Chapter Ten
It was Mrs. Yates who came to fetch Maura.
She explained that Alec awaited her in his study; he was still conferring with the estate manager.
An endearing woman, Maura learned that Mrs. Yates had been with the household since she was a young girl.
She proudly informed Maura that she was appointed housekeeper when Alec’s mother—the Dowager Duchess since Alec had wed—had been a bride herself.
Another needle of guilt. Alec’s mother was still the Duchess of Gleneden.
Alec was bent over a map spread out on a monstrous-sized table, along with another man. When he saw Mrs. Yates and Maura by the door, he beckoned Maura inside.
He straightened. “Maura. Mr. Campbell, may I present my wife, Duchess of Gleneden. Maura, this is my estate manager, Malcolm Campbell. We don’t hold it against him that he was born into the Campbell Clan, but neither do we let him forget it.” Alec’s tone was wry.
Mr. Campbell chuckled. “Och, and ye know, yer grace, ’tis lucky ye are to have a Campbell who will deign to work fer ye.” The man turned to Maura and bowed his head low. “Yer Grace.”
Maura held out her hand and shook his soundly. “Mr. Campbell, a pleasure.”
Alec glanced at her. “Stay if you like, Maura. I shouldn’t be long.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
She walked to the bank of windows across the room, pretending to stare at the courtyard.
Deliberately, she kept her back to the men.
Foolish, unexpected tears burned the back of her throat.
She fought to stanch them, to compose herself.
Seeing Alec tease Mr. Campbell, the comfortable air between them wrought painful—yet, oh so endearing!
—memories of Murdoch and her father. Like Murdoch, Mr. Campbell was a tall man, though he carried more girth than Murdoch’s rangy frame.
And her father…oh, Lord, how she missed him! Remembering the night of his death was like a knife through the heart. A twisting ache rent her breast when she thought of him. The hurt was still too fresh, the emptiness in her soul a yawning, gaping wound.
As for Alec, she remembered the way he’d teased her the night of the masquerade.
She had yet to see his teasing air return, not until now, with Mr. Campbell.
Of course, his aim had been to entice her into his bed, but she couldn’t fault him for that, now, could she?
Not when she had played the coquette in equal measure.
It brought home her deceit even more, the way she had tricked him so she could come to Scotland. How she regretted her deceit! But it couldn’t be avoided. She must continue to be strong. She couldn’t allow such feelings to get in the way.
A pair of strong hands descended on her shoulders. Maura started. She hadn’t heard Mr. Campbell leave.
“Are you ready?” Alec asked lightly.
Maura turned. She kept her head high, her gaze downcast—not that it mattered, she soon discovered.
She was aware of him peering down at her. “What is it?” he asked.
“What is what?”
“Are you crying?” He sounded incredulous.
“No.” Maura gritted her teeth.
“You are.” With the pad of a finger, he swept up a trail of wetness and held it before her, as if it were a trophy.
“Look. You are crying.”
The oaf! Did he think she needed evidence? “I am not, Scotsman. I am done crying.”
For an instant his expression was utterly perplexed. Why, she wondered, were men always so astonished when a woman cried?
He persisted. “Why were you crying?”
She said nothing.
“If you’re unwell—” he began.
“I am not,” she said. When he showed no sign of moving, she waved a hand.
“I—I was thinking of my father,” she admitted haltingly.
“His study was much like this.” In truth, it was.
Warm wood covered the walls. A large desk, leather chairs.
The difference was that Alec’s was meticulously maintained, and furnished just as meticulously.
Her father’s was minimally maintained, whenever she or Jen managed to get round to dusting it, and sparsely furnished.
Last year they’d sold off a valuable painting to see to the tenants’ wintering.
There was a yawning silence. “I’m sorry,” Alec said finally. “I’d forgotten. You mentioned it earlier. And I remember now that your uncle said something about your father being the late earl.”
It was a supremely awkward moment.
“If you like, we can certainly postpone—”
She shook her head. “There is no need. I am perfectly fine. I should hate to lose my way to the dining room again and die of starvation.”
He smiled slightly. “We can’t have that now, can we?” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
Maura wiped away the traces of tears, blew her nose, and passed it back to him.
“I suppose my nose is bloody red now, isn’t it?”
He paused, as if he didn’t know what to say.
“Go on,” she muttered. “Just say it. It’s bloody red.”
He smiled, the first true smile she’d seen since they’d arrived in Scotland.
“I was going to say charmingly pink, but that would be an inaccuracy. Yes, it’s bloody red.”
Oddly, that seemed to lighten the air.
He extended a hand, indicating that she precede him. “Shall we?” he murmured.
They were just stepping out the door when a sudden shaft of sunlight chanced to catch Alec’s face.
Maura’s breath caught, for he reminded her of a god come to life.
His hair was thick and richly black, cropped so a lock fell forward onto his forehead.
His brows were just as black, the arch pronounced; a perfect frame and foil for eyes so startlingly light blue given the darkness of his hair.
His nose could only be called patrician, his jaw squarely sculpted.
His mouth was beautifully masculine, unsmiling at the moment.
Each feature in itself was one of perfection.
In sum, Alec McBride, Duke of Gleneden, was a man of arresting masculinity, so strikingly handsome as to be unforgettable.
Was it any wonder that flirting with him the night of the masquerade had been so easy?
Be careful, cautioned a voice in her mind. It wouldn’t do to find herself smitten with Alec McBride. Aye, he was a most fetching man to look upon. But other than the night they had met, and today, if she were honest with herself, she’d found his character rather despicable.
She had but one goal here in Scotland, she reminded herself.
To find the Circle of Light and bring it home—home to Ireland.
Nothing or no one would stop her from honoring her promise to her father—and with that vow came courage and resolve.
Several hours later Maura’s head was spinning at the size and arrangement of the house.
It was shaped like an E, with the centrally located great hall giving way to long hallways that angled into several wings.
She counted no less than six staircases, including the grand staircase in the hall.
This was the oldest part of the house; dating from the time of Robert the Bruce, as Alec had told her yesterday.
Numerous additions such as the north and south wing had been made throughout the centuries, with comforts added and rooms changed so that, in truth, things were never outdated.
The central wing was for entertainment and formal events.
It included the ballroom and music room, as well as the library.
The north wing was designated for family.
In it were the duke and duchess’s suite, other bedchambers, Alec’s study, the schoolroom, and various rooms generally used for the family.
The south wing was primarily designated for guests.
Maura couldn’t help the avenue to which her mind strayed. There were antiques, vases, numerous items of extreme value, she was certain. How many, she once again wondered furiously, had the Black Scotsman acquired during his pirating days?
And where would such a man hide the Circle of Light?
She disguised her cursory search as curiosity.
In one bedroom, she opened a glossy, almost gaudy chest from the Orient and peered inside.
A quarter hour later she peered into the drawer of an elaborate French secretaire.
In another room, she slipped a toe beneath the edge of an intricately stitched Turkish carpet and cast an unobtrusive glance beneath.
Or so she thought.
She was startled to see Alec leaning leisurely against the door frame, arms crossed against his chest. “What are you looking for, Irish?” he asked, his tone rife with amusement.
“I mentioned a curse this morning. Have you decided I’m concealing hidden treasure?
Odd, but at a family dinner in London earlier this year, we talked about that very thing—that if there were treasure here at Gleneden, Aidan and I—and Annie, too—would have discovered it long ago.
” He held up both hands. “But if you know some Irish superstition or spell that will make it magically appear, I invite you to find it. Indeed, I will applaud you if you find it.”
Maura muttered an old Irish curse.
They ended strolling down the long corridor that led back toward the great hall. Alec clearly took great pride in his heritage. He was pleased by her numerous questions and interest. There were portraits on each wall, the family through various generations.
Maura stopped before the one just outside the ballroom.
“That was painted several years before my father became ill,” Alec told her.
She smiled at the chestnut-haired young girl, standing near her father, who looked ready to burst into laughter.
“My sister Anne,” Alec said. “Or Annie, as we call her. And yes, she is every bit as vivacious as she appears.” Maura felt a momentary wistfulness. There was an air about Anne in the portrait that made her want to laugh along with her. She’d have liked Anne, she decided.
Alec gestured. “My brother Aidan.”
There was no mistaking the pair as brothers. Both were extremely tall, of matching height. Aidan’s hair was a shade lighter than Alec’s, whose jaw was also more square, his build lean but powerful.