Finding Lord Farlisle

by Cassandra Dean

  Silence fell between them, broken by the crackle of the fire and the howl of the wind. Ignoring her, he stared hard into the flames. It had unnerved him, when first he’d first arrived, that he could not hear the tick of a clock. Before, he remembered lying in his bed, his hands laced over his stomach as he’d listened to the servants moving about their duties, the clock ticking in the distance. Before, he’d loved his window open, and so the sounds of the night had filled the air.

  Now there were no servants, the clocks were silent, and he hadn’t opened a window in years.

  “What happened to you?”

  Her quiet words broke the silence. Still staring at the flames, he smiled without mirth. Too much had happened to him.

  When he didn’t answer, she sighed softly. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Maxim, but I am here, should you wish to.”

  A lump rose in his throat. He shook his head, desperate to be rid of it. He hadn’t survived by being soft. He couldn’t allow her to make him soft. He didn’t know her. She was merely one of his memories, hazy and indistinct.

  Levelling his gaze upon her, he said, “You are no one to me. Why should I tell you a thing?”

  The girl’s—Alexandra’s—face collapsed. Something twinged inside, but he held on to his stony expression.

  Before his eyes, she rebuilt herself. “Be that as it may, I remember you. I cannot put aside the affection I have for you, or the relief that you are yet alive. I am sorry if this makes you uncomfortable. I can only imagine what you have been through, and what you must still suffer to be shut up here in Waithe Hall without a single soul knowing of your existence.”

  She was so admirable. The twinge grew, but he maintained his stoniness. “How do you know I have not told my brothers of my return?”

  “You did not know your father had passed away and your brother is now the earl. Besides, your brother would have told my father.” She cocked her head. “I told you. Our families are close.”

  “You know nothing, girl.” He told himself to ignore her. If he did it for long enough, surely she would go away. That it had never happened before did not mean it wouldn’t happen now.

  His brows drew. How did he know what she always did? Vague memories dredged though his mind, of a younger girl with a stubborn set to her chin glaring at him loftily while intense frustration rioted through him.

  “I am only one year younger, you know.”

  Her words snapped him from his thoughts. “Pardon?”

  “You shouldn’t keep calling me girl. We’re practically the same age.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Everything. It has everything to do with it. You used to love lording the whole extra year you’d been alive over me, as if it means anything.”

  “It does mean something. It means I know more than you.”

  “How, pray tell, does it mean you know more?”

  He smirked. “I have been alive a whole extra year.”

  A strange expression crossed her face, and, eyes bright, she quickly glanced away.

  “Are you alright?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Yes,” she said, the word muffled.

  He had a horrible feeling she was lying, but he wasn’t going to question it.

  They fell silent, staring at the fire as the wind continued to howl, and, strangely, he felt content.

  ***

  MAXIM WORK WITH A start. The fire had burned to embers, glowing gently in the dark. Outside, all was quiet.

  He looked over. The girl—Alexandra—slumbered, her wrist bent awkwardly as her hand supported her head.

  He stared at her. She was…odd. No one had cared about him for so long, it was strange this girl he half-remembered felt so strongly for him.

  Rising, he approached her. She didn’t move.

  Gently, he prised her hand away. She frowned, moaning a little as she moved her undoubtedly sore neck. Laying her arm about his shoulders, he placed an arm at her back and beneath her knees before lifting her. She was light in his arms, her body turning into his as he manoeuvred around the armchairs.

  Leaving the library, he climbed the stairs for the room she thought was his. The covers of the bed were in the same jumble as when last he’d left them. Gently he deposited her on them and she sighed, stretching as she turned into the pillow to embrace it. The move pulled the bodice of her gown tight over her breast, outlining the soft roundness. Swallowing, he followed the curve of her hip, the nip of her waist, the way the gown clung to her legs, one hitched higher than the other. A lock of golden hair rested on her cheek and he smoothed it behind her ear, savouring the soft silkiness of her skin.

  Abruptly, he realised what he was doing. He pulled from her, his fingertips burning.

  She still wore her boots. He removed them, and covered her with a blanket, doing his utmost to not touch any portion of her skin. Job completed, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, resolving to forget how she looked in his bed.

  Returning to the library, he stoked the embers until they once again caught flame, and then settled in to pass another night as he had all the others. Alone.

  Chapter Four

  SUNLIGHT BEAT AGAINST ALEXANDRA’S closed eyelids. Frowning, she threw an arm over her face.

  Confused, she opened her eyes and rose on her elbows, glancing down her body. Why was she wearing a dress instead of her nightgown?

  Oh. She was in Waithe Hall. It had rained.

  Maxim.

  Jerking up, she blew at the hair that fell in her face. She hadn’t imagined him, had she? Last she remembered, she’d been in the library and he’d been in the chair beside her. He’d fallen asleep first and she’d spent the longest time watching him, tracing the lines of his face, marvelling that he was here with her, that he was alive. She remembered that. She remembered him. Surely it couldn’t have been an imagining?

  Pushing her hair into some semblance of order, she jumped out of the bed. Her dress was twisted about her and horribly wrinkled, but she did her toilette as best she could. She never had retrieved her portmanteau, so this was as good as she was going to get.

  Rushing through the corridor and down the stairs, her feet were sure as she made her way to the library. Most of her childhood had been spent within these walls, and she knew the way like it was her own home. All but one of the windows were still shuttered, murky light from the still stormy sky flooding the room. The library itself, though, was empty, the fireplace void of ashes. The stack of books had also disappeared.

  Unease licking through her, she frowned. She hadn’t imagined him.

  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since luncheon yesterday, and she was halfway to the kitchens before she realised she’d even started, her feet picking the path without her conscious direction. They’d spent an inordinate amount of time in the kitchen, she and Maxim, pestering Mrs Potter for treats fresh from the over. The kitchens were as empty as the rest of Waithe Hall, but a collation of bread, cheese and hardboiled eggs sat on a plate on the table. A pot of tea stood beside it, along with a chipped teacup.

  She hadn’t imagined him. Maxim was alive.

  Indescribable joy burst through her. Smiling hugely, she poured a cup of tea. He must have brought her to the bedchamber while she slept. She’d told him she didn’t wish to take his bed and he’d given it to her anyway. He’d always been amazing at ignoring anything that didn’t fit with what he thought should happen. That, as well, appeared it hadn’t changed.

  Taking a sip of the tea, she winced. It had steeped too long, becoming lukewarm and bitter, but surely food would combat the taste.

  As she munched on the bread, she wandered the kitchens. Hidden behind some tarp in the storeroom were supplies: bread, potatoes, some dried meats. A large container of tea. Sugar. Gratefully, she dumped a teaspoon in her cup, and then another for good measure.

  Sipping, she considered the stores before her. Clearly, Maxim had been here for some time.
How had he avoided detection? He must get supplies from the village, and it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility the villagers wouldn’t recognise him. In any event, the steward checked the estate twice a month, and sent detailed reports to the earl. She knew this because she hadn’t wanted the steward or the earl to know she intended to…study Waithe Hall.

  Teacup halfway to her lips, she paused. Reports of the ghost could, in actuality, be Maxim.

  Shaking herself, she shoved disappointment aside. She didn’t know for a fact there was no ghostly activity. It could be a combination, or wholly spiritual in nature. Nothing had changed since she’d set out from London, apart from Maxim being alive.

  Pleasantly full from the breakfast he’d left her, she set out to find him.

  It astonished her how well she remembered Waithe Hall. It had been almost a decade since last she’d been here, and yet she was sure-footed as she searched its corridors and rooms. Rain still fell, so she imagined he wouldn’t be outside. She wasn’t going anywhere, either. When she’d started out yesterday, she’d done so on foot and now she was stranded here until the rain broke.

  The portrait gallery was absent of him, as were the drawing rooms and the study. The conservatory, however, was not.

  Rain lashed the glass-panelled walls, the light moody and indistinct. Weaving through the greenery, Maxim effortlessly carried a large sack on his shoulder. Again, he wore no waistcoat or jacket and his shirt was open at the neck, baring a vee of golden skin. He strode past without noticing her presence. Her mouth dried as she watched the play of muscles in his back, her fascinated gaze raking every inch of him. She’d seen men haul items about, but never a man of Maxim’s station. The abundance of well-developed muscle now made sense.

  She followed him through the conservatory, the winding path leading to a single step that took one down a level, and then further to the next step that signalled the third and final level. Water covered the tiled floor, and he sloshed through it with no concern, dumping the sack before the door to the garden outside. Sweat plastered his shirt to his skin, and her avid gaze ran over him as she watched him stretch.

  Dear god, what was she doing? Heat burned her cheeks as she averted her eyes. How could she regard him so, as if he were solely a body…even if it was a magnificent body. He was more than his form. He was funny, and brave, and smart, and they talked about everything and...and.... And she couldn’t believe he had changed much from who he’d been, even though it had been over a decade.

  Clasping her hands before her, she cleared her throat.

  He whipped around, his eyebrows lifting with surprise only to descend into a thunderous scowl when he spied her. Deliberately, he turned his back and continued arranging sacks before the door.

  Intimidation rarely worked on her, and certainly not with Maxim. Lifting her chin, she said, “Good morning.”

  He grunted, which she supposed was a greeting.

  “Did you sleep well?” she asked, finding it absurd she was discussing inanities with Maxim.

  “Fine.” Bending, he hefted a sack into the row before the door.

  Good God. The move pulled his breeches tight against strong thighs and a well-formed backside. “Uh, good. That’s good. I mean—” Her cheeks burned. Alexandra, get a hold of yourself. “I slept well as well, but you shouldn’t have deposited me in the bed.”

  “You looked awkward in the chair,” he said, lifting another sack.

  “No more than you.”

  He shrugged.

  She wracked her brains for something further to say. “This rain appears to have set in. How long do you think it shall continue?”

  He didn’t respond, instead arranging the sacks in rows on top of each other against the door to the gardens. The sacks must contain sand. She recalled them from the infrequent occasions when the conservatory had flooded, but then it had been groundsmen hauling the sacks from the cellar to the conservatory, not a son of the house.

  “I cannot recall the last time we saw such rain,” she said, seemingly only able to converse in trivialities. “And a lightning storm as well. The last I remember is that autumn it rained every afternoon for three weeks. I thought I should go mad, being trapped inside.”

  He continued to arrange the sacks.

  “We ended up investigating Bentley Close from one end to another. We were looking for Black Douglass’s treasure map.”

  He stilled, his hand resting on a sack.

  She continued to prattle. “Black Douglass was what we decided my great, great, great grandfather was called. He looked so fearsome in his portrait, do you remember?” She stroked her jaw. “He had that great, bushy, black beard, and a wicked scar across his face. He would take to the high seas on your ancestor’s ships, pillaging gold and jewels from the four corners of the earth.” Waving an imaginary sword, she grinned as she recalled the tale. “Then he returned home to Northumberland and fell madly in love with a local lass. He gave up his dastardly ways, but his treasure was hidden somewhere on the estate, and he left behind a map for his descendents to discover if they had only the courage to look.”

  He stared down at the sacks. “You always insisted he gave up piracy for love,” he finally said.

  Delighted he remembered, she said, “That’s because he did.”

  He snorted.

  “Anyway, we were convinced it was somewhere in the east wing. We had to dodge Harry and George.”

  “Your brothers.”

  “They were ever so troublesome, always underfoot.”

  “Your father caught us rummaging through the attic and yelled at us something fierce.”

  The memory made her wince. “He was not pleased, was he?”

  He dug his hands into one of the sacks and said nothing further.

  Frustration bit her. She shouldn’t push him. She had no experience with a person who’d experienced what he had—lost to his family and then returned years later—but she wanted so desperately for him to admit he remembered her, remembered them.

  Exhaling, she reined herself in. “The library was empty this morning.”

  His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t respond.

  “The books were gone and the fireplace was empty of ashes,” she tried again.

  “Most mornings I clear the room,” he finally said. “There is usually nothing for the steward to discover.”

  It was like drawing blood from a stone. When they were children, they could not stop talking, a torrent of words spilling from them both whether it had been a day or a month since last they’d spoken. She knew he’d been gone too long, that much now divided them, but he was Maxim. How could they have changed so completely?

  “Where have you been, Maxim?” she asked quietly.

  His hands tightened. “Everywhere. Nowhere.”

  Well, that was a nothing answer. “Is that anywhere in particular?” she asked, irony heavy in her tone.

  The corner of his mouth lifted.

  Shock froze her. She’d actually made him smile? Stepping forward, she ignored the water sloshing over her boots and dampening the hem of her gown as she placed her hands over his.

  He didn’t shake her off, his fingers flexing beneath hers. They were big, rough, covered with callouses. A strange warmth filled her, rushing from her hand to her arm to her breasts, settling low in her belly.

  Staring down at their hands, he said, “You cannot return home.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Glancing at the rain battering the conservatory glass, he said, “You cannot return home.”

  “Oh. No, I suppose I cannot.”

  “The marquis and marchioness will worry.”

  The rain really was quite torrential. “They are not in residence.”

  His gaze whipped around. “What?”

  “My parents are in London.”

  His gaze felt like a brand. “And your siblings?”

  “With my parents. Apart from George. He’s on the Continent, no doubt causing mayhem.”


  Expression again growing thunderous, he ground out, “You are here by yourself?”

  “I brought my maid.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “She is not here.”

  “I was never going to bring her here. She’s at Bentley Close.”

  “You are telling me your parents allowed you to travel north, by yourself, a journey that lasts four days, to arrive at an estate that is partially staffed with your only protection being your maid?”

  “Yes?” This display of emotion from him was astounding. This is what brought his emotion? “How do you know Bentley Close is partially staffed?”

  Ignoring her, he balled his hands against his hips and hung his head. His lips moved.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “I’m counting,” he gritted out.

  “Why?”

  “So I don’t shake you.”

  Her brows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve flitted across the countryside with no thought to your safety. You enter a deserted manor, are stranded by a lightning storm, and you pursue a discourse with a strange man.”

  “You are not strange.” Irritation swirled. “And I am not a fool, Maxim.”

  “No, you are merely thoughtless.”

  “I am not that, either.”

  “You don’t know what harm can befall you. There are evil men out there. Women too.”

  “I know this,” she said stiffly.

  “No you don’t!” He slammed his hand against his thigh. “You cannot know. I didn’t know. I wandered blindly into trouble, time and again, and you—” He took a breath. “There are bad men out there,” he said darkly.

  “I am not a fool,” she repeated.

  Scowling, he moved forward, crowding her. “What are you doing here?”

  Craning her neck, she met his thunderous gaze. He’d grown so, and apparently he thought he could use his height to intimidate her. “I told you. I am here to investigate spiritual activity.”

  He advanced again and she squared her shoulders, refusing to budge.

  The only sound was the pelt of rain against glass. The air between them grew heated. Chest tightening, she was acutely aware of how close they were, how if she stepped forward she would be in his embrace. Tongue darting out, she wet the corner of her mouth and his gaze dropped to her lips, his eyes darkening, and she held her breath, wanting him closer, wanting his mouth on hers, wanting him....