by Lily Maxton
“What?”
Ian frowned.
“You were scowling at me.”
“No, I wasna.”
Townsend’s lips quirked. “Suit yourself.”
Ian took a sip of whisky, the amber liquid burning a trail of peat and fire down his throat.
Townsend lifted his glass, almost in a toast. As if they were friends who drank together all the time, instead of two men who had nothing in common, united only by desperation. “It’s good, isn’t it? It’s from Skye.”
“It isn’t bad.”
“That, coming from you, I will count as high praise.”
“Suit yourself,” Ian said, unconsciously mimicking the other man’s words.
Townsend laughed. It was a nice laugh, quiet and unassuming and slightly husky. Ian was annoyed with himself for noticing it. More than annoyed by the way it prickled along his spine.
They drank in silence for a moment, and then, “I can’t believe this is happening,” Townsend said, breaking through the stillness.
“What?”
“Any of it. Stolen possessions, the Worthingtons threatening to go to the sheriff if I don’t find and punish the culprit. I thought—”
Ian was unwillingly interested in the end to that statement. “What did you think?”
“I thought I could do better this time, with my brother gone. Everything almost fell apart in Edinburgh…I thought this time, things would go smoothly.”
Ian wasn’t really following this conversation. And he didn’t know why he cared about it at all, except…except Townsend had never really looked like this before—uncertain and a little miserable. He was seeing a side of Townsend that he usually kept hidden, revealed by the quiet and the shadows. He felt like he was seeing something he wasn’t supposed to see, that he might never see again. He wasn’t sure why it seemed so important.
“What happened in Edinburgh?”
“What didn’t happen in Edinburgh?” Townsend sighed. “Suffice it to say, my sister Eleanor got into some rather scandalous activity—not of that sort—” he said at Ian’s questioning look, “but something I should have stopped her from doing. I didn’t stop her. When I realized she was set on her course, I actually helped her. And then she was on the knife’s edge of ruin, and somehow, miraculously, everything worked out as well as it could have. But it wasn’t through anything I did.”
“There’s no use dwelling on things that can’t be changed,” Ian said.
“And it’s a selfish attitude to take,” Townsend said.
“I didna say that.”
“You mean you weren’t thinking it? Come now.” He smiled slightly.
Ian looked down at his glass—he had been thinking something along those lines—he just hadn’t realized it showed on his face. He was usually better at hiding his thoughts than this. Maybe it was the whisky.
“Everyone is a little selfish,” Ian finally said. “There are worse things to be.”
After a few beats of silence, he looked up. Townsend was staring down at his glass, and Ian took the moment to watch him, unseen. He was a bit too handsome for Ian’s liking. Ian was always tempted to look at him but didn’t often let himself.
Townsend, sable haired and tall, had deep-set brown eyes, a straight nose, and sharp cheekbones that slipped down to a firm jaw. This perusal led Ian to his mouth, which was often curved slightly, as though there was always something in the world to be amused by and Townsend would always find it.
Now, though, he wasn’t smiling. His mouth was wide, his lips slightly full for a man, but they fit his face perfectly.
Heat tickled Ian’s abdomen.
As though he sensed the change, Townsend glanced up, eyes nearly black in the shadow. For a second, Ian thought…he wondered…but then Townsend tossed back the last of his drink and set the glass down with a loud thump.
“I daresay you’ll be happy when the clouds clear and you’ll be able to star—” Townsend broke off, quite abruptly. But it was too late.
Underneath the table, Ian’s hand curled into a fist. It felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach. He was an idiot for letting his guard down, even for an instant. “You went through my things.”
Townsend grimaced. “You knew I went through your things. I had no other choice.”
“You looked at my things.”
Only a slight hesitation. “Yes.”
Ian pushed back from the table. He didn’t have many personal possessions—he didn’t want to be burdened by too many things—but the ones he did keep were the ones closest to his heart, and he kept them safe. He’d never shown them to anyone before.
And then Townsend came along, head full of his overblown sense of authority, thinking he could do whatever he wanted, see whatever he wanted, pawing through Ian’s life as though he wasn’t crossing a boundary.
Maybe he didn’t realize he was. He was an aristocrat’s brother, after all. They all thought they were entitled to something.
“Cameron—”
But Ian was already striding from the room.
Chapter Six
If it meant he could make a quick escape from the library, Ian was tempted to shoot himself in the foot. He glanced out the window longingly as Miss Hale chattered on—the rain had stopped, but the clouds still hung low and heavy, as if they might unleash another torrent at any second and drown unsuspecting travelers.
If it were any other day, he would have risked getting caught in a downpour to feel cool air on his skin after being stuck inside for so long. But this wasn’t any other day. His life was at stake—his reputation, his freedom. His grip tightened on the dainty teacup in his hand.
“Do you speak it, then?”
He looked down at the exuberant Miss Hale. The damp, diffused light from outside was offset by the high blaze in the library’s hearth and pools of yellow candlelight from two gilded chandeliers. In the background, the others’ voices and laughter ebbed and flowed like water, punctuated by the occasional click of balls colliding at the billiards table.
It might have been cozy, if he wouldn’t have rather been anywhere else. If he wasn’t with people who would as soon accuse him of stealing as talk to him.
Miss Hale was still smiling at him expectantly.
“Eh?”
“Gaelic!” she said, as though he was being delightfully silly. She flicked her fan shut and swatted his arm. He wasn’t sure why she’d brought a fan on a tour of the Highlands.
And was she flirting with him? Christ, the girl couldn’t be more than sixteen. He was over ten years her senior in age and probably more like twenty in life experience. He had to give her credit, though—she didn’t falter in the face of his monotone answers and impassive stares. She was either remarkably inobservant or remarkably confident.
“Aye.”
“Do speak a little for me?”
Ian wasn’t a trick horse at a fair. But he hadn’t made it this far in life by losing his temper easily. He hated letting his anger show. It was a weakness to let someone else know they’d affected him enough to make him angry.
Once, cold, hard determination had been the only way he’d survived. If he’d let himself be angry, if he’d let himself give in to any of the emotions he’d felt at the time (and there’d been so many swirling inside him—dread, betrayal, fear, fury, sorrow) he would have ended up dead.
And still, he’d nearly lost his temper when he’d found Townsend in his room. It bothered him, because he didn’t know if he would have had the same reaction if it was someone else there. But the idea of Townsend touching his things, of Townsend seeing the constellations he’d painstakingly drawn, a hobby he kept only for himself—it made his stomach turn.
It made him feel like Townsend had taken a knife and sliced him wide-open.
It made him wonder if the other man had been laughing at him, secretly.
But what did it matter? They’d barely spoken to each other before the fire and this mess with the Worthingtons—once it was over, they could go
back to barely speaking to each other.
He forced himself to unclench his jaw, to pull that cool resolve around him, the thing that had saved him again and again.
“Abair ach beagan agus abair gu math e.” The Gaelic rolled from his tongue smoothly, his first language. He’d learned it before he’d learned English. And he liked speaking it, usually. But usually he spoke it to the tenants who knew it, not to English travelers who wanted a performance.
When Ian didn’t offer anything more, she touched his elbow. “What does it mean?”
He looked down at her. Her face was curious, eyes wide with interest. Maybe he was being too harsh. She reminded him a little of his younger sister. She’d had the same kind of exuberance… He wondered if she’d been like this at sixteen, too. He’d been long gone by that point.
“Say but little and say it well,” he translated, ignoring the pang in his chest.
She blinked up at him, and then her smile widened to the point where light glinted off her teeth and nearly blinded him. “But that is just like you, Mr. Cameron. How delightful!”
He stifled a sigh. “Shall we watch the game?” He’d been on his way across the room when Miss Hale had stopped him.
She wrinkled her nose. “Truthfully, I find billiards a bit boring, but I suppose watching with you would be enjoyable.”
He decided not to comment on that. They walked toward the table, where Townsend was playing against Miss Worthington, and stopped a few feet away. Ian and Miss Hale were just in time to see Townsend lean across the table with a leather-tipped cue stick and take aim at the ivory cue ball. He glanced up and met Ian’s gaze. Paused for just a second, grip tightening on the wooden stick.
From this vantage point, Ian couldn’t help but imagine him in a different setting, on his knees, looking up, long fingers fumbling with the buttons on Ian’s trousers. His cock ached—an instant reaction—a shock of lust so powerful it made his breathing falter.
Damn it. He pushed the image aside almost as quickly as it had appeared. He didn’t even like Townsend. There was no excuse to get distracted by fantasies. They had more important things at stake.
Townsend’s gaze flickered back to the ball. His arm muscles flexed against his sleeves, and then he struck. The cue ball collided with the red ball and sank it straight into the pocket at the far corner. He straightened and smiled at Miss Worthington.
“My cousin uses a cue stick instead of a mace,” Miss Hale said.
Ian stared at her blankly.
“Most ladies use a mace,” she explained. “But my cousin is very good. She plays to win.”
Miss Worthington stepped to the table, lining up her shot with fierce concentration, a notch forming between her eyebrows. Ian found his attention drifting to Townsend instead of Miss Worthington—he was still smiling slightly, watching his opponent with undisguised appreciation. Ian wasn’t sure if it was admiration only for her skill at the game, or if it was something more.
His gut clenched. He tried to focus on the game itself rather than the players, though it was difficult. Townsend drew his interest without even trying.
“You’ve won,” Miss Worthington said, a few minutes later.
Townsend smiled. “Don’t sound so vexed. It was a close match. I was not at all certain of the outcome.”
He was like this with all the guests—friendly, teasing, always doing his best to put everyone at ease. It had aggravated Ian from the start. He wasn’t sure why it aggravated him more now.
Miss Worthington’s expression eased. “You are a flatterer, Mr. Townsend.”
“You don’t like to be flattered?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He laughed.
“Before we depart, I will defeat you,” she warned.
“I’ve no doubt of it,” he said. Eyes still dancing, he turned toward Ian. “Do you play?”
Billiards was a rich man’s game. The table alone probably cost as much to build as Ian’s entire cottage. Not to mention the ivory playing set. Ian wasn’t even sure of the rules. Townsend should have known that. He knew, instinctively, how to make everyone else feel comfortable, didn’t he?
“No.”
Townsend’s friendly expression faltered under the whipcord lash of Ian’s response. Ian tried not to feel too guilty about that. “I could teach you, if you’d like.”
So he could fumble in front of the Worthingtons? And would Townsend have to touch him to teach him? It sounded like a new form of torture—a mix of humiliation and unfulfilled lust. And it wasn’t as though he was interested in the sport anyway.
“I don’t wish to learn,” he said flatly.
Townsend’s face smoothed, the easy openness of before all but erased. “Mr. Hale,” he called out. Hale startled. He’d been staring at the billiards table with the air of a man lost deep in thought. “Are you up for a match?”
He stepped forward tentatively. “Well…I…”
“I’ll play you, Townsend,” Mr. Worthington cut in. “If you can beat my daughter, Mr. Hale will be no match for you,” he muttered as he set his book aside and strode forward.
Hale stepped back, his cheekbones taking on a distinctively reddish shade.
“A match later, perhaps, Mr. Hale? I’ll look forward to it,” Townsend said.
Hale swallowed, nodded, and turned toward the bookshelves, reaching out blindly for a volume, which he nearly dropped.
Ian almost felt sorry for him. He didn’t think he’d ever met someone as painfully shy as Mr. Hale. But he didn’t feel too sorry—if Hale’s biggest problem was an inconsiderate uncle, Ian’s pity would be wasted on him.
Townsend leaned over the table to line up a shot. He carefully avoided looking at Ian, but Ian was still a little too aware of the strong, smooth lines of Townsend’s body, of the way his lips parted slightly as he adjusted his confident grip on the cue stick, of the lock of dark hair that fell into his eyes, the way he jerked his head absentmindedly to get rid of the annoyance.
Ian turned away, wondering if the gentry and aristocracy had realized exactly how sexual billiards could be when it became popular.
Or maybe it was just Townsend. The man would probably look good shoveling horse manure.
He glanced down at his teacup and wished he had a stronger drink.
…
After a few hours’ reprieve and then dinner, night fell, and they were back in the library once more. The drawing room of Llynmore Castle was too small to house larger gatherings.
The fire had been stoked, and in addition to the chandeliers, candles in wall sconces around the periphery of the room had been lit to keep the black night at bay. Ian was on the settee next to Miss Hale. He didn’t know how long he could take this sort of idleness. His body longed for physical labor, for something he could do with his hands, for something tangible he could accomplish.
He wasn’t sure if Georgina and Townsend had observed anything more than he had, but so far, there was nothing suspicious. Miss Hale liked to talk to him. Mr. Hale didn’t, but he didn’t seem to like to talk to anyone very much. The Worthingtons were polite but distant. But that was probably due to their difference in status. Worthington was a writer, but during the course of their conversations it was made clear they were gentry. Worthington didn’t write because he had to.
It felt like Ian was simply wasting time, trying to get along with people he would never see again in a week or two at the most. He wished there was something he could actually do.
A pressure against his leg made him look down to see Willoughby the cat butting his head against Ian’s calf. He scratched between the cat’s ears and was rewarded with a soft purr.
“Do you like cats?” Miss Hale asked.
“Aye.”
He heard Townsend make an amused noise. Willoughby slunk away when Miss Hale leaned forward to pet him. “What?” Ian asked.
Townsend was sprawled in the winged chair by Ian’s side of the settee, hand clasped around a crystal glass of port. He grimaced
as he took a sip, which made Ian think he probably didn’t like port as much as whisky. “Why am I not surprised?”
Ian’s eyes narrowed, but he decided not to ask.
Georgina came over with a stack of books and thrust them into Townsend’s hands. “Read something for us.”
“George,” he muttered quietly, but not so quietly that Ian couldn’t hear.
“You have a lovely reading voice,” she insisted.
“I should very much like to hear something,” Miss Worthington put in.
“A reading?” Mr. Worthington perked up. “What will you read?”
Townsend sighed, defeated. “It looks like our options are Shakespeare’s sonnets, Macbeth, or Robert Burns. Shall we take a vote?”
“Mr. Cameron?” Georgina asked.
Ian didn’t particularly want to listen to Townsend read anything. “Macbeth,” he said shortly.
No one else voted for Macbeth. The sonnets won over Burns by a narrow margin, and Townsend flipped through the volume. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll select a few of my favorites, instead of reading all one hundred and fifty-four.” He smiled charmingly.
Ian stifled a groan. He hoped he wouldn’t have to sit through this for very long. Poetry and Townsend’s voice and Townsend’s charm…it was just too much.
And then Townsend spread the book in his lap, leaned back, cleared his throat, and started reading, and his voice rasped like velvet over Ian’s skin.
Ian was an animal caught in a snare. Too startled to move. Too mesmerized to do anything but wait for the killing blow. Robert Townsend had the sort of voice the devil would use to tempt mortals to sin, and when he read, he knew it. He used it to his full advantage—taking its depths lower, its width wider, its huskiness huskier.
Ian imagined waking up to that smoky voice murmuring suggestions against his ear, a long, warm body pressed against his back, and he shivered.
He dug his fingernails into his palm savagely. The last thing he needed was to get a cockstand in front of the whole room.