.

  “You’re in love with her.” Nicholas’ soft voice intruded on his thoughts. “I can always tell when you’re thinking of her. Your smile betrays you.”

  Alistair shrugged. Why deny it?

  As the mournful strains of the pipes filled the air, they left the study and went to the dining room, each lost in their own thoughts. Alistair entered first and took in the fine dinner table set with a silver candelabra, an epergne resplendent with artificial flowers, and rare bottles of Rhenish wine, but no Charlotte.