7. Piper – the Tour
Chapter seven
Piper – the Tour
By the time dinner ends, I’ve learned three things.
First, Lord Tristan Sinclair cooks better than anyone who looks that good has any right to cook.
Second, Murphy can be bought with chicken. (Well, I already knew that.)
Third, the man sitting across from me has not taken a single bite. Not one.
He poured wine from that dark bottle twice.
He asked whether I prefer more bread, more potatoes, or more white wine.
He listened with unnerving attention while I explained the difference between a structural engineer, a contractor, and a contractor who says he “knows a guy,” which is usually where civilization ends.
But he has not eaten. Not even politely.
And maybe I would have asked about it if I were not so exhausted, jet lagged, emotionally overstimulated, and still trying to process the fact that I now own a castle with a handsome lord already installed like extremely inconvenient furniture. Or maybe I don’t own it?
To sum it up, I possess paperwork that says I own a castle but might not... while the handsome lord who has clearly been living here for years sits across from me serving roast chicken.
Still. I notice. I notice everything.
It’s how I make money. It’s also why I occasionally ruin perfectly pleasant dinners. I set down my fork and lean back in the old wooden chair.
“That was excellent. Delicious, really, Tristan. Thank you.”
“I’m pleased.”
“You say that like you were worried.”
“I rarely worry about roast chicken.”
“Is that confidence or arrogance?”
“Experience.”
His mouth moves slightly but it’s not quite a smile. I’m beginning to realize Tristan Sinclair has a dozen different almost-smiles, and every one of them means something different. This one means he’s amused but unwilling to give me the satisfaction of proving it.
Unfortunately for him, I enjoy a challenge.
Murphy groans beneath the table, rolls onto his side, and thumps his tail against Tristan’s shoe.
“You’ve corrupted Murphy.”
“I fed him very little.”
“That is exactly what corruptors always say.”
“He appeared undernourished.”
“He’s seventy pounds.”
“Perhaps emotionally undernourished?”
I laugh before I can stop myself. There it is again. That look. His gaze flicks to my mouth and then my throat, and then away. Quickly. So quickly I might have imagined it. Except I did not.
The room suddenly feels warmer. Or maybe that’s the fire. Or maybe that’s the wine.
Or maybe I’m sitting across from a man who looks like he was carved by a sculptor with a personal grudge against female composure.
I clear my throat.
“About the obvious problem.”
His gaze returns to mine.
“You live here, Tristan. According to every document I possess... I own here."
“We’ll have the solicitors examine the papers and figure it out.”
His fingers rest lightly on the stem of his glass.
“Your documents may appear legitimate, lassie. But they should be examined properly before drawing a final conclusion. There could be a scam involved. I’ve used the same group of legal offices for … years. They rarely make mistakes.”
“That sounds reasonable. I already made a bank transfer to a trust. I was given the documents and title.”
“Of course. Well, I’m glad you think my approach is reasonable. It’s not something we can do tonight.”
“It also sounds like something a man says before producing twelve thousand pages of paperwork that says otherwise and ruins my week.”
“I can likely manage eight thousand.”
I stare. He takes a calm sip of wine.
“You’re kidding.”
“Aye, lassie.”
“You’re impossible to read.”
“I’ve been told that can be useful.”
“By whom?”
“People with poor intentions.”
The answer is so smooth, so quiet, that it takes a second for the meaning to land. A small chill moves through me. Not fear exactly. Awareness. There is more to him than manners and cheekbones. Something beneath the polish. Something old and sharp enough to draw blood if handled carelessly.
He sets down his glass, and the moment passes.
“Miss Monroe.”
“Piper. Please call me Piper.”
“Piper.”
My name sounds different in his mouth. Not casual or modern or tossed away the way most people say it. He says it as though he has considered every letter and decided they belong together. Which is ridiculous.
It’s my name, not a sonnet. Still, my skin warms.
He continues, “We should address practical matters.”
I fold my arms on the table. “Tonight is a truce.”
“A truce?”
“Yes. I’m not kicking you out of my property in the rain.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“I’m not generous. I’m tired. There’s a difference.”
“Of course.”
“And I’m not signing, agreeing, surrendering, accepting, acknowledging, inheriting, promising, or legally implying anything until I have slept and spoken to the solicitor.”
“A sensible approach.”
“Tomorrow, we look at my documents. Your documents. Whatever ancient lord paperwork you’ve got tucked away in a drawer, dungeon or attic.”
“I'll have it prepared.”
"Because if someone really sold me a home that wasn't vacant or for sale..." I shake my head. "That's not a paperwork mistake. That's someone's life. Yours, I mean. And mine."
He inclines his head. “And until then?”
“Until then,” I say, glancing around the kitchen, “we are two adults in a very large castle with one traitorous dog and a suspicious amount of rain.”
“A concise summary.”
“Thank you. I specialize.”
For one strange second, I forget every legal problem waiting for me.
I forget the villagers and their careful silence.
I forget the email warning me not to arrive after sunset.
I forget the man across from me is an unresolved complication with excellent bone structure and paperwork I have not yet seen.
For one second, there’s only the fire in this kitchen, the rain, the dog, and Tristan watching me as if my laughter is not noise but music drifting through a house that has been quiet too long.
Then he stands.
“Would you care to see some of Glenhaven Castle, lassie? Before we install you in a guestroom.”
The question surprises me so much I sit straighter.
“A tour now?”
“If you’re not too tired.”
“I’m exhausted.”
“Then perhaps tomorrow.”
“I didn’t say no.”
His expression changes. The tiniest hint of amusement.
“Of course not.”
I push back my chair. “How about a compromise. A short tour before I crash?”
“A short tour.”
“Not all seventy-three rooms.”
“I wouldn't dream of overwhelming you.”
Murphy lifts his head, assesses the situation, and decides the rug is better than adventure.
“Good choice, Murph,” I tell him. He closes his eyes again.
Tristan takes a lamp from the sideboard. It’s not electric. Of course it is not electric. It’s a brass lantern with a glass chimney and a warm flame already glowing inside.
“Seriously?”
“Is there a problem?”
“You own a lantern, not flashlights?”
“I own several lanterns.”
“Do you also own a horse and a handwritten grudge against Napoleon?”
“I own several horses and beautiful stables.”
I stop.
“You’re joking.”
“No. They live in the stables.”
“Named?”
“My two favorite are Bramble and Saint. Fern is quite docile and the MacLeod’s like her.”
“Bramble, Saint and Fern,” I repeat. “Those are not horse names. Those are retired poets.”
I shake my head and follow him out of the kitchen.
The corridor beyond feels different now that night has settled fully over the castle. The windows are black mirrors. The stone walls hold the lamplight close. Rain taps softly against leaded glass somewhere above us, and the old house creaks around its own bones.
Not frightening exactly. But aware. Glenhaven Castle does not feel empty. It feels like it’s listening.
Tristan walks beside me rather than ahead, slowing his stride to match mine without making a show of it. Another small courtesy. Another tiny, old-world thing I should probably not notice but absolutely do.
“I’m a stranger who has taken your castle. And yet you still offered tea. And dinner. And now a tour with an old-fashioned lantern.”
“Aye, I’m not entirely without courage. Or manners.”
I smile.
The lantern light catches the edge of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, the faint silver in his eyes. In the shifting glow, he looks less like a man who belongs in an oil painting and more like the sort of man people wrote dangerous poems about and then regretted forever.
“You’re staring.”
“No, I’m observing. I observe buildings. People. Rooms. Details.”
“And what have you observed about me?”
The question lands softly. My first instinct is to make a joke. Something about elegant old suits or posture. Or the deeply suspicious fact that he has a lantern in the year of our Lord modern plumbing.
Instead, I look at him.
“You yourself notice everything,” I say.
His expression remains calm, but his eyes sharpen.
“You choose your words carefully. You don’t like being surprised, but you’re good at hiding it. You’re more amused than you want me to know. You live alone, but you set two cups on the tea tray. You’re attached to this house in a way that has nothing to do with real estate.”
The corridor goes very quiet. Even the rain seems to soften. I should stop. I do not.
“And you’re afraid of losing the castle.” His gaze does not leave mine.
The flame shifts inside the lantern. Lord Tristan Sinclair looks at me as if I have stepped too close to a door he keeps locked. Then his face smooths in a controlled way.
“You are very perceptive, lass.”
“Occupational hazard,” I manage.
“I imagine it has served you well.”
“Usually.”
“And when it hasn’t?”
I lift one shoulder.
We reach a set of double doors at the end of the corridor.
They’re carved with vines, thistles, and what looks like a crescent moon half-hidden among leaves. Tristan pauses with one hand on the brass handle.
“This is the music room.”
“You have a music room?”
“We have a music room.”
I glance at him. The correction is quiet. Deliberate.
We.
Not I. Not you. We. A silly word. A small word. It should not make something inside me stir.
He opens the doors. And the room beyond is breathtaking.
Tall windows look out over the dark hills.
A grand piano sits near the center, its black surface reflecting the firelight from a smaller hearth.
Shelves line one wall, but instead of books they hold instruments: bagpipes, violins, a cello, a harp with a cracked gilt frame, a flute in a glass case, and things I cannot name.
The room smells faintly of wax, roses, and old wood.
“Oh,” I whisper as I walk slowly inside.
The floorboards creak beneath my boots. On one wall hangs a painting of a woman seated at the piano, her face turned toward someone outside the frame. She is beautiful in a way that feels almost severe. Dark hair. Pale skin. A pearl comb glinting near one ear.
“Who is she?” I ask.
Tristan’s answer comes after one heartbeat too long.
“Someone who loved music.”
“She lived here?”
“Yes.”
“Family?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
That answer is a hallway with every door closed. I look back at him. He stands just inside the room, the lantern held low, his face half in light and half in shadow.
I can imagine him here not as he is now, perfectly contained and careful, but younger. Laughing. Standing beside the piano. Listening while someone played. Maybe dancing in this room while rain struck the windows and the whole castle felt alive.
The image comes so clearly that my chest tightens.
I move toward the piano.
“May I?”
“Of course.”
I sit carefully on the bench and touch one key. The note rings out, soft and surprisingly clear.
“It’s in tune.”
“I have it maintained.”
“Do you play?”
“Yes.”
“Will you?” His expression stills. A boundary. A small one, but real.
“Not tonight. Another time.”
“Fair enough.”
I remove my hand from the keys.
“Another truce, then? I seem to be collecting them.”
“You appear fond of dangerous hobbies.”
“You have no idea.”
His gaze moves over my face. Slowly. Not with the obvious hunger of men who know they are attractive and expect women to be grateful for it.
Tristan looks at me as though I’m a book written in a language he once knew but has not read in in a long time. Carefully and with interest. With restraint that makes the looking somehow more intimate than touching.
My breath catches. Just a little. His gaze drops to my mouth again. Then the old clock somewhere in the castle strikes again.
Once. Deep and resonant.
“We should continue,” he says.
“Right. Yes. Our short tour. Very educational. Love a good tour.”
He watches me with that almost-smile.
“Are you always this articulate when confronted with architecture?”
“Only the sexy ones.”
The words leave my mouth too quickly. My brain catches up.
His eyebrow lifts. I close my eyes.
“I meant the room.”
“I assumed.”
“No, you did not.”
“No,” he says, opening the door for me. “I did not.”
And there it is. The smile. Small and devastating and absolutely unfair.
I walk past him into the corridor with as much dignity as a woman can manage after accidentally calling a music room or him sexy … a Scottish lord who I may be in a property dispute with.
Behind me, Tristan murmurs, “Careful now, lass. Glenhaven has a way of making people say what they mean.”
“Is that a warning?”
His eyes hold mine. For a moment, the gentleman disappears. Something older looks out at me. Something dangerous enough to make the air change.
Then his voice softens.
“No, Piper.” The way he says my name, low and careful, is almost intimate. “It’s advice.”
"The cellars are below this staircase, aren’t they?" I ask. “I remember the plan. I’ll want to have a look tomorrow.”
"No!"
The word comes so quickly I stop walking. I look back at Tristan. He offers the smallest apologetic smile.
"My apologies. That sounded rather more forceful than I intended."
"It did."
"The lower levels are ... entirely unsuitable."
"Unsuitable how?"
"The oldest stonework in the castle is beneath us. Several passageways have become unstable over the centuries."
"So we'll document them first."
"We?"
I tilt my head. "You're remarkably protective of your basement."
"Dungeons, technically. They're structurally integral to the castle and we don’t want to endanger the building."
"I've dealt with structural work before."
"I do not doubt your competence."
"Then what?"
He hesitates too long. Finally he says, "Liability issues, Piper. We’re uncertain if you even own Glenhaven yet. There are loose stones, narrow passages, poor ventilation, and, regrettably, rats."
"Rats?"
"I'm told they're quite determined."
I sigh dramatically.
"I was hoping more for ghosts."
"I assure you, rats are considerably less romantic."
I shudder a little.