Page 46 of Promise of Punishment

“I was just leaving, actually.” Now that my plan is a bust. “Will you tell him for me, please?” I plead.

“Consider it done.” He slips his hands into his jacket pockets. “Want to see something ruined?” he says the last word in an enticing way.

A rush floods my system. “Will I get in trouble?”

“Not if you’re with me.” He nods deeper into the woods and strolls in that direction.

I hesitate for a second, worried my Scotsman might get mad—jealous—if I hang out with another Lord. But he said the word ruined, because I mentioned liking that kind of thing when we were in the west wing, and that isn’t something I can walk away from.

I jog to catch up with him, stomping over leaves and twigs scattered on the grass.

“You sound like a bear.” He laughs softly, his rich voice alluring.

“You sound a bit like the other Lord. The Scottish one.”

“Do I?” He keeps his gaze on the trees ahead, as calm as ever.

“Your voice is more refined. His is throatier, but sometimes it’s not.” His tone is a bit all over now that I think about it. Maybe from being aroused when we’re together.

“You know we fake accents.” He says it like it’s common knowledge.

I nod. “Are you faking yours?”

“I’m quite impressive at it, aren’t I?”

“Quite,” I reply, feeling posh, as I ponder if he could be that good at it.

“Is the other Lord faking his Scottish accent?”

“One of the Lords is Scottish.”

The ground slopes and the trees clear, revealing a brick wall that’s partially crumbled with an archway. My eyes widen with awe. “Is that a secret garden?”

“See for yourself.” He gestures for me to enter.

I pass under the archway and follow the steps that lead to a man-made pond. It’s square and filled with muck, moss growing on the stone edges. Purple and orange wildflowers hug the border. A lower brick wall surrounds the area. It too is lined with overgrown shrubs, some dotted with purple buds. On the left, a tall tree grows near a small brick building with arched windows and a matching door, the glass intact. Lush branches with star-shaped white flowers canopy part of the roof, their tiny blossoms falling to the ground.

Footsteps sound from behind me.

“What’s that?” I point to the small building.

“A garden house.”

“Can I go in it?” Best to ask first. He was kind enough to bring me here.

“Sure.” He walks with me to the structure. I lift my phone and record the garden as I go, noticing a few small, moldy statues among the bushes.

The Lord in black opens the door for me. I record my entrance, climbing the two steps, and walking inside. Dirt peppers the black-and-white checkered stone floor. Potted trees and withered plants occupy the space along with a stone bench and a tattered lounge chair that looks historic.

I get it all on video. “Why do you think this was built so far from the house?”

“There’s a tennis court behind here and a very old toilet, original to the home.”

I glance at him. “Toilet?”

“Bathroom.”

“Ah,” I say, then my brows bunch. “They had indoor plumbing back then? What year was this built?”