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

  Her brow furrowed in confusion, then horror widened her hazel eyes. So, she did remember.

  With her color heightening, she lifted her chin a notch. “Last night…was much like a dream—”

  “A dream? So, I appear in your dreams?” He injected a touch of suggestion into his tone.

  She blinked and her lips parted again, but before she could reply, a sharp knock sounded on the door.

  Alistair turned as Lady Cassilis entered. Charlotte bolted toward the door. He couldn’t blame her. She paused before Lady Cassilis and curtseyed, allowing him to catch an unexpected and delightful glimpse of her trim ankle, then she fled.

  “Really, Alistair, your manners lack breeding.” Lady Cassilis marched into the room.

  Breeding. Her favorite word. The woman obsessed over the proper placement of people in society. He released a sigh. “Should you not be out searching for this proof you seek? There’s no piper here in the library.”

  She blinked, appearing somewhat taken aback, but switched subjects. “Dare you foist off your own bastards as my son’s children? What nerve you have. Those children have nothing to do with me. I will not allow you to stain my son’s good name.”

  He pinned her with a stare. She would never cease to shock him. “They are your grandchildren, Lady Cassilis, Charles’ children. Until you can behave in a civil manner, keep away from them. Might I suggest London or even Paris?”

  She clucked her tongue. “So ill-behaved, so uneducated. Small wonder that Lady Prescott’s alarmed. And that hussy you call a governess? She dresses like a beggar. Why, such a shameful—”

  “Silence!” he thundered.

  Her chin trembled. “Dare you insult me in my own house?” She curled her fingers into fists.

  “Castle Culzean is no longer your house,” he replied sharply. “It is mine.”

  “For now, Alistair.” Her face flushed a dark red. “For now.”

  He watched her leave, and feared he had just goaded a deadly snake.

  Chapter Seven

  Charlotte groaned, wanting to melt right through the floor. She’d hoped it was just a dream. But after seeing the amusement in those emerald eyes, she knew it hadn’t been a dream at all. She had, indeed, asked Lord Cassilis if she could call him by name and she’d told him he was handsome. She quickened her pace toward the nursery, her cheeks burning. She would never drink highland whisky again. She would have to hide from him, at least a month or more—maybe forever. Devil take it, and more besides. What had come over her?

  What of the way he’d looked at her in the library? Her breath caught at the recollection of that ravenously sensual expression. If he ever unleashed the full force of that charm, she would fall in the blink of an eye. Her heart thudded. Heavens, why did such a possibility excite her? Where was her shame?

  Shaking off her thoughts, she opened the nursery door. Meg’s rocking chair stood empty before the fire, but she could hear the muffled sounds of her voice, along with Jane’s giggles, coming from behind the little girl’s bedroom door. Oliver was nowhere to be seen. She hurried to his bedroom door, paused, then peered through the crack. The boy stood by the window, hugging the Latin grammar to his thin chest. He looked so lost, so sad, that the reprimand died on her lips.

  Charlotte eased the door open. “Oliver?”

  He jerked and his eyes shuttered at once. Jutting out his chin, he met her gaze and the all-too-familiar stubbornness ran rampant over his face.

  So, he still wanted to hide his pain behind anger. She pointed over her shoulder at the table in the nursery. “You’ve a chapter to copy, do you not, young master? You’d best hurry.”

  “I don’t know any letters,” he half snarled, even as he clutched the book tighter.

  “I didn’t think you did,” she replied in a matter-of-fact way. She clapped her hands and pointed to the table again. “But that doesn’t stop you from making your best effort. I will find quill and paper, and you will spend the day copy what you can. You must show something to your father before supper, do you not agree?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. Once.

  Charlotte turned away, unable to halt a grin. So, the little devil wanted to impress his father. It was a great start. If she managed to make him sit for an hour and scratch out three letters, she would consider the day a success.

  He emerged from the bedroom and went to the table as she rummaged in the nearby cupboard for writing supplies. The first shelf revealed several books, including one titled The Fine Art of Deportment. She flipped through the pages, then set it aside to read later. In short order, she located a small glass bottle of ink, a quill, and several sheets of paper. After Charlotte set the boy to work, she stepped back to dust her hands. A sudden sharp knock on the door startled them both.

  “Eyes down, Oliver,” she ordered, then answered the door.

  A young maid with reddish-brown curls peeked out from under her mob-cap fidgeted on the threshold. “Lady Cassilis wishes to see you, Miss.” She winced with a commiserating smile. “I am to take you there, at once.”

  A shiver of dread danced down Charlotte’s spine. Clearing her throat, she replied, “Let me tell Meg.”

  The maid nodded, then whispered, “Best hurry, Miss. Lady Cassilis’s not one to cross.”

  From the little she’d seen of the woman, Charlotte agreed. She quickly informed Meg, then followed the maid through the castle, up and down stairs and across floors until she’d lost her sense of direction. All too soon, they entered Lady Cassilis’s room.

  The room was large and finely furnished with a magnificent pink floral carpet, plush armchairs, and an elegantly inlaid Baroque-styled secretary desk. Sweeping, gold-velvet curtains covered the windows. Lady Cassilis’s sour expression appeared at odds with the cheerful fire before which she sat.

  “My lady.” Charlotte curtsied.

  The woman subjected her to a drawn-out inspection. Finally, she snapped her fan open and spoke. “It seems you must be taught your proper place in this house. You are a domestic, a servant, and nothing more. As such, you cannot indulge in unsuitable familiarity with your employer. Lord Cassilis is a man of rank. On my word, I’ve never seen such scandalous behavior in a governess. Never, in all my days.”

  Charlotte’s heart began to pound. “Please, my lady, how have I offended?” She struggled to speak through suddenly numb lips.

  “The impudence,” Lady Cassilis pressed on. “Do you think Lord Cassilis to be your personal footman? To carry you to your bed whenever you’re drunk out of your wits?”

  Charlotte froze. He’d carried her to her bed? She had no recollection of that. She barely recalled snippets of their conversation in the library before awakening in her bed with a raging headache.

  “Do you understand the importance of a room such as the Blue Drawing Room?” Lady Cassilis rapped her fan on the arm of her chair to capture Charlotte’s attention.

  Charlotte jerked. The Blue Drawing Room? Alistair had taken Oliver there to show him his roots and the value of hard work, but she knew Lady Cassilis meant nothing of the sort. Quickly, she shook her head.

  “It is a measure of society,” the woman said. “It is the line. It separates those who are born to sit in it and those who are born to clean it. Are you confused as to which side of that line you stand?”

  Her remarks stung like a slap on the face. Charlotte swallowed. “Nae, my lady.”

  “Then I will see you act in accordance with your rank.” Rising to her feet, she huffed. “We have guests arriving this very moment. I expect you to stand with the other domestics to greet them. Make yourself presentable and go at once.”

  Charlotte fled.

  The sympathetic mob-capped maid caught her arm at the door. “Quickly, Miss.” She dragged Charlotte to a nearby mirror. “They’ve already started the line downstairs. Here, I’ll help.”

  Flustered, Charlotte squinted at her reflection. Her cheeks stood out as two bright pink spots under her wide hazel eyes. She looked terrified. Perhaps, because she was. The maid tucked her unruly stray curls into her bun in the back, she worked on the front. Her gown, though serviceable, had begun to look a little frayed and worn. She’d do well to find another dress or two, before Lady Cassilis complained over the state of her clothes. Biting her lip, Charlotte focused on her hair, but when a curl she’d already tucked into place for the third time sprang out again, she dropped her hands and blew the remaining hair out of her eyes with an exasperated huff.

  “It’s impossible,” she said with a rueful smile to the young woman still vainly trying to tame her curls. “My hair goes whither it will. If it displeases her ladyship, then I will go whither the wind blows. I can change, but I fear, my hair cannot.”

  The maid laughed shyly. “Aye, it is good enough, and with the wildness of the winds outside, we’ll all suffer the same fate. Who’s to notice only yours?”

  Lady Cassilis, Charlotte thought pointedly, but she knew better than to say such things aloud. The woman had the eyes of a hawk, and no doubt, the ears of an owl.

  They hurried down the servants’ stairs to the foyer. When they neared the door, Charlotte slowed while Meg continued outside to the tail-end of the servants’ line that stretched from the castle entrance to the drive. Charlotte couldn’t take her eyes off Alistair, who waited with his friend Nicholas at the driveway to greet the approaching carriage. Her heart began to thud. Wind whipped a light mist. His hair tossed against his forehead. He looked so tall and handsome in his tight gray trousers, Hessian boots, and dark blue cutaway coat with its brass buttons, long tails, and standup collar.

  Charlotte halted at the door. She didn’t want to face him. She glanced around, tempted to duck away and hide, but Lady Cassilis chose that moment to sweep down the grand staircase. Charlotte hurri
ed out the door. Gusts of wind tugged her hair. In seconds, the primping of the moments before was undone. She winced, wondering how long they would have to wait.

  From the corner of her eye, Charlotte glimpsed Lady Cassilis emerge from the castle. Despite the wind and rain, she paused to inspect the servants as she pulled on her long, white gloves. Their eyes met. Charlotte quickly glanced away and swallowed. There was no running now. The jingle of harnesses and the crunch of wheels on gravel announced the final arrival of the carriage as the coachman pulled rein and Alistair and Nicholas stepped forward to open the door. Charlotte spied a small, delicate shoe and the hem of a fine pink gown before something flashed in the corner of her eye. Startled, she glanced up. Her heart leapt into her throat.

  Oliver.

  Wearing a bright green hat with a red feather, the boy dashed to the side of the drive and along the low, stone wall, headed toward the clock tower.

  Her heart sank. Whispering a hasty “Excuse me” to the servants flanking either side, Charlotte hurried down the steps, then took off at a dead run after him. She followed the stone wall, calling his name. But the fierce winds ripped the words from her mouth, and he was far too quick on his feet. She clapped a hand to her cap. Before she’d closed the distance half way, he darted under the clock tower and disappeared from sight.

  Charlotte burst into the clock tower courtyard right after him, only to find it empty. Turning in a circle, she gasped between breaths, “Oliver! Come here, at once!”

  There was no response.

  At the sudden whinny of a horse, she darted through the back archway and down a short drive leading to a long, low stone building perched near the edge of the cliff and protected from the sea below by a stone wall. The smell of horse and a mound of hay near the open door, told her she’d reached the stables. Charlotte yanked up her skirts, ran to the door and darted inside. At once, she spied Oliver’s green hat poking above a nearby stall.

  “Oliver,” she called, pausing to catch her breath. “Come out. Immediately.”

  He didn’t move.

  “I had had enough of your games, Oliver,” she said firmly.

  Her gaze caught on the stall opposite her. She jumped back as a wild looking stallion peered back at her, pawing the ground with his massive hoof. Charlotte retreated another step, eyes on the mighty hooves visible beneath the half-stall door. The beast flattened its ears and tossed its head, letting out a vicious snort to announce its unhappiness with her presence.

  Charlotte inched along the wall toward Oliver’s stall, hissing, “It’s dangerous here, Oliver. We must go now.”

  Still, the boy refused to answer.

  The stallion whinnied again.

  Charlotte drew a shaky breath. “You’re such a lovely horse,” she crooned, inching past and added wryly, “Whatever are you afraid of, Charlotte? The animal is locked safely in its stall.”

  The horse continued to snort and paw the ground, as it watched her every move. Gathering courage, she scurried to Oliver’s stall only to discover the green hat dangling on the handle of a pitchfork.

  “What the devil?” Charlotte snatched up the hat.

  Giggles overhead made her look up. She froze. He scampered among the low rafters. Low, but not low enough for her to reach up and drag him down by a leg.

  “Come down, at once.” She gasped when he leapt from beam to beam. “It’s far too dangerous, Oliver! Whatever are you thinking?”

  He jumped to the beam over the stallion’s stall and balanced on the rafter, looking down at her with a devious glint of mischief—then his eyes widened and his arms flailed.

  He fell.

  Charlotte lunged toward the stall and yanked the latch. The stallion screamed and reared, its massive front hooves slicing the air. Then it charged her. Strong hands seized her arm and yanked her out of the stallion’s path, and into the opposite stall, as more horses galloped past. She stumbled and fell, landing hard under a muscled chest as the stallion thundered past. Men’s voices rang out.

  Overhead, Oliver scrambled into the safety of the rafters. Charlotte closed her eyes in relief. When she opened them again, she came face-to-face with Lord Cassilis who lay on top of her, his green eyes inches from hers. Her heart thundered.

  His mouth thinned in a grim line. “That stallion is wild, Miss Atchenson.” A strand of dark hair fell over his face. “It’s dangerous.”

  Suddenly, Charlotte became aware of the rugged planes of his chest and the weight of his body. Her breath caught. His lashes lowered. Time slowed and the hectic voices around them faded. Slowly, he lifted a hand and traced the outline of her jaw with the pad of his thumb. Each gentle sweep sent fire coursing through her. She shifted her gaze to his mouth and the sensual dent of his chiseled chin. With his heavily fringed lashes riding low over his eyes, he bent his head until his lips hovered above hers.

  A man’s urgent voice shattered the spell.

  “My lord! My lord!”

  Charlotte froze. As Lord Cassilis began to rose, a soft moan of loss escaped her lips before she could bite it back. He hesitated and pinned her with a hungry look that stole her breath. He abruptly pushed to his feet, pulling her up with him. He put a finger to his lips and motioned for her to remain out of view in the stall, then stepped into the walkway, half within her view.

  “Ah, my lord,” said a voice she recognized as the same man who had called for Lord Cassilis. “It appears as if someone unlatched every one of the stall doors.”

  “Indeed.” Alistair looked at the rafter where Oliver sat, hugging his knees, white-faced.

  Lord Cassilis returned his gaze to the man. “And the horses?”

  “Och, they’ve not gone far, my lord, even the stallion,” the man replied. “We’ll have them back soon enough.”

  “Very well,” Alistair dismissed the man with a nod. Bootfalls receded as Lord Cassilis strode to where Oliver perched over the stall opposite Charlotte. He pointed at the stable floor. “Down. Now.”

  The boy dropped down at once.

  “You could very well have gotten Miss Atchenson killed,” Alistair said in a quiet voice.

  The boy’s face crumpled.

  “This very morning, I treated you with kindness,” Alistair’s deep baritone continued. “Perhaps you would understand a whip better?”

  Oliver paled.

  A tense silence descended. Charlotte hurried from the stall to join them.

  Alistair glanced at her, then pointed to the door and said to the boy, “Off with you to the nursery. I will discuss your punishment after supper, but you may start by adding another chapter of Latin to this morning’s task. Go.”

  Oliver ran.

  Alistair faced her. “Charlotte, what were you doing in the line? Did Lady Cassilis bid you stand with the servants?”

  She started at the unexpected question as well as the casual use of her name. He stood too close. So close, she felt the heat radiating from his body.

  She dropped her gaze to the ground and replied, “I fear I have upset her, my lor—”

  “Hush.” He pressed a finger to her lips.

  She froze.

  His dark lashes dipped as his gaze locked on her mouth, then his hand fell away. “I weary of curtsies and ‘my lords’.” His eyes met hers and she started at the stark honesty. “You asked me once if you could call me Alistair. Indeed, I would prefer it.”

  Images collided in her head—the conversation in the library, the whisky, her moan on the stable floor.

  “I-I must go.” She gathered her skirts and fled.

  He didn’t follow. For that, Charlotte was grateful. Minutes later, she burst into the nursery, startling Meg where she sat at the table with the children.

  “Losh, Miss, what’s happened?” The jolly, freckle-faced maid jumped to her feet.

  In an effort to regain her composure, Charlotte slowly closed the door then turned to face her. “Nothing’s happened, Meg.”

  A speculative light leapt into Meg’s eyes, but Charlotte ignored it and joined Oliver at the table, a broken quill in his hand and ink-blotted paper before him. She sat in the chair to his right.

  “I have been trying to teach him his letters,” Meg said as she left the table. “But you will do better, Miss. Charlotte and I are on our way to the kitchens.”