Page 20 of A Stranger’s Promise

“The creditors.” Her tongue tripped over the word. “It was the only thing I had left of her.” She scowled and passed her hand over her head, as if it hurt.

“This captain of yours let them take it?” Alistair asked.

“He gave me ten shillings,” she replied in a bitter tone. “Ten.”

“A beggar’s pittance. I find myself unimpressed with the man.”

She closed her eyes.

Again, he thought she’d fallen asleep, but she roused herself yet again. “Now, you,” she slurred her words. “You may look quite intimitia…intimidd…in…”

“Intimidating?” he supplied.

“Yes, that.” She nodded emphatically. “But under it all…you’re the honorable…sort, aren’t you now…?”

“Honorable? I daresay, there are others who might disagree.” His stepmother came to mind.

She hiccupped then relaxed against the chair. This time, her lush, dark lashes fell over her eyes and her full lips relaxed. He watched her slump sideways in the chair. How could her fiancé let her fall into such dire circumstances and offer a mere ten shillings of relief? What did she see in such a wretch? Yet…she was engaged. If he were the honorable sort—as she thought him—he would do the honorable thing and walk away.

He pushed from his chair, crossed to the window and stared out into the night. He considered the issue from different angles, but after a good hour, he still reached the same conclusion. He didn’t want to walk away. He didn’t think he could. The lass hadn’t married the ass, yet. Perhaps he could make her see she deserved a worthier man. And if the captain returned from wherever he’d gone and found his fiancée in love with someone else…then so be it.

“May the better man win,” he murmured.

At the sound of retching, he whirled in time to see Charlotte kneeling over the fire. He hurried to her side. She moaned as he arrived, and she gagged again.

“Forgive me, lass,” he murmured, this time regretting the second glass of whisky. “Let’s get you to your room.” He grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet.

She swayed unsteadily. Alistair slid an arm around her waist and she clung to him and laid her head on his chest.

“Charlotte.” Her name sounded intimate on his lips. “Come, I’ll help you upstairs.”

She answered with a soft snore.

He could’ve called someone to escort her. But didn’t. Instead, he looped his arm under her knees and lifted her against his chest. She was light and delicate in his arms. As he strode toward the door, she moaned a little before nestling her head against his shoulder. Alistair paused at the door and stared down at her, more than a little attracted and somewhat amused she’d likely remember nothing of the encounter.

He pushed the door open with his foot. Low-burning candles in the hallway, shone tiny islands of light to guide his walk down the hallway. He reached the stairs leading up to the nursery and had a foot on the first stair when a woman stepped from behind a Corinthian column to his right. He started and swore under his breath. So, his stepmother had finally arrived. Being waylaid by her like this was what he got for leaving instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed during his meeting with Charlotte.

“Lady Cassilis,” he said through gritted teeth.

She stood, a dark, shadowy form on the edge of the grand oval stair. The flickering candlelight cast her in an almost ghoulish glow. Her narrow face and upturned nose looked like a caricature and her gray-streaked brown hair made her look ten years older than her fifty-five years. She glared, her furrowed brows set in a disgruntled, judgmental frown, and her mouth tugged down in permanent disapproval. That was no surprise. He’d never seen her smile.

Her stare shifted to Charlotte. “Who is that?”

He quashed the impulse to ignore her and answered with a cool, “This is Charlotte Atchenson. The governess.”

“The governess?” she repeated waspishly. “The woman Lady Prescott mentioned in her letter? Heavens, Alistair, you brought her here?” Her lips pressed into a thin line of hatred.

So, the two old biddies had been talking. He simply wasn’t in the mood. “What brings you to Castle Culzean?” Would she gloat? Admit the truth? Or would she lie? He could never fathom how her vile mind worked.

“I’ve come to stay, until it pleases me to do otherwise.” Her thin nostrils flared and he half wondered if she might charge him. “It is my right.”

Technically, she no longer possessed such rights but, despite his better judgement, he couldn’t cast his own stepmother out on the streets—no matter how odious and vile she was.

“I can’t imagine you relish the thought of living here with me.” He adjusted Charlotte as she snored in his arms.

“Perhaps it is you who will leave, Alistair.” A gleam of hope lit her eyes.

Ah, her irrefutable proof. “Foster knows nothing of what you seek,” he said bluntly. “You’re clutching at straws, madam. The deed is done. Truth is, the courts have declared the matter over and we’re likely never to find this proof that would settle the question of when, where and even if the earl wed my mother.”