Chapter Thirteen
When Maura woke, the bed was empty. She had slept soundly, more soundly than she expected in light of the fact she lay nestled against Alec the night through.
She was bathed and dressed when he reappeared.
They breakfasted in the hotel dining room, then it was off to the train station.
Alec’s coachman Douglas met them at Ayr.
Alec handed her into the coach and settled across from her.
He remained coolly polite, if a bit distant.
Or did he merely ponder? Regardless of the reason behind his silence, it rattled her nerves.
And in her nervousness, she began to prattle.
“It’s dreadfully dreary, isn’t it? We’re in for a spot of rain, from the look of those clouds.
Oh, look, there is a peat bog! And you dared to call Ireland a soggy bog of an isle, do you remember?
There are no more peat bogs on McDonough lands, you know.
One year my father traveled all the way to Donegal so the castle and our tenants would have fuel for the winter.
The weather was horribly brutal that year, I believe.
I couldn’t have been more than ten or so, but I shall never forget. ”
Ten minutes later she spied a pony. “Is that a Shetland?” She gave a delighted laugh. “It reminds me of the ponies in Connemara. Have you ever seen a Connemara? Connemaras pulled the carts of peat back to McDonough—”
She broke off. Alec surveyed her, his expression rather vexed.
Maura turned defensive. “What?”
A brow quirked high. “I had no idea I’d wed a mockingbird,” he drawled. “I wish your uncle had seen fit to tell me.”
“Well, if you weren’t so rude as to sit there like a stump of wood and instead make the effort to converse now and again, there would be no need for me to fill the silence,” she informed him loftily.
“A spate of temper! Why am I not surprised? You’re a fierce little creature, aren’t you?”
Maura cast him a virulent gaze. Her chin firmed. She wouldn’t let him bait her. She proceeded to gaze out the window the rest of the way home.
Certainly she did not deign to venture a single word.
Back at Gleneden, she handed her hat to a waiting maid, then requested that her riding habit be laid out.
There was a tap on her shoulder. “I fear your ride shall have to wait.” Alec gave a nod. Maura looked beyond his shoulder to discover that the skies had opened up like a floodgate. Rain lashed the windowpanes.
“Of course, living on that soggy bog of an isle called Ireland, no doubt you’re used to a little rain.”
“You,” she declared aloud, “are a wretched creature to torment me so. But no doubt the sky is as moody as Gleneden’s master.” Directing an acid smile his way, she removed her gloves and handed them to Aggie, the maid. “I think I should like tea in the red parlor.”
The little maid seemed puzzled. It was Alec who supplied the reason why.
“I think, Irish, you mean the gold parlor in the north wing, the family wing. There is no red parlor, although there is a pink parlor in the guest wing.”
Maura glanced at the maid. “The gold parlor, then, please.”
“The gold parlor it is, your grace.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and hastened to do her mistress’s bidding. Maura glared at Alec, then turned toward the north wing. The beast was enjoying himself at her expense far too much.
But it impressed upon Maura exactly what she was up against. Since her arrival, her search for the Circle of Light hadn’t extended beyond more than half a dozen bedchambers in the north wing, and a cursory search of the garret where she found the candlesticks she’d given to Murdoch.
Sitting in the gold parlor with her tea, she reminded herself there was no need to be disheartened.
Gleneden Hall was simply larger than she had expected.
The hardest thing was figuring out where a pirate who had lived two hundred years ago would have hidden the Circle—hidden it where no one might find it in the next two hundred years.
Because no one had.
It was still here.
Somewhere.
That strange sense that it was here had not lessened.
If anything, it was sharper—even more keen—stronger than ever. She felt it every time she passed the portrait of James McBride, seventh Duke of Gleneden. And every time, as well, it was as though she’d been plunged into a vat of ice. Something gleamed in his eyes, as if he taunted her.
And each and every time, she cursed his blackguard soul.
Maura stirred her tea restlessly and replaced the little spoon on the saucer.
Her gaze circled the room, coming to rest on a painting of a basket of fruit above the sofa.
Poking her head in the hall to make certain no one was about, she scurried back inside to peer behind each of the six paintings in the parlor.
No hidden compartments behind any of them.
No secret drawers in the long low table behind the sofa.
She chafed. If Alec weren’t in the house, she could prowl to her heart’s content.
Returning to her tea, she glanced out the window.
The rain had begun to lessen. The hours of travel had made her long to be outdoors.
If the rain stopped and there was enough daylight left, she would walk to the wishing well.
Maura smiled. It was not a place of whimsical beauty, but rather one of whimsy.
She and Alec’s mother had something in common. They both liked it there.
“Your grace?”
Maura glanced up. It was Aggie, and only then did she realize that the girl had called her twice. She winced inside. She wasn’t used to being addressed as “your grace.”
“Yes, Aggie?”
“His grace requests your presence in your room, your grace.”
“Thank you, Aggie.” Did he think she would scurry to his summons? By heaven, he could wait.
A full fifteen minutes passed before she strolled to her room. Alec was sitting in one of the large wing chairs in front of the fireplace. Judging from his expression, it didn’t appear he’d been waiting impatiently.
He got to his feet. In one hand was a small beribboned box. He tapped it against his chest.
“Did you think I forgot our bargain at Madame Rousseau’s?” he asked.
Maura’s heart bounded. Her stockings! She snatched at the box.
Alec held it high above his head. “Take care you don’t lose it!” he cautioned. “Remember our promise. Whatever you bought, you promised to wear.”
“Yes, yes!” She was the impatient one.
“And whatever I chose, you will wear as well. I have your promise?”
“Yes! I promise!”
He handed her the box. Maura ripped off the ribbon, held the stockings to her chest and crowed, “I cannot believe it. My very first pair of silk stockings! My very own!” In the midst of her dancing up and down, he caught her elbow and wheeled her around. He pointed to the door.
Aggie and half a dozen other maids filed in, each carrying several round boxes, which they stacked near the armoire. When they withdrew, Alec nodded to Maura.
She fell to her knees and tore off lid after lid from box after box. His shoulder propped against the door, Alec looked on. By the time she was done, clutched to her chest and scattered all around, were dozens of sheer, silk stockings. Maura was laughing helplessly.
She looked up at Alec. “Oh, my word, you bought every last pair in the shop, didn’t you?”
“I believe Madame said something to that effect, yes.”
Alec looked on thoughtfully. Had she asked for everything, he would have purchased little or nothing. But all she wanted was that one simple thing, and that nearly pried from her! Now, he wished he’d bought nearly every last item in every last shop on the street.
For God help him, it was bloody well worth it to see her light up like this.
Tears of laughter streamed down her cheeks when he tugged her up to her feet. She threw her arms around his neck. “Alec McBride, you are quite mad!”
Caught up in some strange awakening deep in his gut, he sucked in a breath. He handed her his handkerchief to wipe away her tears. He’d never seen such joy for something that, to him, was so trifling.
Her reluctance had gained her far more than greed or insistence. She claimed it wasn’t money or his title that she hoped to gain. Had her being caught in his bed indeed been an accident? If only he could be sure.
All he knew was that he wouldn’t have traded anything in the world to miss the glow on her face in that moment. The light shining from her beautiful green eyes was simply beyond price.
Throughout dinner, every so often Maura allowed her slipper to dangle from her toes, angled her leg out from beneath her chair, bunched up her skirt ever so slightly to admire her stockings.
Over tea, Alec glanced at her. “Irish, are you doing what I think you are?”
“I am doing nothing, sir,” she said primly.
He set his cup on the saucer, neatly folded his napkin and laid it beside his plate. The next time she angled her leg out he reached beneath the table and caught the back of her calf.
“So you like your new stockings, do you?”
“I do indeed.”
He ran his fingers up behind her knee and gave a full, throaty laugh. “Well, so do I, Irish. So do I.” His hand was roving now, almost to her silk ribbon garters. Maura’s eyes went huge.
The evening passed far more quickly than she’d anticipated. After the last dish was removed, Alec pushed his chair back. Maura started to do the same. His voice stopped her.
“Wait,” he said softly. “Your hands. Let me see them.”
She glanced at him, surprised when he turned to face her. “What?” Her hands ducked instinctively beneath the table, into her lap.
He shook his head, his scrutiny suddenly piercingly intent. “Your hands, if you please, Irish.”
Maura’s heart was suddenly pounding. She shifted so she faced him, then started to lift them from her lap. Lean fingers caught at hers. Turning her palms up, he cradled her hands within his.
“Your hands are scarcely larger than a child’s,” he murmured.
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Alec’s hands, lean and strong, far eclipsed her own.