A Stranger's Promise (Lords of Chance Book 1) Page 4

  Charlotte smiled. At least, he hadn’t refused her suggestion outright. With a sigh, she went to the children’s trunk. She unclasped the brass locks and opened the lid, only to be greeted by the rank stench of the little girl’s soiled dress. She groaned inwardly. She’d forgotten all about the thing.

  A burst of giggles from the fireplace caught her attention and she glanced back. The children relaxed on their stomachs before the fire. She smiled, turned back to the dress, shook it out, and held it up for inspection. It was well-made and very new—a much more fitting dress for the daughter of an earl than the worn thing she wore now. Damnation. She couldn’t see a way around it. Lord Cassilis had a reputation to uphold. She would have to wash the dress and dry it before the fire.

  A chestnut cracked and the giggles grew louder.

  Charlotte set the soiled dress aside, then dug deeper in the chest in search of bedclothes. After a moment, she realized there weren’t any. She’d have to see to the children’s wardrobe at once and—

  An eye-burning and acrid stench crossed her nostrils. Charlotte jumped to her feet and whirled. Thick, black smoke billowed from the grate. Her heart leapt to a gallop. She dashed to the hearth and yanked the children back, then grabbed the poker and stabbed the fire, sending a fresh surge of smoke, along with sparks, out into the room.

  “Did you put something in there?” she choked out the question.

  Neither child answered, but she hadn’t expected them to. Coughing, she covered her nose with her arm and poked the fire again in an effort to identify the source of the smoke. A sudden tower of flames ignited, clearing the smoke just enough to reveal the root cause.

  Charlotte could only stare at Lord Cassilis’s black silk top hat going up in flames.

  “Damnation!” she swore.

  The boy grinned, green eyes alight.

  Charlotte planted her hands on her hips. “How could you do this?” Another black cloud of smoke gusted over her. She coughed and jabbed a finger at the burning hat. “I understand you resent your father, but he is making amends now, is he not? And whatever has happened, you simply cannot burn hats in the fire willy-nilly, young man.”

  The mirth died on the boy’s face. Their gazes locked in a clash of wills. Charlotte stared. Three heartbeats passed before he looked away. Still irritated, Charlotte blew hair from her face, then strode to the window and shoved it open. She faced the young miscreants once again.

  “To bed, the both of you.” She cocked a censorious brow at the boy and added, “I will inform you of your punishment in the morning, young sir, and just how you will confess to your father what happened to his fine hat.”

  He glared, but turned, shoulders slumped, and shuffled to the bed. He climbed beneath the blankets, his little sister scrambling in close behind him. As they burrowed beneath the covers, Charlotte returned to the window to fan more smoke out of the room. Thank heavens, they hadn’t burnt the place down. She’d been quite lucky. In the future, she’d do well to keep a much closer eye on the mischief-makers. And the hat? She didn’t relish the thought of informing Lord Cassilis she’d let his son burn his hat under her very nose. Deuce take it. How and when had the child filched the thing? Hadn’t it been on his father’s head?

  When the room had sufficiently cleared and she could breathe easily once again, she closed the window all but a crack and returned to the bed to peer down at her charges. To her relief, they’d both fallen asleep. She heaved a long sigh through her nose and pulled the covers up under their chins. Poor mites—mischievous mites. Yes, she pitied them, but she couldn’t let them rule the roost. Tomorrow, she’d wring their names out of them or dub them with names of her own choosing.

  She tidied the room, confident the children’s slow, deep breathing signaled they still slept, grabbed the soiled dress and slipped away in search of soap and water. It was late, the guests had already retired along with most of the help, but she found an aproned matron in the kitchen who kindly lent her a bar of lye soap and a bucket of hot water.

  In short order, she had the dress scrubbed and wrung dry and started back to her room, eyes burning with exhaustion. After she hung the dress before the fire, she could hop into bed. She couldn’t wait. It had been a long, trying day. At her door, she smothered a yawn, twisted the knob, and gave the door a solid shove.

  It didn’t move.

  Charlotte blinked and frowned. A quick glance confirmed she did, indeed, stand in front of the correct door. She rattled the knob again.

  Giggles emanated from the room. Her heart sank.

  Damnation. They hadn’t been asleep, after all. They’d locked her out.

  “Open the door at once,” she hissed.

  Small footsteps ran to the door and for a single relieved moment, she thought they’d listen.

  “Nae,” came the giggling reply, then the feet scampered away.

  Well, at least the boy could talk. Why, oh, why, hadn’t she remembered to take the key? She already knew she couldn’t trust the children. Frustrated, she banged her forehead softly against the door before making up her mind. Fine. She’d have to outwit the scoundrels. She could ask the innkeeper if he had another key. But that required waking the man and making a scene—a scene that Lord Cassilis would no doubt find out about tomorrow. Surely, there had to be another way. She couldn’t let him discover his children had outfoxed her on the very first night.

  An idea struck. The window. She’d left it open. Charlotte flew down the maze of passages, mentally mapping them as she went along. The inn had been built in a haphazard fashion over the years, but finally, she found a door leading outside. Carefully, she lifted the latch, then stepped out into the night.

  The clouds had retreated from the sky and exposed a bright moon that provided ample illumination as she picked her way through the snow. Wind ruffled her hair. The snow had already begun to melt. Several clumps slid into the heel of her shoes. Charlotte grimaced. She detested wet feet. With her mood rapidly deteriorating, she traced her way back to her room. It took longer than expected. She’d almost given up when she found it, a window with roughly the same view and still ajar.

  “You can’t defeat me, young sir,” she muttered. “So, you don’t have a name, do you? Then I’ll take care of that. I’ll think of the perfect one for you.”

  She stomped to the window, pulled it open, tossed the wet dress inside, and threw a leg over the ledge. The rip of cloth, caused her to freeze and glance back. Her dress had snagged on a nail.

  “Deuce take it,” she grumbled. Now she’d have to mend her dress as well. Would the night ever end? She reached back and carefully lifted her dress free.

  The next moment, a pair of strong hands grabbed her about the waist and yanked her inside. She landed against a broad, well-defined, and very bare chest. She opened her mouth, but the scream died on her lips as a shaft of moonlight fell upon her assailant. Charlotte recognized the sensual jawline, and lifted her gaze to the green eyes that stared down at her.

  Lord Alistair Cassilis.

  Chapter Four

  Alistair paced the length of his room, restless and unbearably hot. The overly eager-to-please innkeeper had stoked the fire beyond what he could withstand—or at least, that was the prevailing theory. He’d promptly divested himself of his waistcoat. His loose-linen shirt had followed. It hadn’t helped. He’d finally cracked open the window for a breath of fresh, cold air, and stood there for a time, letting his thoughts wander where they really wished to go: Miss Charlotte Atchenson.

  He’d made the most dreadful mistake in hiring her.

  The lass could bring him to his knees. He’d already seen enough flashes of that lively, fierce spirit, simmering just below the surface, to intrigue him. And her warm, hazel eyes? So very expressive. Her lips, so very kissable. When he’d awakened her in the carriage, she’d jumped straight into his arms. Aye, he’d been so distracted by those so very kissable lips he’d struggled to let her go.

  Suddenly aware of himself grinning like a foo
l, he frowned and stepped back from the window. He expelled a deep breath, uncertain at the intensity of his attraction to her. Most likely, he’d been so distracted with estate affairs, he had simply forgone female company for far too long. What else could it be? She provoked an unusually strong response deep within him, something he couldn’t recall experiencing the like of before.

  Never had he met a woman who could make his blood boil in the space of a single day. He hadn’t thought such an attraction possible. It most likely wasn’t. His reaction had to be due to something else. But whatever the cause, he had two weeks yet to go before they reached Culzean Castle. The thought concerned him. If the strength of the attraction continued, traveling in such close quarters would be nothing short of a nightmare.

  A scratching sound at the window intruded on his thoughts and he looked over to see fingers curling around the frame. The window began to lift. He frowned. A drunkard? A mischief maker? He took three long strides, then caught sight of her face and the soft brown curls, and halted. It couldn’t be. But it was. The governess, Charlotte. He watched, astonished, as she tossed a wet rag onto the floor and then swung one leg over the window ledge. Her skirt rode up to expose a slender, elegant leg. He raked his gaze over the exposed flesh. Such a lovely leg.

  Her skirt caught on something outside the window. “Deuce take it,” she swore, and yanked to free her dress.

  Alistair grasped her slender waist and yanked her inside. She fell against him hard enough to cause him to stumble back a few paces. He caught himself. Her head snapped up and she gave a small gasp that sent a message directly to his manhood. He swallowed, startled how swiftly his body responded to her softness and the spill of her hair against his bare skin. By Jove, a man wasn’t safe removing his shirt in the privacy of his own bedchambers.

  Charlotte’s jaw dropped open in shock. “My lord! Whatever are you doing here?”

  Alistair released her, then hurriedly retrieved his linen shirt even as a wicked grin of amusement curled his lips. Shrugging into his shirt-sleeves, he faced her, then began fastening the buttons.

  “Why, Miss Atchenson, where else did you expect me to be?”

  Her eyes grew round. “The children? Where are the children?”

  Her alarmed expression startled him. Alistair paused in buttoning his shirt. “They should be asleep in their room.”

  Her brows dove downward and she cast a quick glance around the room. Before he could say more, her cheeks colored with a blush and the truth hit him. She had thought this room was theirs.

  “Sacre-bleu,” she exclaimed.

  Alistair blinked, then the devil possessed him, and he said, “Pray tell, Miss Atchenson, do you make a habit of wandering in the snow and entering through strange windows in the dead of night?”

  She scooped up the wet rag and displayed what he realized was a little girl’s dress. “I had to wash this, my lord. Pardon the intrusion. I didn’t mean to disturb you. If you’ll excuse me, I will go now.”

  She turned and took a step toward the window, but he caught her by the wrist. He merely meant to offer the use of the door, but the moment his skin touched hers, an exquisite wave of torment left him struggling for air like a drowning man. She stared up at him. What man could resist a woman so obviously unaware of her effect on him?

  Reluctantly, he released her and let his hand fall to his side. “The hellion locked you out, didn’t he?”

  Uncertainty shone in her eyes, then he smiled. She shook her head and an answering grin teased the corner of her mouth. His gaze fixed on her soft, pink lips.

  “It’s of no concern, my lord,” she said. “Your children do not yet know me.”

  Your children. The words hit like a bucket of cold water. Och, she thought him a wayward father, a cad who didn’t even know the names of his own offspring. He’d meant to correct her in the carriage, but the lad’s expression had struck him to the quick. He knew that look, the exact same expression he’d worn himself at precisely that age and for entirely the same reason. An angry—yet hopeful—expression. Let the lad believe him to be the man responsible for his suffering. That was preferable to letting his anger fester and rot his soul as he searched for his father behind every man’s face. In the meantime, if the world thought Alistair a wayward, scoundrel of a man—then so be it.

  Still, he couldn’t let the children run wild. “The lad and lassie should treat their governess with respect.” He turned and started toward the door.

  “My lord.” Charlotte dashed forward and laid a restraining hand on his arm. “They are simply being children.”

  He paused and peered down at her. Did she think him a violent man? “And?” He noticed her touch and dropped his gaze to her fingers still resting on his arm.

  Her eyes snapped to his arm and she snatched her hand back. “They must learn to trust me,” she said.

  As he would have her trust him. Might she trust him one day? He shook off the thought and started forward again. “Undoubtedly, you will earn their trust, but I must teach them discipline.” Something their ne’er-do-well father should have done long ago.

  Moments later, he stood before her door, the lady beside him. Alistair raised a hand to knock, then paused. Might it be possible…? He grasped the knob and twisted.

  The knob turned and the door swung back easily.

  Charlotte drew in a sharp breath. “It was locked, my lord. I swear it.”

  He leaned into the room. The children lay in bed, asleep—or feigning it well enough. He snorted. Aye, his nephew was a crafty lad. He’d have to find other ways to put that cunning mind to use.

  “I…excuse the intrusion, my lord,” Charlotte mumbled.

  Alistair looked down at her and smiled. “Not at all, Miss Atchenson. I shall expect you and the children in the parlor for breakfast. We will leave directly after. Good evening.”

  He left her there, curtsying in the doorway, and strode back to his room. After that interesting interlude, sleep would not come easy.

  * * *

  “Blast it! Where could it be?” Alistair swore.

  He’d just fastened the last silver cuff-link to his shirt, then inspected his reflection in the mirror, taking in the simple white knotted neck cloth, the superbly tailored waistcoat of light blue brocade, and the freshly polished boots. Satisfied, he’d glanced over at the bed, where his great overcoat lay freshly brushed. All was as it should be—except he had no hat.

  A thorough search of his room by him and his footman proved fruitless. At home on his ancestral lands, he rarely bothered with such fripperies as hats. The raging sea winds that battered the Ayrshire coast made wearing them impossible. However, in England, a man of his station must wear a hat—reluctantly or not. Alistair barked at the footman to find the pesky thing, then he headed for the breakfast parlor.

  Brow furrowed, he pulled the gold filigree pocket watch from his front pocket and squinted at the face. Eight o’clock. The night had been dreadful—as expected. He hadn’t slept a wink. He’d tried, but his thoughts always circled back to Charlotte, starting with her arrival in Lady Prescott’s home, through the carriage ride, and ending with her lovely leg thrown across his window sill.

  With the smell of ham, eggs and blessed coffee calling him like a siren, he hurried around the hallway corner and nearly ran straight into the subject of his thoughts. Charlotte walked with the children toward the breakfast parlor door.

  He ducked back behind the corner as she said, “I have thought of a happy solution to our problem, young master.” Alistair peeked around the corner as she adjusted the back of the boy’s collar. “Since you will not share your name, I shall bless you with a name of my own.”

  Alistair grinned. So, the lad still tortured his governess, did he? He had to admire the boy’s pluck.

  “I’ve considered the matter quite carefully.” She straightened the wee lassie’s hair ribbon. “And I have chosen a lovely name, so very lovely, indeed.”

  Alistair noted the provocative sway of Cha
rlotte’s slender hips. Already, several wavy strands of her hair had escaped the confines of its prim bun to curl around the tempting curve of her neck.

  Charlotte lifted a finger in the air like a sword and touched the boy’s shoulders as if she were knighting him. Alistair couldn’t help but admire the way the soft folds of her dress outlined her breasts as she gestured and announced in a solemn voice, “I dub thee, Abigail.”

  Alistair tore his eyes from her breasts.

  The boy’s mouth dropped open. “That’s a girl’s name!”

  Charlotte placed her hand over her heart and feigned surprise. “Ah, so you can speak? How pleasant it is to hear your voice this fine morn, sweet Abigail.”

  “’Tis not my name,” the boy insisted.

  Ignoring his sullen response, Charlotte herded them through the breakfast parlor door, saying, “Come, dear Abigail. Let us not be late.”

  Alistair straightened his waistcoat and stepped forward to join them, when a familiar voice hailed him from behind, “What the devil? Do my eyes deceive me?”

  He glanced back to see his friend, Sir Nicholas Hunter Blair, 4th Baronet of Dunskey, striding down the hall toward him. Standing over six feet tall, the baronet radiated a graceful masculinity and aristocratic breeding not only with his striking patrician cheekbones and strong noble jaw, but his cunning wit and keen eye as well, an eye that missed little—save where women were involved. Alistair often wondered if the women played him for a fool, or if he simply enjoyed letting them play the game.

  Nicholas reached him and Alistair grasped the man’s shoulder. “That I’ve lived to see the day you grace a humble village inn instead of a fashionable London hotel. What brings you here, lad?”

  Nicholas’ ice-blue eyes lit with a smile. “Why, you do, my dear fellow.” He nodded his raven head toward the breakfast parlor door. “That and a good, old-fashioned breakfast.”

  Alistair snorted in disbelief. “Since when have you ever risen before noon? I’d wager you’ve yet to fall asleep.”

  “And I must confess you are right,” the baronet admitted with an unrepentant grin. “Truth is, I stand in need of your help, but I’m rather curious, as well, as to why you abandoned Culzean for London this time of year, which forced me to chase you hither and yon, all over the country?”