A Stranger's Promise (Lords of Chance Book 1) Read online

  “I must admit, Oliver is more fitting than Abigail,” she said, permitting herself a small smile as she waved him toward the barouche. When he didn’t move, she paused to prompt, “And?”

  He stood, his brows drawn into a scowl. “Why didn’t you tell him, Miss?”

  Ah, that hat. “Tell him? Tell him what?”

  The boy faltered, then leaned closer and answered in a conspiratorial whisper, “The hat. Why didn’t you tell him about the hat?”

  And relinquish her key to his soul? She placed her cheek close to his and whispered, “What hat? Just this once, I know nothing of a hat.”

  He drew back with a kind of wary wonder, a grin tugging at his mouth. As if suddenly aware he’d revealed too much, he scowled again and jumped into the carriage, taking his sister with him.

  Charlotte followed close behind.

  * * *

  The days passed in a blur. Snow fell, then melted, then fell again.

  In daylight, they traveled through wintry wonderlands blanketed in white through the carriage windows. At night, the snow glittered like diamonds in candlelight under the bright light of the moon.

  Muddy patches began to show through the snow, until the road turned into a sea of mud. Grime and muck caked the carriage, the children’s faces, their shoes and clothes, and even formed a crust on the hem of Charlotte’s skirt.

  Everywhere Charlotte looked, she saw mud. She felt as if she swam in the stuff. Each night, she dragged the children into yet another inn, pulled off their wet, mud-stained clothes and shoes, and did her best to clean and feed them before settling them to bed. After a day cooped up in the carriage, they were rarely in a mood to obey. Their nightly ritual took far longer than it should. Each evening, she fell into bed exhausted to her very bones, only to awake from a dream of arriving at Castle Culzean, to find she had lost the children along the way.

  Oliver’s cooperation turned out to be short-lived. By the end of the first day, he’d reverted to sullen behavior, and again refused to participate. With Lord Cassilis gone, she could no longer use the threat of the hat. Charlotte, however, babbled up a storm. With a never-ending wealth of energy, the child spent the day hopping from seat to seat, peering through the barouche’s plate glass windows with wide-eyed wonder and asking endless questions about each tree or clump of dry grass.

  Gradually, the rolling hills transformed into wild slopes of harsh, desolate beauty. Dark clouds reappeared on the horizon to mask the sky once again. They rose early and travelled late into the night.

  Finally, after what felt like a year, the mutton-chop whiskered footman greeted Charlotte as they stumbled out of the inn and said, “We’ve been fifteen days on the road, Miss Atchenson. Tonight, you’ll sleep in the castle on the edge of the sea.”

  Charlotte flashed a huge smile of relief, too exhausted to reply.

  A hum of excitement underlined the day as they rolled over moorlands dotted with fragile turf huts and through a dense forest of lichen-covered trees. Charlotte cried in delight at red deer that flicked their ears as they watched the carriage pass. Once the carriage left the forest, it followed a narrow road up the rising coastal cliffs as seagulls swooped overhead, wailing plaintively on a wind that carried the salty tang of the sea.

  As they passed an apple orchard late in the day, the horses picked up speed, as if sensing themselves close to home. Finally, as the sun hovered on the horizon, they rounded the last bend in the road and the castle came into view, a spectacular display of turrets and battlements perched high on the edge of a cliff. Below, the sea pounded a craggy shore pitted with rock pools and patches of sand. She found the place wild, rugged—and as intimidating as the man who presided over it.

  The children fell silent, she along with them, their eagerness to arrive replaced with a general unease that the long, tedious weeks now seemed to be ending too fast.

  Before she could bolster her courage, the carriage rolled down the drive. Trees lined both sides of the road. Then the carriage rolled under a ruined archway and past a cluster of outbuildings presided over by a fine clock tower. At last, it reached the castle proper.

  “Whoa there, lads,” the coachman called to the bays, and brought them to a stop before the castle’s massive main doors.

  The footmen dismounted and the mutton-chop whiskered footman opened the carriage door. Charlotte sat still, too aware of her suddenly flailing courage, as well as the children’s stares. She had to be confident. Strong. She smiled gently, then scooted to the door and allowed the footman to hand her out.

  The wind tore through the open courtyard and nearly ripped her bonnet from her head. Charlotte clapped a hand on the hat, turned her head aside, and grabbed her skirts with her free hand lest her legs be bared in seconds.

  As the children exited the carriage behind her, the main door opened and an elderly, crag-faced man dressed in dark trousers and clutching a green Cassilis plaid cloak about his bowed shoulders hurried toward the carriage. A redheaded, ample-bosomed, white-aproned maid followed him.

  They reached the coach as the children huddled beside Charlotte.

  “Welcome, welcome, I’m Angus Foster, the Cassilis piper, but call me Foster, lass,” the elderly man introduced himself with an openhearted smile. “You must be Miss Atchenson, the governess.”

  “Charlotte.” She raised her voice above the buffeting winds. “Charlotte Atchenson, but please call me Charlotte.”

  Foster’s wrinkled cheeks split into a grin and his gaze fell upon the children. Turning to the young freckle-faced maid behind him, he added, “This is Meg. She will care for the bairns now.”

  The words struck Charlotte to the core. Care for the bairns? She frowned.

  “‘Tis my task now, Miss Atchenson,” Meg said in a loud, booming voice. She waved the children toward the castle. “Come with me now, ye wee folk. I’ve warm tea and biscuits in the nursery, and fresh, clean, new clothes for the both of you. Losh, but you look asleep on your feet.”

  Charlotte watched them go, suddenly on the verge of tears. Had she been replaced? Why? Had Lord Cassilis changed his mind? Had Lady Prescott or some other personage convinced him that hiring her was a mistake, after all? Heavens…had he discovered her mastery of the French language included only the colorful words one would never repeat in polite society?

  She turned to the piper in dismay. “I fail to understand.” A strong gust of wind tore through the courtyard, ripping the words from her lips.

  The piper crooked a finger and beckoned her to follow, then hurried to the castle. She entered behind him, the wind nearly pushing her through the open door.

  Once inside, the old man faced her. “Och, the winds blow bitter today, lass, don’t they now?”

  Charlotte struggled to blink back tears. What was she to do in Scotland? Alone. Homeless.

  “If you will follow me.” The old piper was already shuffling away. “His lordship has requested your immediate presence in the library.”

  Immediate presence. Charlotte’s heart sank to her toes. She followed the piper through the dimly lit entrance hall and past a massive display of swords and pistols mounted on the wall. Beyond the weapons display, a grand, central, oval staircase swept upward. She paused on the first rich, red-carpeted step behind him and looked up the twisting stairs to the magnificent, white Corinthian columns ringing the floors above and to the domed glass cupola at the very top.

  The piper glanced back at her. “Come, lass,” he gently encouraged. “His lordship awaits.”

  Charlotte nodded woodenly and forced her feet to carry her up the stairs.

  The piper led her to the second floor and down a passage to the left. They passed under crystal chandeliers ablaze with white candles and strode past portraits in gilded frames. Here and there, a marble-topped table stood elegantly off to the side, holding ornate brass, lit tiered candlesticks that provided glimpses of more elegant rooms and passageways. The castle looked like paradise—especially after more than a week of traveling through mud.

  Finally, the piper stopped in front of an old, massive oak door. He knocked, then opened the door, and nodded for her to enter. Charlotte stepped into a large room lit by a crackling fire contained by a grate of iron pelicans. The orange glow penetrated enough shadows to discern shelves filled with books, with tapestries hung between the shelves. The comforting smell of leather hung in the air.

  Hesitantly, she approached the hearth and two wing-backed chairs upholstered in gold-striped velvet. On a small table positioned between the chairs sat a chessboard, several empty glasses, and a crystal flask filled with a light amber liquid.

  “Thank you, Foster,” Lord Cassilis’s deep voice broke the silence.

  Charlotte jerked as the piper bowed and left, closing the large door behind him.

  The next moment, Lord Cassilis stepped into view from the shadows near the shelves halfway between the door and the hearth. He wore a loose, white, puff-sleeved shirt with his cravat undone and his brocade vest unbuttoned. Her mouth dropped open, the intimacy of his undress heating the tips of her ears.

  “Miss Atchenson.” A smile creased his cheeks. “Please, join me by the fire.”

  Charlotte took a deep breath. “My lord.” She dipped into a curtsey. “I—”

  “Have a seat, please.” He motioned toward the two chairs as he strode toward them. “You have only just arrived. I dare say, you must be dead on your feet.”

  He waited until she took a seat, then lowered himself in the opposite chair. As he leaned back and stretched out his long legs, she couldn’t help but notice how his breeches showcased his muscular thighs, nor did she miss the tanned flesh revealed by his open collar. Memories of her hands on his bare chest at the inn popped into her head.

  Steady on there, Charlotte, she wa
rned. Steady on. She had her employment to fret over now, not the firmness of the man’s chest.

  Lord Cassilis snagged the crystal flask from the table. “I know you are quite weary, Miss Atchenson, so I shall not take much of your time.”

  Charlotte swallowed and nodded.

  “Highland whisky,” he announced.

  He filled two glasses, then handed her one. Charlotte accepted it. Why was he circling around the issue? Why couldn’t he tell her outright just why he’d replaced her?

  He watched her. “Take a drink, Miss Atchenson,” he suggested. “You look as if you could use it.”

  She looked down at the liquid in her glass. She’d never tasted whisky. Her father and Captain Edwards had insisted she abstain from alcohol. But now? She certainly felt in need of bolstering. She took a sip. The whisky dug a hot furrow down her throat.

  She coughed and dragged in a harsh breath. “It tastes like perfume,” she wheezed.

  Lord Cassilis chuckled.

  Charlotte cleared her throat and looked up at him. “My lord,” she croaked. “Meg…” Tears burned her eyes. She struggled to gather her frazzled nerves.

  “Meg?” he echoed, at first sounding bewildered. “Ah yes, Meg. I’ve assigned her to the children’s care.”

  She couldn’t deny it. There it was. He had ended her employment. The stress from the past few weeks crashed down around her. Tears welled in her eyes. In an effort to mask them, she brought her glass to her lips and tossed the whisky back all at once. She braced herself for the fiery path of the liquid down her throat, and managed to only gag. The whisky reached her belly and a pleasantly warm sensation fluttered there.

  “Easy, lass,” Lord Cassilis cautioned.

  She mustered her courage and met his gaze. “Might I ask why, my lord?”

  “Why?” He frowned.

  “We’ve only just arrived, my lord.” A strange lightheadedness made her feel disconnected from her thoughts. “We traveled two long weeks. Surely, surely…” Please, she begged him silently, please let me stay. “Tell me what I must do and I will do it, my lord.”

  He tilted his head. “I have heard plenty from the footman. More than enough to settle that score.”

  She squinted at him. The footman? Which one? They’d all seemed so kind. She’d never thought a one of them to be the sort who would knife her in the back. She glanced at her glass.

  “Allow me.” He refilled her glass.

  Charlotte swiped at tears with the back of her hand, then drained her glass again.

  Lord Cassilis snatched the glass from her. “That’s highland whisky, lass, not water.” He laughed outright. “From the looks of it, you’ve had enough.” Setting her empty glass on the table, he crossed his legs. “I admit, I am confused as to what you mean.”

  She frowned, decidedly dizzy, but suddenly found it much easier to talk. “Why are you ending my employment, my lord? I have only just arrived. Is it…is it my father?”

  His brows rose. “Ending your employment? Pray tell, where did ye hear such a thing?”

  A flicker of hope surged inside her. “But, Mary,” she said, then paused. The name sounded off. It was. “Ah, yes, Meg. But Meg?”

  His face lit with sudden understanding—along with a healthy dose of amusement. “I assigned Meg as the children’s nursemaid. You, my dear, are the governess. Manage them all as you please. As governess, you are responsible for their upbringing. I could hardly expect you to take care of them both, entirely by yourself.”

  “Then you’re not letting me go?” she whispered. But the footman…hadn’t he said something about the footman? She concentrated in an effort to pierce the haze surrounding her thoughts. Finally, she managed to form the words, “The footman?”

  “He only sings your praises, Miss Atchenson. I have received letters of your progress along the way.” Lord Cassilis chuckled again. “In fact, if he were not a happily married man, I would think he would have fallen in love with you.”

  Relief washed over her. A giddy sensation filled her with warmth. “In love with me?” A small giggle escaped her lips. She clamped a hand over her mouth.

  Charlotte stared into his gorgeous emerald green eyes. He was handsome. Too handsome. She’d hoped the journey would clear her mind of such thoughts, but it hadn’t. One look at his chiseled cheekbones, angular nose, and dimpled chin—a formidably masculine dimpled chin—and she was lost once again. Her stomach fluttered.

  She hiccupped. “Damnation,” she mumbled, then realized she’d just hiccupped and cursed. She cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon, Lord Cassslsi…” She paused. Something about the name sounded wrong. Charlotte frowned and tried again. “Lord Cassilis.” Whe tried her best to enunciate each syllable.

  “You’re drunk, lass.” His sensual lips curved up at the corners.

  She forgot what she was trying to say. It was too hard to concentrate around the man. He was simply too handsome. What would he do if she ran her finger down his hard-cut jaw and over the bottom lip of his expressive mouth? Small wonder the poor laundress had fallen prey to his charms. What woman wouldn’t?

  “You’re simply too…handsome.” She yawned. “It’s rather unfair.”

  She blinked twice and frowned again. Had she just said that aloud?

  Chapter Six

  Alistair valiantly struggled to suppress his amusement as he watched Charlotte succumbed to the whisky’s spell. A twinge of guilt stabbed, but only a twinge. He’d underestimated just how much—or little—she could imbibe before succumbing to the powerful drink. He should’ve known her delicate constitution would fail to withstand the second glass, but then, he hadn’t expected her to down it all in one go like the town drunk.

  She frowned, leaned sideways in her chair and squinted. “You’re simply too…handsome. It’s rather unfair.”

  Alistair tensed. What had she said? By God, the woman thought him too handsome? His heart began to pound. She found him attractive?

  She nibbled her bottom lip. His blood burned. How he wanted that mouth. Such a delectable mouth with such pink lips, plump and full, begging to be kissed. As ever, several rebellious curls had escaped her bun, dragging his gaze to the sensual line of her neck. A coil of desire wound through his body.

  “Did I say that aloud, Lord Cssils…” She seemed to wrestle with each word.

  He shouldn’t have poured the second whisky, but he had to admit he felt sorely pressed to regret it. “That I was handsome? Aye, lass, you did.”

  Her pupils widened in the firelight as her lips formed a perfect circle. “Oooh,” she whispered, then added in a rush, “Lord Casssilllis…may I call you Alistair, instead? It is so much easier to say.”

  Alistair chuckled. “Only if I may call you Charlotte.”

  Charlotte nodded, her hazel eyes sparkling. “Please do.” She wrinkled her nose. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have said…”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” he assured. “If anything, it is I who should beg forgiveness for pouring the second whisky, lass.”

  “It tastes dreadful.” She waved her fingers. “But it warms the toes.”

  The toes? He sipped his whisky, then replied, “Indeed.”

  She hiccupped, then covered her mouth again with her hands. “I thought you no longer needed my services,” she confessed in a whisper. “I thought you were letting me go.”

  “Quite the contrary,” he replied.

  The smile spreading over her lovely face beguiled him. Let her go? She’d fascinated him from the moment he laid eyes upon her in Lady Prescott’s drawing room. He’d thought it a fleeting fascination. In the past two weeks, he’d convinced himself he felt nothing extraordinary toward her, nothing beyond the interest a man should feel toward the governess of his own niece and nephew. He’d been wrong. His reaction to her was much stronger this time.

  She yawned and relaxed against the chair back. “Then that is well,” she murmured. “I have no desire to sleep on the streets.”

  The words caught his interest. “Surely, you have relatives somewhere, Charlotte?”

  “The devil I do,” she retorted in a very unladylike manner. “Hardhearted and uncaring wretches, the lot of them—and the Captain, as well.”

  “Captain?” he repeated.