“Only if I am not willing,” she teased with a flavor of steel behind her words. “ ’Tis a way to find oneself gelded otherwise. Tresses or nay.”
“Ahh, little Christel, you have not changed a bit, have you? Still the firebrand. What does my brother think about your return?”
She was suddenly glad for the dearth of light, for she felt her cheeks warm. She had not seen him since the day at the beach when he had given her his horse. “He has been kind.”
“Kind?” Leighton scoffed. “He is in a perpetual state of annoyance with the world, at war with himself and his own demons. ‘Kind’ is not a word I would use to describe him. But Grandmamma is fond of him, so for her sake I will pretend to be glad to see he returned. I will be just as content to see him leave again.”
“An English revenue ship stopped him on his way here,” she said after a moment. “Would you know something about that?”
The grin fell from his face. “The English have been boarding everyone these days. They are a suspicious lot.”
“I am no longer in the business,” she said. “I have a chance to begin afresh with my life, Leighton. So if you are still involved—”
He set a finger against her lips. “That war is over for me. You will understand that I would prefer my brother never know my loyalties on the matter. Treason is a serious stain on my honor.”
“We made you rich, Leighton,” she said. “You had no honor.”
“Aye, there is that.”
“It would hurt your brother to learn the truth about his family,” she said. “I would never be the one to tell him how deeply you were involved with the war against England.”
“I doubt it would help your cause with him either.”
An invisible band squeezed her chest. “He knows about me. Lieutenant Ross was the one who intercepted the ship.”
Leighton scratched his stubbled chin. “Interesting. And then my brother calmly questioned you about your family’s illicit activities with the Sons of Liberty and the smuggling empire your uncle and in-laws built and left it at that?”
“My in-laws are decent people. We all did what we had to at the time. I did what I had to.” She lifted her chin. “I meant it when I told you the war is over for me. I have a chance to begin afresh with my life. I have no secrets from your brother.”
“We all have secrets, whether we want them or nay.” Leighton turned to the window and edged aside the curtain. “Did he talk about Saundra?”
“He told me . . . what Saundra did.”
“I guarantee, imp. My big brother did not tell you everything.”
By morning, the storm had moved east, leaving behind a rare blue sky and a rolling landscape glittering white. Not a cloud marred the sky.
Christel had overslept the dawn by at least three hours if the position of the sun was any indication. She washed and dressed, then went downstairs to total silence. Slipping through the doorway at the end of the corridor, she entered the warmth of the kitchen.
Blue’s young wife turned from the countertop, where she was pounding bread dough. “Good mornin’ to ye, mum,” she said cheerfully. “Ye gave me a start.”
Christel looked around her. She reached for a mitt and lifted the tin coffee pot from the stove. “Where is everyone?”
Heather turned the bread dough over on a wooden block and began beating the other side with equal intensity. “Blue went with Lord Leighton to the barn. They have no’ returned. I gathered eggs. Breakfast be ready for ye.” She directed Christel’s attention to the table in front of the hearth. “I made scones.”
With a mental groan, Christel calculated the supplies used to make scones, then walked to the table and picked up a small cut-glass bowl filled with what looked like rare strawberry preserves. “What is this?”
“Why, ’tis strawberry preserves, mum.”
“I know ’tis strawberry preserves. Where did this come from?”
Christel had made an accounting of all their supplies in the larder only three days ago. Strawberry preserves had not been among their supplies.
“Lord Leighton presented us with a jar of strawberry preserves in exchange for your hospitality, mum. From the French court of Versailles, he told us. Versailles is where the kings and queens of France reside.”
Christel tamped down a surge of irritation. Strawberry preserves, like brandy, tobacco and chocolate, were staples of the smuggling trade this time of year, commanding premium profits from the rich. How had Leighton happened upon strawberry preserves? He had sworn . . .
“Good morning to you, Lady Sunshine,” Leighton said from the doorway. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and smiled at her. “A simple ‘thank you’ will suffice as my reward before I bid farewell.”
He wore his cloak partially open and over his shoulder. He was clean shaven and fashionably turned out in a smart riding jacket, waistcoat, and buff riding breeches, as if he’d had substantial practice making himself presentable in a lady’s cottage. She didn’t remember seeing a satchel with him, but he must have had one on his horse, for he had changed his clothes.
Christel directed her gaze to Heather. “Have we cream in the cellar?”
The young woman looked at Christel as if she expected it was a trick question. “Aye, mum. Ye put it there yourself only yesterday.”
“I would like some for my coffee. Thank you.”
Heather startled at the request. She wiped her hands on her apron, then, with a backward glance at Leighton, hurried away.
Christel set down the bowl of preserves. “The gift was very magnanimous of you.”
“I thought so, too. The jam is Anna’s favorite and quite rare to come by. If you want more, I can direct you to the bakery in Prestwick that sells the stuff. For another bucket of silver, he will also sell you hot bread and butter.” The lift of his lips became a trifle self-mocking. “I have a soft spot for my niece.”
Guilt assailed Christel. She had no right to be suspicious of him or his motives for everything he did. He had been her uncle’s ally during the war.
Perhaps that was the problem. He had been so quick to betray his brother. But even that was not a fair assessment. There were many in Scotland who’d fought on the side of the colonists; they either held the same political aspirations for Scotland as the colonists held for America, or they held a vengeful grudge against England. They were Highlanders mostly, but they did not fight the British in exchange for silver and gold.
“Thank you for the strawberry jam.”
Leighton scooped up her hands and pressed the backs of her fingers to his lips. “You are most welcome. As always, I am your humble servant. However, I now need a favor. My horse has run into a lamentable spot of bother and has come up lame. I need to take the other horse—”
She pulled her hands from his. She needed that horse. It was her lifeline into the village. Lord Carrick trusted her with the horse.
Outside, the commotion generated by the barking dog drew their attention. “Mum,” Heather said in a slightly breathless apology from the doorway. “You have a visitor coming up the road.”
“A visitor? Here?”
“Blue says it be his lordship hisself, mum, from Blackthorn Castle.”
A moment later, Christel stood in the salon at the front of the cottage, staring out the window. The rider was still far away, but she had no doubt as to his identity.
With an uncharacteristic consideration of female vanity, Christel barely quelled the impulse to check her reflection in the looking glass as she turned into the room and leaned flat against the window.
Leighton’s silence drew her gaze up. He stood in the doorway. “And here I was hoping that you and I might grow to share a tendre for the other.”
“When you were outside, you must have seen him coming. Why did you not tell me?”
Leighton didn’t even have the grace to look contrite. “I was curious. ’Tis as simple as that.”
“Nothing is ever simple with you, Leighton. You need to go.”
Looking for her cloak, she edged past him into the corridor. He grabbed her arm, turning her. “I know his heart better than you do, Christel. He might be free of his marriage, but he is not free of the past. He has never been the man you believed him to be—”
“Candor has always been your one honest quality, Leighton. But you do him an injustice.” She pulled her arm from his grip. “ ’Tis up to you whether you tell him you slept here last night. But I do not want your reunion with him to take place in my cottage. Now take the horse if you must and go.”
He adjusted the brim of his tricorn and regarded her with a glance that was at once cool. “Before you decide to take him beneath your wing, Christel, ask him why Saundra walked up into that light tower and jumped. Dare him to tell you the truth.”
Christel was shaking in fury when she walked to the front door a few moments later. She drew in her breath as much to calm her nerves as an excuse to look down at her dress. Her navy serge might have been worn and a bit out of date, but it was well cut and altered from her mother’s old things to fit her perfectly. No one could find fault with her looks. She pulled open the front door with a screech of rusty hinges and walked out onto the porch into the sunlight.
Blue exited the stable carrying a halter, looked to the road then at the cottage. Christel waved him back to the stable. Beyond the paddock, the morning light touched the sea visible in the distance. The same brisk wind that made distant whitecaps slipped beneath her skirts. No cloak, gloves or bonnet protected her against the cold gust pressing her skirts firmly against her legs.
As Lord Carrick brought the horse to a halt outside the picket fence that had once guarded the yard from rabbits, he raised the collar on his cloak. He tipped his French cocked hat with his finger. “I hope I have not come at an inopportune time. Anna and I thought we would check how you weathered the storm.”
“Anna?”
Christel realized suddenly that he was not alone. Anna’s small face peeked out from inside the folds of his cloak. She smiled brightly at Christel. “Papa asked if I wanted to come see you. I said yes. It has been ever so busy at Blackthorn since Sir Jacob arrived. He has both of his daughters with him.” She wrinkled her nose. “Miss Catherine stares at Papa and blushes too much, and Miss Ruth cannot talk at all.”
The sound of barking signaled Dog’s approach, saving Lord Carrick from a requisite response. “Oh, let me down, Papa.” Anna wriggled out from beneath his cloak. “Let me down. Hurry!”
He lowered her from the horse before she fell. A moment later, Dog skidded around the corner of the dilapidated picket fence, scrabbling in the snow for purchase.
Anna giggled as Dog greeted her with sloppy kisses and a wagging tail. She knelt down in the snow. “Is he not the best dog, Papa? Have I not told you so?”
Lord Carrick eased off the saddle. “All the way here.”
“Hold out your hand, Papa.” His daughter giggled. “That is how you greet dogs. Is that not right, Miss Christel?”
His reluctance to offer his hand made her laugh. “He does seem to like everyone except you.”
Lord Carrick quirked his lips. “And you would have me risk my fingers?”
“If one truly likes a dog, I find ’tis important to try. Sometimes past experiences have taught them to be cautious.”
“Indeed.”
She felt herself blushing, and it was suddenly being borne home to her that in not wanting to bring attention to her thoughts, perhaps she was doing just that.
Aware that she was leaving them in the cold, she said, “I am afraid I was not prepared for guests. But please come inside.”
Snow crunched beneath Lord Carrick’s boots. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his breath visible in the crisp air, his eyes no longer shaded by his cocked hat. “We are not expecting tea and crumpets,” he said almost gently.
A hint of citrus touched her senses as his cloak brushed her arm. “Would you prefer instead tea with scones and strawberry jam?”
Anna clapped her fur mittens together. “How did you know? Strawberry jam is my favorite, Miss Christel. Oh, Papa, may I?”
He nodded and she ran inside with the dog barking at her heels.
Christel turned to Lord Carrick. Beneath his cloak, his fitted riding jacket opened slightly to reveal a cream waistcoat. “You have guests at home?” she asked. “What do they think about your leaving?”
Stomping snow from his boots, he followed the swing of Christel’s arm through the door. “I did not ask their permission to go, so I would not be privy to their thoughts.”
Unexpectedly she smiled. She took his cloak to dry in the kitchen and found Heather coaxing a fire to life in the hearth while Anna stood next the table holding a scone and telling Heather how much she liked strawberries. Leighton was not present. Christel took a moment to enjoy Anna’s enthusiastic reception of the scones before asking Heather to bring tea to them in the salon.
Since her return, Christel had been cleaning the cottage. Against the wall she’d moved everything she would eventually sell. A bifold door had closed off the room from the rest of the cottage.
She hesitated in the doorway. She watched as Lord Carrick took a turn around the cluttered space, his eyes touching on items that had belonged to her mother and father. Light barely sifted through the crack in the heavy curtain. Satins, silks, and half-made bodices draped the chairs and table. Her mother’s old dress dummies still wore remnants of costumes and clothing faded by dust and time. “My mother was a seamstress for many of the gentry in Ayrshire.”
“I know.” He picked up her old drawing tablet on the desk in front of the window.
She slipped the tablet from his hands. “Has anyone ever told you it isn’t polite to rummage through another’s possessions?”
His mouth crooked in a lopsided grin. “As a matter of fact, no.”
A small oval portraiture on the wall was his next point of interest. He peered more closely. “Are these your parents?”
With the stroke of her hand and her mother’s encouragement, she’d captured that long-ago image on canvas. “Aye.”
“The artist has some talent,” he said.
She drew open the curtains. “I thought so as well at the time.”
“Are you the artist?”
She tied back the curtains. “I painted that portraiture on my first trip to America.”
Christel remembered sitting on the shores of the River York and watching the wind ply the sails of the tall-masted trading ships. She would paint them, too. “My mother used to tell me that I had the ability to create something beautiful from nothing and give it color and life and a story filled with passion.” She turned into the room. “It did not matter whether the painting or drawing was any good. Back then it had never occurred to me that my own worth should be measured by another’s approval.”
She looked at the discarded tablet on the desk. “I owned a small dress shop in Williamsburg,” she said, lifting her gaze to his. “But I have not drawn anything in a long time.”
“Perhaps you should start painting again,” he said.
Candlelight flickered in his eyes. And she could not stop the seditious catch in her breath. His was not the presence of authority but that of a man who—for one instant, one tiny instant—made the whole world go away.
Heather appeared from the kitchen just then. She glanced at Christel, then set down the tea tray on a gateleg table that sat in front of a threadbare settee.
Heather had arranged the tray with porcelain cups rimmed in violets, plates and silver flatware. It included scones, seedcake, a square of sugar and the strawberry preserves. Nothing matched, but together the chaos worked to make an appealing setting. Heather arranged the cups with nervous hands, nearly dropping the creamer filled with milk. The poor girl spared Lord Carrick a cautious glance and a hasty apology.
Christel stepped forward to save her from herself. “That will be all, Heather. I will pour the tea.”
“Is Anna still in the
kitchen?” Lord Carrick asked.
“Aye, my lord.”
Heather shut the bifold, leaving Christel alone with Lord Carrick.
“She has never been in the presence of such an esteemed peer,” Christel explained as he sat next to her on the settee and watched her fingers test the teapot before she lifted it to pour.
“That might account for her nerves, but I am not sure what accounts for yours.”
“Mine?”
He leaned forward. “You have not asked me why I am here.”
“You mean you are not here to reassure yourself of my health after the snowstorm?” Thrumming her fingers, she pondered him. “If your intentions were of a lascivious bent this day, you would not have brought your daughter. Though I am not sure if she is here as your chaperone or mine. You cannot have come for my tea, yours is far better.” She studied him. “My conversation is witty, but hardly worth traveling five miles in the snow for. Alas, I am stumped.”
A half smile played on his lips. But rather than answer, he sat back, completely at ease, making her uneasy. “Have you contacted your grandmother?”
No, she had not. Twice in the last few weeks she had ridden the horse as far as Maybole, but she’d turned back before she’d reached the road to Rosecliffe. She folded her hands in her lap, feeling much like she’d felt in the interview with the dowager countess. “Why are you here, my lord? I thought you would have left Blackthorn Castle by now.”
“The Anna is in Prestwick being refitted. I will be here through next month.”
“The dowager should be pleased that you will be here for Christmastide.”
“You could seduce me into staying longer,” he suggested. “My grandmother’s offer was a thousand pounds, I believe.”
Christel almost choked on the tea. He raised a brow at her. “Ooops,” he said.
“She told you.”
“Grandmamma is a known meddler into all things that are not her business. But she does not stand up to torture.”
“You tortured her?”
“Aye,” he said readily. “A game of chess has that effect on her. ’Tis notoriously slow, and she has the endurance of a week-old kitten. And here you were being so honorable not to tell me what you and she discussed that morning in her salon.”
This Perfect Kiss Page 12