25. Piper at Dinner
Chapter twenty-five
Piper at Dinner
The fire in the dining room crackles cheerfully as we enter. The storm seems far away now.
I feel good here. I no longer find myself counting doors to remember where I'm going. I know which staircase reaches the library the quickest. I know where the afternoon sun falls across the conservatory. I know Murphy will lie at Tristan’s feet during dinner.
He pulls out my chair before taking his own.
Dinner is wonderfully simple tonight.
Scottish trout. Fresh vegetables from the kitchen garden. Warm bread. The sort of meal that belongs in a castle. Or maybe everything tastes better because of that kiss, because I was in the arms of this beautiful man.
I study him for a moment.
"You knew there was a hidden staircase in the tower."
"I did. As I said, there are many hidden staircases inside the castle, lass." His smile is almost imperceptible.
"So ... exactly how much of this castle have you been quietly waiting for me to stumble across?"
"Most of it."
I laugh.
"You're impossible. Seriously, why not simply give me the grand tour of everything?"
"Because Glenhaven likes to introduce itself."
"That makes absolutely no sense."
"It will."
I tear off a piece of warm bread.
"I'm beginning to think everyone in Scotland speaks in riddles."
"Only when we're trying to avoid answering directly."
"So ... always."
"So far, yes."
"I noticed something else."
"Yes?"
"The nursery."
His expression changes. Not dramatically, but just enough that I know I'd wandered onto important ground.
"It was spotless. Someone still looks after it. The lavender was fresh."
He looks down at his plate for a moment before answering.
"Mrs. MacLeod looks after it, of course. Every week."
"But there haven't been children here in..."
I stop. Actually ... I have no idea how long it's been. His gaze drifts toward the fire.
"No, there hasn't."
Something in those three quiet words makes me decide not to push. Instead I ask the question that's been bothering me.
"Moira … the slashed portrait. Mrs. MacLeod said she died because someone loved her too much."
His eyes return to mine. A long silence settles between us. Outside, rain sputters against the windows.
"That’s one version," he says.
"And yours?"
"My version is that obsession has always been mistaken for love."
The answer lands somewhere unexpectedly deep inside me.
"There's a difference between obsession and love," I whisper.
"A profound one."
"Love asks what is best for another person, and obsession only asks what it wants.”
For several moments neither of us speaks. The fire crackles softly between us. I don't know why that answer affects me so much.
Perhaps because I agree. Or because I think he's speaking from experience. Not about Moira. About himself. Or someone he once knew.
I decide to change the subject.
"So..."
He raises an eyebrow.
"How old is Glenhaven Castle really? The information I’ve found varies."
"That depends, lass."
"Here we go. Another riddle."
"The oldest stones are eight hundred years old."
"Eight hundred?"
"The castle has grown over time, you see."
"Like a particularly stubborn tree?"
"An exceptionally stubborn tree."
"I found myself in rooms today that felt ... older. Like the tower. The walls were completely different."
"They were built by different hands. In different eras."
"Did people actually defend this place? Like a fortress?"
"For several centuries, yes. Wars have raged here."
"And the hidden staircase?"
His smile returns but he says nothing. I narrow my eyes.
"You are impossible!"
"I prefer 'selectively cooperative.'"
I reach for my wine.
"I also thought I saw someone. Again."
His gaze sharpens immediately.
"Where?"
"The upper corridor, near Moira's portrait."
"What did you see?"
"I’m not sure, it was in shadow. A man, I think. Tall and slender. Very still. But I only saw him for a second, and then he was gone."
He studies me for several long moments.
"I may have been mistaken. But Murphy wasn't."
The words leave my mouth before I can soften them.
"He stared and then growled."
Tristan doesn't answer immediately. Instead he reaches for his glass.
"Murphy is an observant dog."
"You're avoiding my question."
"I am."
"Why?"
"Because I don't yet know the answer."
I lean forward.
"You really don't?"
"No."
I believe him.
Whatever I saw, he hadn't expected it either. That realization sends an unexpected shiver through me.
The silence lingers only a moment before Mrs. MacLeod enters the room.
“Miss Monroe,” Mrs. MacLeod says. “This arrived for you.”
On the tray lies an envelope made of thick cream paper. My name is handwritten across the front in elegant dark ink. A deep blue wax seal holds the flap closed.
I take it carefully.
“Who delivered it?”
“A courier.”
Tristan looks at the envelope and is somber. I turn the envelope over. The seal shows a crescent moon above three crossed keys.
“Do you recognize this?”
His eyes flick to the seal. “Yes. The MacGowans.”
I break the wax and unfold the card inside. The invitation is written in the same elegant hand.
Miss Monroe,
House MacGowan extends its warmest congratulations on your new association to Glenhaven Castle. It would be our honor to welcome you as our guest at the forthcoming Aurelian Arts Benefit in Edinburgh.
A new steward of so storied an estate deserves friends who understand the burdens of old houses and older obligations.
We hope you will permit us the pleasure of making your acquaintance.
With sincere regard,
Hamish MacGowan
I read it twice. House MacGowan. Aurelian Arts Benefit. Older obligations?
Mrs. MacLeod says nothing and excuses herself.
“Do people usually send formal invitations to strangers after they buy a house, Tristan?”
“In some circles.”
“What circles?”
“The sort that prefer wax seals.”
Strangers with wax seals are inviting me to benefits in Edinburgh and talking about older obligations as though I should know what that means.
“Piper, I ask that you do not answer this invitation. Like the other. At least not yet. It’s a complicated situation. We are at this point unsure if you even have legal ownership of Glenhaven…”
“Oh, true. I wouldn’t want to misrepresent myself. So it’s acceptable if I do nothing right now? You’ll help?”
“I will …”
Murphy stretches and shifts on his foot.
“Now, enough mysteries for one day. I‘m hoping my position as dinner host grants certain privileges."
I pause and give him a flirtatious look. "I'll allow it."
"How generous."
"I'm exceptionally generous."
He reaches for the breadbasket and offers it to me.
"So tell me something that isn't a mystery."
I think for a moment. Then smile. "I think Scotland is ruining me."
"How unfortunate."
"I've started judging coffee."
"Already? What else?"
"I've begun expecting fireplaces in every room. And expecting very changeable weather."
"Sensible expectations."
"I've also become suspicious of houses without libraries."
"A tragic modern decline."
"And,” I grin, “...I may have become rather attached to one exceedingly difficult Scottish gentleman."
The words escape before I can stop them. Typical me. Heat immediately rushes into my face and I’m sure he sees it. I stare very intently at my potatoes.
For a heartbeat, the only sound in the room is the rain against the windows.
Then Tristan says, very quietly, "I cannot think of a greater compliment."
I look up. His eyes haven't left mine. Whatever witty reply I might have made simply disappears.
The silence that follows between us doesn't feel awkward.
It feels wonderfully, dangerously comfortable.