18. Piper at Dinner
Chapter eighteen
Piper at Dinner
By the time Mrs. MacLeod serves dinner, I feel as though I’ve walked every street in the village twice.
Murphy certainly looks as though he has. He stretches dramatically in front of the dining room fire before choosing, with complete confidence, the spot beside Tristan's chair.
"I'm beginning to take this personally."
Tristan pulls out my chair before taking his own.
"I wouldn't. He may simply prefer some masculine company.”
“He prefers whoever drops chicken.”
“I assure you, I have done no such thing.”
Murphy opens one eye. The expression on his face suggests otherwise.
Mrs. MacLeod serves a beautifully roasted salmon with herb potatoes before quietly disappearing, leaving the two of us alone.
"So," Tristan says as he pours sparkling water into my glass, "how was the village?"
I don't even know where to begin.
"It's wonderful. Interesting. Scenic. It had charm…"
"I thought you might think so."
"I met half the population."
"Only half?"
"The other half was apparently waiting until next week. They've already heard about me."
"It’s a small village. Everyone knows everything."
"Well, they all know you."
"I've lived here rather a long time. And I’m laird."
I laugh.
Tristan pushes the food around his plate. I eat for another few moments before I reach into my bag.
"Oh. I nearly forgot. I bought something."
"For the castle?"
"For you."
He looks genuinely surprised.
"It's not extravagant."
"I sincerely hope not."
"It's just..." I suddenly feel absurdly self-conscious, "...I saw it, and it reminded me of you."
Tristan doesn't seem to know what to say. I slide the small green parcel across the table. He looks at it for a long moment before carefully untying the ribbon instead of tearing the paper.
Inside rests the walnut fountain pen. He lifts it gently from the box. For several heartbeats he simply turns it in the light. His thumb brushes over the engraved silver nib.
"It's beautiful," he says quietly.
"I thought you still wrote letters."
"I do."
"I guessed. Being an anti-email and internet kind of character."
"You guessed correctly."
His voice has become unexpectedly soft.
“I’ve used the same old fountain pen for years and it’s what Mrs. MacLeod calls an embarrassment.”
“It leaks?”
“Constantly.”
“So, this is good timing.”
He looks up. There is something in his expression I've never seen before. It’s not surprise. He seems almost ... as if he’s moved.
"No one has given me a pen in a very long time."
"I figured you deserved one. You’ve been awfully kind about this whole thing. I mean, we could be in some kind of legal battle and you could have barred my entrance here. Or refused to speak to me. Or bitten my head off. A small gift of appreciation seemed in order."
His gaze rests on me for half a second too long.
“I assure you, the first two options were considered.”
He studies me for another moment before carefully placing the pen back into its box.
"Thank you, Piper."
The way he says my name makes it sound like far more than gratitude. I'm suddenly very glad I bought it.
"I’m passing the mysterious Scottish Lord Sinclair Approval Test?"
"I wasn't aware I administered one. If I did, you've passed admirably," he says as he glances toward the little box once more.
Warmth spreads through me that has absolutely nothing to do with the fire. Just then my phone vibrates beside my plate.
I glance down. An email. No subject line. No company logo. Just a name.
Sebastian Ashcroft.
I frown.
"Everything all right?"
"I don't know."
I open the email. It is astonishingly brief.
Miss Monroe,
Please allow me to welcome you to Scotland.
News of your unusual connection to Glenhaven has already attracted considerable interest. Such an ancient estate rarely changes hands—or circumstances—without consequence.
Should your schedule permit, I would be delighted to host you for dinner. There are matters concerning Glenhaven’s history, its legal protections, and Lord Sinclair’s position there that you may eventually find illuminating.
No urgency. I am certain we shall meet soon enough.
With every good wish,
Sebastian Ashcroft
I read it twice.
"That's odd."
"What is?"
I hand Tristan the phone.
His eyes move over the first line. Then the second. By the time he reaches the signature, every trace of warmth has vanished from his face. It’s not surprise, but recognition, and some anger.
I notice his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. His shoulders become just a little straighter. The warmth that has filled the room all evening retreats behind careful composure.
"He invited me to dinner. Do you know him?"
"We have crossed paths. Yes, I know him, and his questionable character.”
The answer sends a small chill through me.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you should decline.”
I blink. "I should decline his invitation?"
"I would strongly advise so."
"Why?"
He studies the phone for another moment before handing it back.
"Because Sebastian Ashcroft has never invited anyone to dinner without first deciding what he would gain. Or take."
I glance back at the message.
"It doesn't sound very threatening, Tristan. In fact, it sounds perfectly charming."
"That," Tristan says quietly, "is one of Mr. Ashcroft's more dangerous qualities."
I look at him for a long moment. "You're worried."
"Yes." His eyes meet mine. "For several reasons."
I wait but he doesn't elaborate. Instead, he reaches calmly for his wineglass.
“You’re telling me not to go.”
“I’m asking you not to.”
I look at him and then he says, “An order would require only authority. Asking requires you to trust my judgment.”
"I'll decline then." The smallest breath escapes him. "Besides, I've already got dinner plans."
He looks puzzled.
I gesture around the room.
“Here, apparently. Every night until the solicitors rescue one of us.”
A slow smile touches his mouth.
“I rather hope they take their time.
"So..." I reach for my glass. "...back to discussing wallpaper?"
The tension eases from his shoulders almost imperceptibly.
"I confess I prefer wallpaper."
"I knew you would."
"I've developed strong opinions concerning crowned pheasants."
I laugh.
Murphy sighs contentedly beneath the table. The fire crackles softly. Outside, Glenhaven settles into another Scottish evening.
Inside, conversation returns to books, Scotland, village gossip, and impossible kitchens.
But even as I laugh, I notice Tristan glance once toward my phone. Only once. It lasts no more than a heartbeat. Yet somehow it feels as though the room has quietly grown smaller.
Somewhere beyond Glenhaven’s walls, this Sebastian Ashcroft knows I’m here. And judging by Tristan’s expression, that knowledge is dangerous.
We leave the dining room.
“Thank you.”
"For what?"
He glances toward the pen. "For reminding me that unexpected things can still happen."
We reach the staircase and I start to go up but stop and turn back.
Tristan hasn’t moved.
"Good night, Tristan."
"Good night, Piper."
I step closer to him now. Very close.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"If I had accepted the invitation, would you have been angry?"
"No."
"Hurt?"
He doesn't answer. That's the answer.
I put one hand on his arm.
"I said no because you asked me to."
He says quietly, "Thank you."
And then I kiss him. I can’t resist. It’s a gentle kiss on his lips.
I hear him moan a little, and his lips are soft and full. Like they were made to kiss. He pulls back a little and I see that his eyes are now black. Like in my dream.
"Good night, Piper."
His voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard, perhaps emotional, and I turn and go up the stairs.