4. Piper in the Castle
Chapter four
Piper in the Castle
He holds the grand door open, not because he's trying to impress me. Because opening doors for women appears to be so deeply woven into his DNA that it never occurs to him not to.
I step inside. And then stop.
"Oh..."
Every old building has a smell. Fresh plaster, dust, old wood, mildrew, forgotten attics. Some sort of scent.
Glenhaven Castle smells of cedar, stone, the flower arrangement and something faintly smoky drifting from somewhere deeper in the house.
It smells warm and lived in. Definitely not abandoned. Not even close.
The entrance hall is enormous. A sweeping staircase curves upward beneath a vaulted ceiling painted centuries ago. Portraits line the walls, each one watching with the quiet confidence of people accustomed to being admired.
A fire burns in the great hearth.
Fresh flowers sit on an antique table. Not expensive arrangements. Garden flowers that were recently cut.
Someone lives here, not just occupies it. He does.
Murphy strolls past me as though he's been invited. His nails click happily across the old flagstones before he discovers the fireplace and immediately lies down in front of it with the satisfied sigh of a dog who has apparently decided we're never leaving.
I look at Tristan.
"It looks like you've won him over."
"I believe he arrived predisposed to generosity."
"He usually waits at least five minutes before abandoning me."
"I shall consider that an honor."
His voice is impossible. Every sentence sounds as though it belongs in a BBC period drama. Mine generally belong in group texts.
He removes my coat before I quite realize he's doing it. Not flirtatiously but naturally, like breathing. For one ridiculous second, I simply stand there.
Nobody has ever taken my coat. Not without asking. Not... like this. It’s courtly.
"Thank you."
"My pleasure."
Again. That voice. I make a mental note not to notice it. I immediately fail. My eyes wander across the hall again.
"This place is..." I search for the right word, “incredible."
"It has its moments."
I laugh. "I've noticed Scottish understatement is alive and well."
"I'm relieved to hear you think so."
I wander toward one of the portraits. An impossibly stern gentleman stares back at me beneath a powdered wig.
"He looks cheerful."
"My great-grandfather."
"Really?"
"No."
I glance back. His expression remains perfectly serious. Then, finally, I catch the flicker in his eyes.
"You almost had me. I wouldn’t expect you to have a sense of humor."
"I wasn't expecting to require one."
I grin despite myself. One point to Lord Tristan Sinclair. Maybe two.
Turning back to the portrait, I notice something else.
Dust. Or rather, the lack of it. The frames gleam. The brass sconces shine. Even the centuries-old banister has been polished.
This house isn't waiting to be rescued, like most of the houses I’ve purchased. This one’s being cared for. Meticulously.
Which raises an entirely new question. I turn slowly.
"Lord Sinclair..."
"Yes?"
"...if you've been living here..."
"I have."
"...who exactly has been cleaning a castle this size?"
I stare at him. He stares calmly back. Somewhere in the castle a clock begins striking the hour. Deep. Ancient. Beautiful.
I suddenly have a vision. This man, this absurdly handsome, impeccably mannered, slightly mysterious man ... has been wandering around a seventy-three-room castle ... dusting?
The image is so unexpected that I burst into laughter. Real laughter. The kind that sneaks up before you can stop it.
For one suspended moment, Tristan doesn't move. He simply watches me. As though he's listening to a sound he hasn't heard in a very, very long time. Or maybe considering that I might be mad.
"You really do live here."
"I've never claimed otherwise."
"This isn't what I expected."
"What were you expecting?"
"I don't know. A deserted castle in disrepair. Maybe a lonely old caretaker or grumpy groundskeeper on the property. Even a ghost or two? I definitely wasn't expecting..." I wave a hand toward him. "...this."
He glances down at himself.
"I apologize if I've dressed inappropriately."
A laugh escapes me.
"You look like you stepped out of a period drama."
I pull the folder of documents including the deed from my bag, and present them to the gorgeous Lord.
“See, I’m not crazy. I bought this place last week.”
Tristan studies the deed and paperwork before carefully handing them back to me.
"There must be some mistake, lass."
"You've said that."
"Because it remains the most likely explanation. I believe someone has made a spectacular error. But there’s nothing to be done about it this evening. I’ll have my solicitor over in the morning and you can make calls. In the meantime, I'll have staff put your things in the morning room."
"The... morning room?"
"Yes, until we've determined where you'd be most comfortable."
"You have a morning room?"
"We have several."
"Several?"
"It depends upon the morning."
I stare at him. "Are you making fun of me?"
"I sincerely hope so."
He's funny but it's so dry I almost miss it. That somehow makes it even better. He gestures toward another doorway.
"Would you care for some tea, Miss Monroe? I was just about to have some."
I laugh. "I think we've skipped over several parts of this conversation. I bought your castle. But you live in my castle. I've flown across the ocean to London. I’ve driven quite a distance to arrive here."
"A considerable distance."
"We have a little crisis going on here. I've got approximately four hundred questions. And your first instinct is tea?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because," he says simply, "important conversations are almost always improved by good tea or scotch. I thought tea the better choice. And because it’s … polite."
I fold my arms.
"And if I don't like tea?"
A tiny smile touches his mouth.
"Miss Monroe..."
"Yes?"
"I've lived long enough to know that every problem appears less intimidating after one has been offered refreshment."
I can't help it. I smile back.
"You've never met my accountant, then."
"I look forward to correcting that oversight."
I laugh again. The sound bounces softly off the old stone walls.
For one brief second I see something change in his face, but it's gone almost before I see it. As though I'd unknowingly reminded him of something he'd almost forgotten.
"This way."
He leads me deeper into the castle. Murphy follows without hesitation. I follow Murphy. Which, in retrospect, has become something of a pattern.
He moves elegantly, smoothly almost like gliding on air.
We go through a stone corridor where the waning light spills across polished floors in narrow golden rectangles.
We pass a portrait. Then another. Every person looks vaguely important.
Every one of them also looks like they'd disapprove of my hiking boots.
Murphy has wandered ahead, sniffing absolutely everything with the enthusiasm of a professional food inspector.
"I should probably apologize in advance."
"For Murphy?"
"No. For me."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"I ask questions. And I don't stop until I get answers."
"I see."
"You don't seem very worried."
"I've survived … a long time, and I’ve learned it doesn’t help to worry about things like this. I believe I can survive."
I laugh.
"You make it sound challenging."
"I suspect it may be."
The room beyond steals my attention.
The light from the setting sun pours through tall windows overlooking rolling green hills. Books. There are thousands of them. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. A fire already burns in the grate. An enormous leather sofa and comfortable chairs face the windows.
And on a small table, a silver tea service waits. Steam curls gently from the pot.
I stop.
"You were making tea."
"The housekeeper, Mrs. MacLeod was, just as you arrived."
"You’re expecting someone? Have I intruded?"
"No."
I look from the tea to the second cup. Then back to him.
"There are two cups."
"I always have two cups." Perhaps it’s the kind of habit that has survived long after there was anyone left to share it with? Or perhaps his housekeeper is clairvoyant?
Though I’m a coffee girl, the tea smells incredible.
"What is it?"
"Scottish breakfast tea."
"That's the actual name?"
"It is."
"It’s not breakfast time.”
"No, but I love this tea."
"I've already learned something."
"I imagine there will be quite a lot of that. Being in a new country and a new place. In a castle you may or may not own."
I run one finger lightly over the polished silver teapot.
"You know ... I've restored three properties."
"Congratulations."
"I've met contractors, inspectors, lawyers…" I look around the room. "But I've never walked into a house where someone had already put the kettle on for me."
He’s quiet, then says, "I couldn't very well allow a woman who believes she is the new owner of Glenhaven Castle to arrive unwelcomed."
I look at him for a long moment.
"You're taking this remarkably well."
Or perhaps he isn't taking it well at all. Perhaps he's simply too much of a gentleman to throw the woman who accidentally arrived with a deed to his home back onto the driveway.
“Not really, lass. I’m not happy at all about the situation.”
"Then you're just remarkably polite."
Murphy wanders over, flops dramatically onto the rug between us, sighs with theatrical satisfaction, and immediately falls asleep.
"He likes you. He doesn't usually trust people this quickly."
Tristan looks down at the sleeping Labrador. Then quietly reaches down and absentmindedly scratches behind one golden ear.
"I suspect..." He doesn't finish his sentence.
"What?"
His hand stills. He watches Murphy for another second before looking back at me. "I've simply missed having a dog."
The sentence lands much harder than I expect. Because he doesn't say ... I miss dogs. He says... I've missed having one. As though there once was one. Or maybe more than one.
He seems sad, so I don't ask. Not this time.