“We’re making progress in our investigation into the whisky smugglers.” Richard was stroking her hair gently away from her face. “We’re closing in on the leader of the gang.”
Allegra smothered a sigh. She did not want to talk, least of all about Richard’s work, which she considered tedious in the extreme. On the other hand, Richard had sounded very pleased with himself so she made a noise that indicated how clever she thought he was and snuggled deeper into his embrace, turning her face into his throat and pressing her lips against the warm, damp skin there. His arms tightened about her. She thought there was nothing nicer than this intimacy, unless it was making love itself. She loved the slide of Richard’s body against hers and the feel of him inside her. And she thought she was probably quite good at sex. It was pleasing to find something that interested her so much; all her previous attempts at activities such as needlework or playing the piano had been such a bore.
“We found the cave where the smugglers have been hiding their contraband,” Richard said. He was stroking her hair absentmindedly, and Allegra could tell that his thoughts were on his work and not on her. “It was empty of the peat-reek,” Richard said, “but we caught someone there. They come from here—from the castle.”
Allegra half sat up out of his arms and blinked at him. “Here?” The thought disturbed her. She was not sure why. She knew that whisky smugglers were very active in the neighborhood. Everyone knew that. But it had never occurred to her that they might have connections to Kilmory Castle itself. “Who was it?” she said. “Is he a member of the smuggling gang?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Richard said. He sounded so smug Allegra wanted to slap him. “But they gave us some useful information and they are going to spy for us.”
Allegra’s feeling of disquiet increased. She had no loyalty to the smugglers, but she disliked the thought of someone from the castle acting as informer. It felt deceitful, dangerous and wrong.
“I expect the leader of the gang is Uncle Lachlan,” she said, yawning, sliding down under the covers again. “He drinks so much whisky he probably needs to make it himself.”
“Lachlan MacMorlan is nowhere near the drunkard everyone imagines him,” Richard said drily. “Even so, we’re looking for a cooler head than his.” He stretched. “If we stamp out this plague of smugglers, the home secretary himself will commend my work. Your parents must accept me then—”
He stopped. Allegra had not been able to stifle her sigh. “They will,” she said soothingly to forestall his next comment. “They just need time to get used to the idea of you as a son-in-law—”
“You still haven’t told them,” Richard said flatly. “You promised me you had. I thought, tonight...”
“You thought I was bringing you in secretly through the servants’ quarters because they knew we were married and wanted to meet you?” Allegra sighed. “Oh, Richard! Anyway—” she ran a hand over his chest “—I will tell them. And it is more romantic like this, more exciting.”
Richard, however, evidently did not think so. He had sat up and was starting to pull on his clothes. Allegra shot upright. “Where are you going?”
“I have to leave.”
“But why?” Allegra remembered at the last minute to keep her voice from becoming a wail. “It is barely past midnight. We have the whole night—” She let the covers fall artistically to expose her breasts. Richard stopped, stared for a moment and then picked up his boots, turning away. In the faint twilight Allegra could see his profile and the mutinous line of his mouth. Her heart sank. This was not about him making a discreet exit unseen. It was about punishing her for keeping him a secret.
He partially turned to face her. “I’m not your lover, Allegra,” he said. “I’m your husband.” His voice was hard. “If you do not tell them within the week, I will do it myself.”
“Very well,” Allegra said. She knew when to sound meek. A lifetime with her mother had taught her that. “I promise,” she said. She slid across the bed to sit beside him, placing a hand on his bare shoulder. “You do not have to go.”
He glanced sideways at her. She loved the way that his hair fell across his brow, so tousled, like a poet, and the lean curve of his cheek and the sensuality of those lips. She kissed him and felt the resistance in him falter, so she experimented by exerting a little pressure against his chest and was gratified when he lay back with a sigh. It did not take her long to unfasten his trousers. She had been practicing. He made a sound of acquiescence when she took his staff in her hand and stroked it, and a strangled cry when she leaned over to take him in her mouth.
“Allegra—” He tried to sit up, but she gently pushed him back. “You must not...”
“Hush.” She ran her tongue over him, tasting. It was so strange and yet so delicious. She had been right; she definitely was a wanton.
“How did you know...” His voice was faint.
“I read about it.” She felt pleased with herself. She paused, licked the tip and enjoyed his groan. “You can find everything you need in grandfather’s library.”
* * *
THE DUKE’S DISSATISFACTION with his grotto had a very beneficial effect; it enabled Lucas to get into the castle. Mr. Bevan called him into the drawing office on the morning after his meeting with Eyre. The land agent was a pleasant man, spare and sandy and dry in manner. Lucas liked him.
“In strictest confidence, Ross, I think this project of His Grace’s is a waste of time, money and resources,” Bevan said, pushing the hair back from his forehead with a tired gesture. The lines bit deep around his eyes and mouth as he frowned. “Lady Christina and I agree that there are many more parts of the estate in more urgent need of attention. However—” he sighed “—His Grace is adamant that this should be a priority and he will not be gainsaid. So...” He shrugged with a mixture of resignation and good humor. “I should be obliged if you could take the matter in hand. Go into the library and consult these books His Grace mentions.” He passed over a list written in the duke’s extravagant scrawl. “Good luck, Ross.”
It was more than Lucas could have hoped for. The library was an excellent place to search for a key to Peter’s death.
It was Thomas Wallace who let him in at the front door, proud in his footman’s livery, his round, freckled face polished and scrubbed.
“I can read and write myself, you know,” he confided, when Lucas told him his errand. “I went to the school in the village, the one Lady Christina’s mother set up.”
It was the first time that Lucas had heard anyone mention the late Duchess of Forres. He vaguely remembered Jack once saying that she had died many years before and that it was Christina who had raised her younger siblings. He wondered if Christina derived her nurturing spirit from her mother, and how she had felt to give up her own future to care for her brothers and sisters. She never spoke of it, of course. Lucas knew it was not something she would broach with her servants, but he felt a curiosity to ask her.
As he went into the library he saw that he was not alone. Christina was at the other end of the room, standing on a rickety-looking ladder as she attempted to replace a book on a high shelf. As she stretched upward the ladder wobbled alarmingly. She reversed hastily down the steps, so hastily that she ended up cannoning into Lucas as he came forward to help her.
Once again, Lucas found his arms full of warm woman. She smelled clean and fresh with the faintest hint of summer grass. She was pressed tightly against him, held fast in his arms. Now he was so close Lucas could see how thick and dark her eyelashes were, a striking contrast to the very deep blue of her eyes. She gave a startled gasp and her lips, right beneath his, parted, and the urge to kiss her roared through him. His body’s response to her was so fast and so fierce there was nothing he could do to hide it.
She felt it. His erection was so hard she could scarcely have missed it. He felt the shock rip through her, saw her eyes widen farther, and she looked at him so accusingly he almost laughed.
“Mr. Ross! For sh
ame! In the library!”
Lucas placed her very gently away from him. “I’m afraid that the male anatomy is fairly indiscriminate about location, my lady, though if you prefer we could go elsewhere.”
Christina gave an exasperated huff and fussed about straightening her clothes. She very deliberately avoided his gaze. Lucas was fascinated by her reaction. She had certainly been taken aback by the very obvious response he had to her, but she had not indulged in outraged vapors. He remembered the uninhibited way in which she had responded to his kisses. Her behavior suggested that she was not a virgin. Either that or her education had been quite appallingly broad, which, knowing the Duke of Forres’s unconventional academic interests, was not impossible.
“If I were a gentleman I would apologize,” Lucas said. “However, we have previously established that I am not. I am delighted that I was there to catch you, Lady Christina.”
Christina’s eyes flashed with irritation. Her lips thinned as she looked at him with absolute contempt. “Just when I think you could not possibly be more inappropriate, Mr. Ross,” she said icily, “you surprise me by reaching a new low.”
“I may have surprised you but I don’t think I have shocked you unbearably,” Lucas said. “You are...ah...accustomed to the male anatomy, are you not, Lady Christina?”
The color swamped her face. She might be experienced, but she was not in the least brazen. Lucas suddenly wished he had not embarrassed her. There was something gallant and touching in the way she raised her chin and glared at him.
“That,” she said, “is absolutely none of your concern, Mr. Ross.”
Well, that was true. Even so, Lucas wondered. Convention demanded that the unmarried daughter of a duke should save herself for her husband on her wedding night. Perhaps Christina, believing she might never wed, had wanted to know what she was missing. The thought did nothing to douse his lust for her. From the start he had found her extraordinarily alluring; he had not even needed to see her to want her. Now everything about her, from the rounded curve of her cheek to the sweet tilt of her lips, made him want to kiss her.
“What are you doing indoors, Mr. Ross?” Christina said. “In the library of all places?”
“I can read,” Lucas said mildly. “And I am house-trained and so may be safely allowed indoors.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Christina said. “However, what I meant was why does your work bring you inside the castle?”
“Mr. Bevan has asked me to take a look at the books of Gothic architecture that have inspired the duke’s plans,” Lucas said. “As you know, my work does not currently live up to his expectations.”
Christina gave an exaggerated sigh. “No one’s work ever does, Mr. Ross. So far Papa has created an ornamental lake, two bridges, a summerhouse, an arbor and a lime avenue. The Gothic grotto is merely his latest fancy and none of them seem to please him when they are transferred from his imagination to mortar and stone.”
“It must be very disappointing for him,” Lucas said, “to fail to translate his dreams into reality.”
“It is never Papa who fails,” Christina said drily, “only the rest of us who fail to live up to his standards.” Then, as though she realized that she had criticized her father to a servant, she blushed. “Excuse me, Mr. Ross,” she said. “I have a great deal to do.”
“If I could trouble you to show me where the duke’s books on architecture are to be found...” Lucas said.
Christina nodded. She led him down the long room past rank upon rank of high bookcases and took a left turn. Here there was a desk in a stone bay window. The sun, slanting in through the high colored glass at the top, patterned the floor and made the dust motes dance in the light.
“More dust.” Christina sounded distracted. “Poor Annie. There is nothing so hopeless as trying to keep a castle like this clean.” She waved a hand over a scatter of books on the leather top of the desk. “Here you have them, Mr. Ross. I hope they will give you an idea of what my father has in mind.” Her gaze fell on the top book and she bit her lip, recoiling slightly. “Oh, my goodness! I assume papa does not intend his statues to be quite so overendowed.”
“I now have a mental image of the garden grotto as a woodland glade in which satyrs ravish innocent maidens,” Lucas said, enjoying her discomfiture. He was sure that for a moment her gaze had flickered to his groin as though comparing him to the preposterously huge naked men in the book.
“Pray remove that image from your mind,” Christina said sharply. “We do not require you to use your imagination, Mr. Ross. Not at all. Here...” She riffled through the book, her fingers trembling slightly. “These are the vases and urns and statues that would look most appropriate in the grotto, and this is the archway that Papa admires. There is no need to include the seminaked goddess,” she added quickly.
There was a wanton-looking woman sitting astride the point of the arch in a most suggestive fashion. Her gown was slipping down to her waist and there was a dreamy smile on her face.
“Ah,” Lucas said. “Yes. Far more respectable to ignore a goddess pleasuring herself.” He smiled. “What a very fascinating collection of books your father possesses, Lady Christina.”
“It is literature,” Christina said. She cleared her throat. “Literature and art.”
“That is one description for it,” Lucas said. “I begin to see what a wide education you have had, Lady Christina.”
Christina looked so ruffled and confused, as though the experience earlier, his proximity, his obvious desire for her, had completely overwhelmed her usual cool competence. Her blue gaze touched his and slid away. “I shall leave you to...ah...research in peace,” she said. “I hope you do not find it too disturbing an experience.”
“On the contrary,” Lucas said. “I—”
He stopped. Christina had bent to pick up a flower basket from the floor. Evidently before the contretemps with the book, she had been arranging the peonies that glowed a soft pink in the vase on the desk. The sun was burnishing the auburn of her hair, picking out threads of gold and copper and rich brown. It also struck the jewel-bright colors on a painting on the shelves to the left of her, a painting showing the baby Jesus clasped in his mother’s arms. It was no bigger than the size of a book and it stood in a recessed alcove, half-hidden by the books around it. Lucas felt a chill rush through his body like icy water. Very slowly he walked forward to stand in front of it.
“This is unusual,” he said. His voice was steady, surprising him.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Christina had come back down the aisle to join him. Her head was bent as she traced the line of Mary’s face with one finger. “What a serene expression she has. It looks very old and...” She paused. “I don’t remember seeing it in here before. It’s Russian, I think. I believe Papa has some other ones in his collection. He must have decided to exhibit them.”
“Where did it come from?” Lucas asked. He knew the answer; it had been Peter’s and before that their mother’s. It was an icon, a Russian religious picture. He remembered it from his childhood. He had loved it for its delicate beauty. His mother had told him it was ancient and very precious. The sunlight seemed to dance in front of his eyes, the colors blurring.
Christina was shaking her head. “I am not sure.” A shade of uncertainty entered her voice. “As I say, I believe that Papa has a number of them. He bought them when he was on his Grand Tour.”
She was frowning, and the look she gave Lucas was edged with doubt. “Why do you ask, Mr. Ross?”
“No reason,” Lucas said. “I thought it pretty, that is all.” His mind was racing. Once again the Duke of Forres was implicated in Peter’s death. Yet was so slight and frail a man really capable of murder? It seemed unlikely, if not impossible. Perhaps the duke had been the unknowing dupe of the real murderer who had sought to capitalize on his crime by selling off those items he had stolen.
He fell into step beside Christina. “I think I will bring the plans from the drawing office so that I can compa
re them with the designs in the book,” he said. He wanted to talk to her, to find out more about her father’s collection and about Peter’s visit to Kilmory but he did not want to keep Christina standing in the library lest it aroused her suspicions. He opened the heavy oak library door for her and stood back to let her pass.
“May I escort you anywhere?” he asked.
“Oh...” She seemed taken aback at his offer. “I was going to return my basket to the hothouses and then check on Mr. Hemmings’s gout. I know it still pains him.” She glanced up at Lucas’s face. “But there is no need to walk with me, Mr. Ross.”
“It’s no trouble,” Lucas said. “We are heading in the same direction.”
It did not look as though his answer pleased her, but short of dismissing him directly there was little she could do. Lucas knew she had been avoiding him and did not particularly want his company. She was attracted to him and she did not want to be. In her eyes he was a servant, a man younger than she was and so far beneath her socially that he barely registered on the scale at all. It was an improper attraction in so many ways and she was sensible to try to ignore it. Lucas knew that he should do the same. He was certain now that Lady Christina MacMorlan was innocent of Peter’s murder. Her response to the icon had been the same as it had to the silver clasp; she had no knowledge of their true origins. If he were not to deceive her further, if he were not to hurt her as he had promised Jack he would not, he needed to keep out of her way and continue his investigation without her involvement.
He glanced down at her. She looked very neat this morning in a prim yellow gown, her hair in a no-nonsense chignon. Yet he knew what it was like to feel the silkiness of that hair between his fingers as he kissed her. He knew the curve of her breast beneath that prim bodice and the crisp shift underneath. And he really should not be thinking such thoughts since they did nothing to ease his arousal.
Galloway was in the hall. His long face lengthened even further when he saw Lucas.
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