He paused, as if he didn’t know what to say.
“Go on,” she muttered. “Just say it. It’s bloody red.”
He smiled, the first true smile she’d seen since they’d arrived in Scotland.
“I was going to say charmingly pink, but that would be an inaccuracy. Yes, it’s bloody red.”
Oddly, that seemed to lighten the air.
He extended a hand, indicating that she precede him. “Shall we?” he murmured.
They were just stepping out the door when a sudden shaft of sunlight chanced to catch Alec’s face. Maura’s breath caught, for he reminded her of a god come to life. His hair was thick and richly black, cropped so a lock fell forward onto his forehead. His brows were just as black, the arch pronounced; a perfect frame and foil for eyes so startlingly light blue given the darkness of his hair. His nose could only be called patrician, his jaw squarely sculpted. His mouth was beautifully masculine, unsmiling at the moment. Each feature in itself was one of perfection. In sum, Alec McBride, Duke of Gleneden, was a man of arresting masculinity, so strikingly handsome as to be unforgettable. Was it any wonder that flirting with him the night of the masquerade had been so easy?
Be careful,cautioned a voice in her mind. It wouldn’t do to find herself smitten with Alec McBride. Aye, he was a most fetching man to look upon. But other than the night they had met, and today, if she were honest with herself, she’d found his character rather despicable.
She had but one goal here in Scotland, she reminded herself.
To find the Circle of Light and bring it home—home to Ireland.
Nothing or no one would stop her from honoring her promise to her father—and with that vow came courage and resolve.
Several hours later Maura’s head was spinning at the size and arrangement of the house. It was shaped like an E, with the centrally located great hall giving way to long hallways that angled into several wings. She counted no less than six staircases, including the grand staircase in the hall. This was the oldest part of the house; dating from the time of Robert the Bruce, as Alec had told her yesterday. Numerous additions such as the north and south wing had been made throughout the centuries, with comforts added and rooms changed so that, in truth, things were never outdated.
The central wing was for entertainment and formal events. It included the ballroom and music room, as well as the library. The north wing was designated for family. In it were the duke and duchess’s suite, other bedchambers, Alec’s study, the schoolroom, and various rooms generally used for the family. The south wing was primarily designated for guests.
Maura couldn’t help the avenue to which her mind strayed. There were antiques, vases, numerous items of extreme value, she was certain. How many, she once again wondered furiously, had the Black Scotsman acquired during his pirating days?
And where would such a man hide the Circle of Light? She disguised her cursory search as curiosity. In one bedroom, she opened a glossy, almost gaudy chest from the Orient and peered inside. A quarter hour later she peered into the drawer of an elaborate French secretaire. In another room, she slipped a toe beneath the edge of an intricately stitched Turkish carpet and cast an unobtrusive glance beneath.
Or so she thought.
She was startled to see Alec leaning leisurely against the door frame, arms crossed against his chest. “What are you looking for, Irish?” he asked, his tone rife with amusement. “I mentioned a curse this morning. Have you decided I’m concealing hidden treasure? Odd, but at a family dinner in London earlier this year, we talked about that very thing—that if there were treasure here at Gleneden, Aidan and I—and Annie, too—would have discovered it long ago.” He held up both hands. “But if you know some Irish superstition or spell that will make it magically appear, I invite you to find it. Indeed, I will applaud you if you find it.”
Maura muttered an old Irish curse.
They ended strolling down the long corridor that led back toward the great hall. Alec clearly took great pride in his heritage. He was pleased by her numerous questions and interest. There were portraits on each wall, the family through various generations.
Maura stopped before the one just outside the ballroom.
“That was painted several years before my father became ill,” Alec told her.
She smiled at the chestnut-haired young girl, standing near her father, who looked ready to burst into laughter.
“My sister Anne,” Alec said. “Or Annie, as we call her. And yes, she is every bit as vivacious as she appears.” Maura felt a momentary wistfulness. There was an air about Anne in the portrait that made her want to laugh along with her. She’d have liked Anne, she decided.
Alec gestured. “My brother Aidan.”
There was no mistaking the pair as brothers. Both were extremely tall, of matching height. Aidan’s hair was a shade lighter than Alec’s, whose jaw was also more square, his build lean but powerful.
Maura blinked at Alec’s mother. Dainty and dark-haired, she wondered how such a tiny woman had borne such towering sons. It was clear Alec and his brother came by their height from their father, a deep-chested man with ruddy cheeks and chestnut hair. The artist had captured a closeness, a sense of genuine love, and for an instant Maura experienced a fleeting regret that she would never meet the rest of his family.
It also made her wonder how Alec had come by his disagreeable nature.
She glanced at him. “Your father,” she ventured. “Forgive me for asking, but what illness did he suffer?”
Alec shook his head. There was no denying the pain that shadowed his expression. “That’s the thing,” he said. “Countless physicians saw him. They argued and fought as to the cause. They disagreed on his treatment. My father was healthy androbust. Yet he simply woke one morning, deathly sick, unable to gather the strength to rise. He remained deathly sick for over a year. Each day, every day, we feared might be his last.”
Maura felt herself sway. Sheer strength of will kept her upright. Just like her father. Oh, sweet heaven, just like her father. Perhaps it was a blessing that he had suffered but a single day.
