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Then again, shehadwritten to him three times this winter, hadn’t she?
Victoria’s gaze was astute. “You will never know how she feels unless you ask her directly.”
“She’ll probably demonstrate her feelings by smashing a vase over my head.”
“That is a distinct possibility, I admit,” said Victoria. “But whether she is worth the risk is a question only you can answer.”
“Lady A has my vote,” said Kade, “despite what anyone else says about her. She’s a corker, if you ask me.”
Clearly, a second Kendrick male had fallen under the spell of Ainsley Matthews’s considerable charms. And since the ladwasprobably the smartest of them all . . .
“As it so happens, little brother, I agree with you.” Royal hauled himself to his feet, a surge of unfamiliar energy coursing through his body. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must pack a bag for my trip.”
“Oh, good,” Kade said, reaching for the tea tray. “More cake for me.”
Chapter Two
Royal pulled up his horse outside the half-open iron gates fronting the drive to Underhill Manor. The gates would have been imposing were they not almost rusting out of the brick walls that marked the boundaries of the secluded estate. The gatehouse was equally neglected. Its sagging appearance, with cobwebs stretching over the door, signaled that no one had been in residence for some time.
Lady Margaret Baird, Ainsley’s eccentric great-aunt, was apparently as unwelcoming as her reputation suggested.
The journey to Cairndow had been a slog. Normally an easy, half-day ride, the deplorably bad roads had forced him to slow Demetrius to a walk any number of times. Bad enough to have a lame rider, a lame horse as well would have been completely ridiculous.
Royal had made a quick stop at the local tavern where he’d watered his horse, downed a tankard of ale, and quizzed the publican for information about Lady Margaret. The fellow had been remarkably closemouthed, grouchily offering that her ladyship minded her own business—as did everyone else who knew what was what.
An odd statement, since gossip was the lifeblood of small Highland villages, especially when it came to the lords and ladies who exerted so much influence over the lives of the locals. Whether the fellow was simply loyal, bad-tempered, or indifferent was difficult to gauge, and no one else in the tavern had seemed inclined to talk to a stranger.
He nudged Demetrius forward. “Come along, old son. With a little luck, there’ll be oats at the end of this drive and maybe even a warm stall if we’re lucky.”
His roan’s snort sounded as skeptical as he felt. If the rest of the estate was as run-down as the gatehouse, they might end up foraging in the woods for their supper. He found it ever harder to imagine Ainsley willingly spending a week, much less the winter, in so remote and gloomy a spot. Even the rutted drive had a sad air, surrounded as it was by dense woods of beech and elm, the underbrush thick and tangled around their trunks.
The fact that Ainsleyhadcome willingly was not in doubt. Despite her vociferous complaints that her father had exiled her to the Highlands for refusing to marry Cringlewood, Royal had sensed relief on her part. She’d been so eager to leave Glasgow she’d fled almost as if a wolf pack was snapping at her heels. When Royal asked her to explain the hasty departure, she’d responded by telling him to mind his own confounded business.
Typical Ainsley.
Demetrius shied when two red squirrels darted across the leaf-strewn path in front of him. Royal brought the horse quickly under control.
“Pay attention, you idiot,” he muttered to himself.
There would be plenty of time to ponder Ainsley’s odd behavior when he arrived at Underhill. Then again, it was still quite possible she’d refuse to see him, or her eccentric aunt would throw him out on his ear.
He ignored those possibilities as he rounded a bend in the road and crested a small rise. Beyond the woods lay a large pasture, dotted with sheep and shaggy ponies, all amicably grazing. The drive meandered down a gentle incline to curve past hedges and some spectacular azaleas in fulsome bloom. Clumps of daffodils lined the road, lending an additional note of spring cheer to the landscape.
Beyond the hedges and the surprising splashes of color rose Underhill Manor, a large house that would have dominated the landscape if not for the presence of the loch behind it and the craggy hills on the other side. It was a typical Scottish landscape of water, mountain, and sky, one he’d loved his entire life. Sublimely spare and harshly beautiful, it seemed the last sort of place one would find a sought-after diamond of the Britishton.
Royal’s heart skipped a few beats in anticipation of soon encountering that highly polished gem, but he chose to ignore it. He was here to see a friend and possibly lift his own black mood. If there were anything that could kick him out of his frustrating mental state, it was the sharp side of Ainsley’s tongue.
He set the roan to trotting and made his way down the hill. For all the neglect he’d seen up to this point, the areas surrounding the house presented a better picture. The fences along the pasture were in good repair, the hedges trimmed, and the sheep looked champion—fat and healthy even after a long winter. Around the ewes gamboled a fair number of lambs, and the ponies, obviously work animals, looked sturdy and well cared for under their coats.
Lady Margaret might not give a damn about some appearances, but it was clear she cared about what truly mattered. The pasturelands appeared well managed, and the livestock were in peak condition.
Whatever else was going on, Ainsley was not languishing away in eccentric poverty.
Royal tucked his head against a stiff breeze off the loch and urged the big horse into a canter. A few minutes later, he rode through a gap in the low stonewalls that surrounded the manor’s immediate grounds and into the courtyard that fronted the house. Bringing Demetrius to a halt before the front door, he glanced around the eerily deserted space with a frown. The unease that had dogged him in the woods returned full force.
Underhill was a typical seventeenth-century manor house, sturdy and dour. It had uneven rooflines with crow-stepped gables, crenellated walkways connecting two wings to the main tower house, and a number of fanciful-looking corner turrets. The stone had gone smoky with age, and the diamond-paned windows were dark, drapes grimly pulled against the day. If he didn’t know better, he would have assumed the house empty.
Incongruously, the front door was a bright, cheerful blue, a welcoming note in the otherwise lonely aspect. The only signs of life were the weeds growing up from the gravel and a pair of dippers flitting from turret to turret.
