Page 23 of A Stranger’s Promise

“He meant no harm, my lord,” Charlotte said. “He is just a boy.”

Alistair nodded. “Aye. Come along, Oliver.”

He released the lad’s collar, but grasped his forearm and led him down the hall with Charlotte trotting alongside. She cast him a worried glance as they continued south and entered the Blue Drawing Room, the wonder of Castle Culzean.

Light blue silk covered walls trimmed with delicate plasterwork of flower vases and gryphons. A plush red carpet spanned the floor, and in the center of the blue-painted ceiling, the architect had embedded a round oil painting. A dozen portraits adorned the walls, but it was to a portrait hung over the hearth that Alistair headed.

“Now, here’s a man who didn’t understand the value of a shilling.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Your grandfather. The very devil himself, and a more arrogant, harsher man never lived. He left this estate in financial ruin.”

Oliver glanced up at him, small brows furrowed in surprise. Alistair guided him to the next painting. “This is his father, a man who let the fine heritage of his clan crumble away while he wasted his life in cardrooms and other unsavory places.”

Oliver’s brows knotted tighter.

“There are others.” Alistair waved his hand to encompass other portraits. “Some more honorable than their foolish descendants who bled the land dry. This is your heritage. They are the ones who made your clan what it is and established a fortress here.” He paused to look at the first two paintings once again, then released the lad and extended his hands toward him. “These are the hands of a working man, Oliver. A man who started life just like you, the son of a maid servant and one of the men above the fireplace. There is nothing wrong with being a working man. A working man saved this crumbling estate, never forget that.”

The lad looked up to him and, for once, he didn’t appear angry.

“Follow me.” Alistair turned on his heel and headed toward the library.

He didn’t glance back to see if the lad followed. The swish of Charlotte’s dress assured him that she accompanied him. When he arrived at the library, he was pleased to find Oliver behind him.

Alistair strode to the shelf near the window and ran his fingers over the spines of the fine leather volumes until he found the one he sought, a beginner’s Latin grammar. Selecting the book, he turned and looked down at the boy.

“You’ve your whole life before you, Oliver. I will see you make something of yourself. You’re a Cassilis and I’ll see you uphold the dignity of the clan.”

The boy frowned.

Alistair pushed the book against the boy’s chest. “As recompense for the china basin, you are to copy the first chapter. Neatly. I expect it before supper. Now, you may go.”

Oliver stared, his mouth working, but he turned and stiffly walked toward the door.

Alistair smiled.

As Charlotte started to follow the lad, he called, “A word, Miss Atchenson.”

She froze a moment, then faced him and dropped a curtsey.

“Nae.” He raised a hand, palm out. “Please, I grow weary of the formality.”

She straightened in surprise. “Aye, my lord.”

“My lord? Did you not say you wished to call me Alistair?” he teased.

Her brow furrowed in confusion, then horror widened her hazel eyes. So, she did remember.

With her color heightening, she lifted her chin a notch. “Last night…was much like a dream—”

“A dream? So, I appear in your dreams?” He injected a touch of suggestion into his tone.

She blinked and her lips parted again, but before she could reply, a sharp knock sounded on the door.

Alistair turned as Lady Cassilis entered. Charlotte bolted toward the door. He couldn’t blame her. She paused before Lady Cassilis and curtseyed, allowing him to catch an unexpected and delightful glimpse of her trim ankle, then she fled.

“Really, Alistair, your manners lack breeding.” Lady Cassilis marched into the room.

Breeding. Her favorite word. The woman obsessed over the proper placement of people in society. He released a sigh. “Should you not be out searching for this proof you seek? There’s no piper here in the library.”

She blinked, appearing somewhat taken aback, but switched subjects. “Dare you foist off your own bastards as my son’s children? What nerve you have. Those children have nothing to do with me. I will not allow you to stain my son’s good name.”

He pinned her with a stare. She would never cease to shock him. “They are your grandchildren, Lady Cassilis, Charles’ children. Until you can behave in a civil manner, keep away from them. Might I suggest London or even Paris?”

She clucked her tongue. “So ill-behaved, so uneducated. Small wonder that Lady Prescott’s alarmed. And that hussy you call a governess? She dresses like a beggar. Why, such a shameful—”

“Silence!” he thundered.

Her chin trembled. “Dare you insult me in my own house?” She curled her fingers into fists.

“Castle Culzean is no longer your house,” he replied sharply. “It is mine.”

“For now, Alistair.” Her face flushed a dark red. “For now.”

He watched her leave, and feared he had just goaded a deadly snake.