5. Piper in the Library
Chapter five
Piper in the Library
As he pours the tea, the library steals my attention. Every wall is covered in books. Not decorative books. Not color-coordinated books bought by interior designers to stage a room.
These are real books. Some are leather-bound, some are cracked with age. Some are so old they look as though they might crumble if I breathe too enthusiastically.
I drift toward the nearest shelf almost without thinking.
"You don’t organize them by color?" The question slips out before I realize how ridiculous it sounds.
"I beg your pardon?"
I grin. "I'm kidding. I've met people who do that, you see."
"I shall endeavor never to meet them."
"There. That. That was humor."
"I deny everything."
"You smiled. A little."
"I did no such thing."
"I saw it."
"I suspect the evening light was simply playing tricks."
I laugh again. He doesn't. Not quite. But his eyes? His eyes absolutely do. He’s very pale, very gorgeous, and there’s something about him. Powerful yet graceful. Not quite of this world perhaps? It must be a Scottish aristocratic thing.
I trail one finger along a row of worn bindings as I change the subject.
"So..." I glance over my shoulder. "How many books do you have in this library?"
"I've never counted them, lassie."
"You've read all of them?"
"Most. Some more than once."
"Lord Sinclair..."
“Please call me Tristan.”
“Tristan ... do you have any hobbies?"
"This is one of them."
"No." I point at the shelves. "This isn't a hobby. This is an obsession."
"I've found obsessions considerably more reliable than hobbies."
"I'll remember that."
Without thinking, I reach for one particularly beautiful volume. The leather cover is deep green with delicate gold lettering. The title is in French.
"Oh..." I gently open it. "It's a first edition. You just ... leave this on a shelf?"
"I generally know where it is."
"Someone could steal it."
"I imagine they could."
I look up.
"Aren't you worried?"
"Miss Monroe..."
"Yes?"
"If someone steals a book ... they probably needed it."
I blink. What an odd thing to say. Not a wealthy or possessive thing to say, not even protective. Just … kind.
"You've lost books before."
He says nothing. He doesn't need to. His silence answers for him. Of course he's lost books. Wars. Fires. People in the castle. History. This library has been built over centuries by his ancestors most likely.
He notices where my thoughts have gone.
"They're only books, lassie."
"I don't believe you." I glance around the room. "I think you love every single one."
His smile is almost invisible. "I know precisely where every one of them belongs."
Murphy wanders over carrying something triumphantly in his mouth.
"Oh no! I’m sorry."
He has a very old slipper in his mouth. "Murphy! Bad boy!"
He trots proudly across the Persian rug toward me.
"Drop it!"
He thinks this is the greatest game ever invented as he now lets me chase him. And I nearly catch him. He dodges and runs. Straight between Tristan's legs.
"Oh, honestly..."
Murphy circles an enormous reading table. I follow. Then … my boot slips on the polished floor. For one ridiculous second I know exactly what's about to happen.
I'm going down.
A hand catches my elbow. Firm, steady and effortless. I didn’t even know he was at my side. The world stops tilting.
I’m inches from Tristan. Close enough to notice that his eyes aren't simply grey. They're flecked with silver. Close enough to catch the faint scent of cedar, old paper, and something impossibly clean.
His hand remains around my arm. Neither of us moves.
Murphy drops the slipper with a triumphant bark, as if he'd orchestrated the entire thing.
"Thank you."
Tristan is still looking at me. Not at my face. He’s looking at my eyes. As though he's forgotten, just for a heartbeat, what he intended to say next.
Then, with visible effort, he steps back.
"You appear to have survived."
"I like a little drama, it seems. Or I’m clumsy. Probably both."
He retrieves the slipper from Murphy with remarkable dignity.
"I’m sorry about that."
"I find neither of you particularly alarming."
"You've known us less than half an hour."
"And?"
He looks from me to Murphy and then back again.
"I confess..." Another almost-smile. "Glenhaven Castle has already become considerably less quiet. And perhaps more interesting."
Tristan sets the rescued slipper beside the fireplace. Murphy immediately looks disappointed that the game appears to be over.
"We've ruined his game, Piper."
"I suspect he'll recover. Dogs always do. He'll probably forgive us if you produce biscuits."
"I believe I can manage that."
Without another word, he crosses to an antique sideboard. Everything about him is elegant and … even sensual. I hate that I notice.
He opens a tin and Murphy's ears stand straight up.
"You've got dog biscuits?"
"I have."
"You were expecting dogs?"
"No. But I have them, just in case."
He offers one to Murphy with the same quiet dignity he'd shown pouring tea. Murphy accepts it as though receiving a royal honor.
"Well," I say, folding my arms. "That's it, My dog officially likes you more than me."
"I find that highly unlikely."
"He'd probably leave with you."
"I would never encourage such disloyalty."
"You absolutely just did."
"I merely offered a treat."
"Hmm."
"What?"
"You think every problem can be solved with tea or snacks."
"I've discovered the approach to be remarkably successful."
"I'm beginning to worry you're right," I say with a smile.
His eyes brighten just enough that I know he enjoys winning these tiny debates. Not because he wants to defeat me. Because he enjoys the conversation. There's a difference.
I wander toward the windows.
The view stretches across rolling hills disappearing into layers of mist as the sun is descending. There’s no neighboring houses. No traffic or city noise. Just Scotland.
"You must get spectacular storms up here."
"We do."
"I find storms exciting."
"I suspected you might."
"Why?"
"You bought a castle. I doubt a timid woman would voluntarily purchase a large Scottish castle."
“Fair point.”
I walk slowly around the room. Every shelf, chair, rug … everything is authentic. Nothing looks staged. Everything has been chosen because someone loved it, probably this impossibly beautiful man.
Then I notice something that stops me. An old wooden globe sits near the fireplace. Its oceans aren't blue anymore, they’re faded green but the brass stand has been polished so often it glows.
Without thinking, I spin it gently.
"This is beautiful,” I whisper. “It’s very old. It shows countries that don't exist anymore." I trace one finger lightly across the globe. "You never replaced it."
"No."
"Why?"
He joins me beside the globe. Not too close, just close enough that I become strangely aware of him.
"I've always rather liked maps and globes."
"So do I. I minored in history at university." A genuine pause. "The old maps were my favorite part."
"Most people prefer newer editions."
"Of course, they're useful."
"But?"
"They don't dream as much as we do."
Lord Tristan Sinclair smiles. It's quiet and unexpectedly boyish. And so damned breathtaking that I completely forget what I was about to say. Something twists gently inside my chest. I don't know why. I mean, I barely know this man.
I know he's beautiful, ridiculously well-mannered with dry humor. Living in my castle. But I wonder something that has nothing to do with property deeds.
When was the last time someone made Lord Tristan Sinclair smile? And why does the answer feel as though it might break my heart?
I wander farther into the library, running my fingertips lightly along the spines of books.
"I have a confession."
Tristan looks up from pouring the tea. "I'm listening."
"I judge people by their bookshelves. It's not my best quality."
"I imagine we all have standards."
"If someone alphabetizes decorative books by color..."
He nods gravely, "...you're leaving."
"Immediately. I'm not saying they're bad people. I am saying we probably won't be friends."
"That seems entirely reasonable, Piper."
I grin.
"I knew there was something I liked about you."
He pauses for just a fraction of a second. The words hang between us. Not awkwardly, just unexpectedly. As though neither of us anticipated they'd be spoken quite so soon. He’s fun to flirt with.
I settle into one of the enormous leather chairs as he pours my tea. The chair sighs beneath me with the contentment of furniture that has survived several centuries and intends to survive several more.
"This chair might be older than America, I expect."
"Considerably."
"You’ve apparently lived here a long time."
“I have. I grew up here. I was away for a while, but then I came back. I've always believed," he says quietly, "that someone ought to remain in this place."
"Remain?"
"When places are loved..." He glances around the library. "...they deserve someone to remember what they once were."
His voice is calm. Matter-of-fact and almost gentle. But something about those words settles deep inside me.
"I think..." I hesitate, "...that's why I buy them."
He looks at me.
"The houses, the forgotten places I buy, I mean."
"They've been forgotten?"
I shrug lightly.
"Most of them. People drive past them every day and only see broken windows or something that’s just old and no longer needed."
"But you don't. What do you see?"
I smile.
"I see families. People. The Christmas dinners. The children running down hallways. The couple or family who built it. And what it can be."
I look around the room.
"The grandmother who always sat in the same chair." My eyes drift toward the fireplace. "The old dog asleep by the fire. It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?"
"No." His answer is immediate. "It doesn't."
I meet his eyes.
"I always think every old property is just waiting for somebody to love it again."
The room becomes very quiet as outside, rain begins tapping gently against the windows. Tristan looks into the fire.
Then our eyes meet. For one suspended heartbeat ... there's something between us. Not attraction. Well maybe a little. But I mean recognition. As though we've accidentally stumbled onto the same truth from opposite directions.
Murphy sighs dramatically in his sleep. The spell breaks and I clear my throat.
"So ... do all Scottish lords speak like philosophers?"
A corner of his mouth lifts.
"Only before dinner, lassie."
"Thank goodness."
"It becomes considerably worse afterward. Especially if Scotch is involved."
I laugh again. "You're impossible."
"I've been called considerably less flattering things."
"I don't believe that for a second." I study him over the rim of my teacup. "I think people have been trying to live up to your expectations for a very long time."
He blinks. It’s the first thing I've said that truly catches him off guard. Maybe because it's true.
But what am I doing? I should be at war with him. Maybe I will be. I turn our conversation back to the issue before I lose myself entirely.
"Lord Sinclair, let me be perfectly clear."
"Of course. But you must call me Tristan."
"Tristan, I own this castle now."
"According to your documents, yes. Perhaps."
"And apparently you've lived here a long time. I don’t want to kick you out, and the castle is clearly not unloved, but … we’re going to have to sort this out."
He looks at me.
"Tomorrow morning we're calling every solicitor in Scotland. According to every document I possess, I own this castle. But tonight, it's getting dark, I'm jet-lagged, my dog has already adopted you, and I'm not making legal decisions while hungry."
The sun has now set. A low chime somewhere deep inside the castle breaks the comfortable silence.
"Is that an old clock?"
"Aye."
"What does the chime mean?"
"Dinner."
"You have a clock that announces dinner?"
"I've always found it helpful."
I laugh. "I have an app."
"I'm afraid I don't know what that is."
"You're teasing me."
"Only a little."
"That smile gave you away."
"I shall endeavor to be more careful."
"I hope you won't." The words escape before I think about them. He looks at me for a moment.
Then, very quietly he says, "As do I."
Something warm settles somewhere behind my ribs. I stand before I have to examine that feeling too closely.