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‘Come with me, Mrs Langdale.’ He moved towards the stairs and stopped. She had not moved. ‘Pray accompany me to the library, Mrs Langdale.’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’
‘Benneit.’ The name exploded from him and she blinked and something, a fugitive glimmer of laughter, narrowed her eyes for a moment and softened the prim mouth. Not a Highland curse, but an English garden pixie sent north to work away at the Scottish fortitude from within.
‘You are a menace, Mrs Langdale.’
‘And you are jealous, Your Grace.’
‘Jealous!’
‘As green as the glen. And it serves you right.’
She walked past him down the stairs and after a moment of stunned shock he followed her.
‘Jealous of what?’
‘Jealous that Jamie and I are outside enjoying ourselves while you are either cooped up like the saddest of counting-house clerks or off on errands from dawn till dusk simply because you don’t trust anyone. Well, hardly anyone. You trust Angus, but there is a limit to the amount of responsibility that poor man can shoulder. I think you trust Ewan and Mrs Merry, but I am not quite certain of that.’
They reached the library and she stopped in the middle of the room. He remained standing by the door, his mind searching for a reasonable response to this barrage. He fell back on pettiness, regretting the words even as he spoke them.
‘You are correct, I trust Angus and he told me you were sailing stick boats in the north bay.’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Yes, he...’ He pulled himself short. How the devil did she make herself sound so reasonable while he felt reduced to the level of Jamie?
He wasn’t jealous. He was tired, worried, on edge. Ever since they returned to the castle, it was worse than ever and building. It should be quite the opposite—he was coming closer and closer to solving Lochmore’s woes. He should be delighted with himself. In a year or two all his concerns for Jamie’s future might be put to rest. But he didn’t feel delight. Just growing gloom, a sense of something slipping out of his grasp—the future solidifying into stone—hard, grey, unyielding. Just like the castle.
She took a step forward, unclasping her hands and raising them slightly in a peculiar show of concession.
‘We sailed them down the small waterfall into the north bay. We never went down the cliff path and Angus was with us so I am quite certain he reported accurately, though he, too, might have wished to goad you a little. He worries about you, too.’
He worries about you, too.
The words flicked at him, but he shook them off.
She might have wished to goad him, but it certainly was not out of worry, unless she was beginning to consider him one of her charges to prod into correct behaviour. He did not need people worrying about him.
‘Angus is a natural worrier. I apologise for...accusing you.’
‘Apology accepted, Your Grace. Is there anything else you wished to say to me?’
He searched his mind for something. She had reclasped her hands, now like a pupil patiently but hopefully awaiting dismissal. Contrarily he decided to thwart that unflatteringly obvious wish to escape his presence.
‘Sit down for a moment. Please.’
He indicated the armchair by the fire and she sat. Against the warm burgundy brocade her grey dress looked glummer than ever. It was a pity she did not wear livelier colours; something that would not contrast unfavourably with her soft complexion and grey eyes. It might help, too, if she stopped dragging her hair back into that uncompromising bun. It had looked far more appealing that first night when they arrived, tied back with a ribbon and still damp from her bath. Jamie was right, her hair was a pretty colour—not wheat but barley just after harvest, no longer brittle, softening as it passed its prime.
‘Yes, Your Grace?’
He started at the prompt.
‘I hate when you call me that. How the devil do you succeed in injecting so much contempt into a title?’
Her eyes widened in surprise.
‘Contempt?’
‘You hardly even realise it, do you? Is this another of your tools of quiet insurrection? Like the great grey-eyed stare?’
Her cheeks turned gently pink. Even her blushes were restrained. What would it take to unravel her? Force that blush into real heat?
