A Matter of Circumstance and Celludrones (18 page)

Forleough, however, conspired against her immediate wishes. The
antiquated bathing chamber was a barren room of stone floor, oval cast-iron tub
and no piped-in water, hot
or
cold. Not to be so easily thwarted, she
tucked Puppy’s little body under her arm and set off in search of hot water.

“No wonder this castle is so gloomy,” she told him as she descended
the dimly lit stairway, her voice and the echo of her footsteps the only noise
in the entire house. “I’d also be miserable if I didn’t have adequate bathing
facilities.”

Yap.

She held the furry bundle up to her face. “Yes, you agree, don’t you?”

Yap, yap, yap.

He then attempted to run circles in mid-air, mindless that he wasn’t
getting anywhere or that his mechanics, both movement and sound, was supposed
to be activated and controlled by very specific oral commands only.

Yap, yap.

“You’re not broken, are you?” she sighed, tucking him firmly beneath
her arm again. “You’re just different and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with
that.”

Yap.

 
The kitchen was down a further
half-flight of steps at the rear of the house, closed off by a sturdy oak door.
Inside, she found Jean and a younger girl engaged in preparations for what
appeared to be a mutton stew to feed a king’s party.

Two enormous black kettle pots steamed and hissed on top of an iron
range fed from a coal burner. A hearth stacked with logs took up most of one
wall, large enough to roast a wild boar whole if the fancy took, which she
rather thought it might upon occasion in a household of this nature.

She also realised, given that the housekeeper and upstairs maid were
also the cook and kitchen maid, that she was looking at the entire compliment
of Forleough’s staff.

Chopping, peeling, dicing and chatter staggered to a halt as first
Jean, and then the other girl, became aware of her.

“Were you after something?” Jean asked with a smile that suggested she
didn’t mind the interruption.

Evelyn had her eye on one of those black kettle pots for her bath
water, but didn’t see how anyone present could manage lugging that up the
stairs. “Where’s William?”

“The lad was looking for something to do,” Jean said. “I sent him off
to gather wild apples with the promise of apple pie after supper. He took Ana
with him for company. Did you need either of them?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.” Evelyn shifted Puppy from under her arm as
she crossed to a bolted door.

Yap. Yap.

She pulled the bolt and was delighted to find the door opened onto an
enclosed garden laid mostly with stone. Ropes were drawn across at one end for
the drying of clothes and the only plants were hardy rose vines creeping up the
walls.

Puppy scampered off in his usual spiral of dizzy circles the second
his paws touched the ground.
Yap, yap, yap.

Evelyn laughed and closed the door on him and his blissful freedom.

“That dog of yours is a strange one,” said the girl. Her hair was
braided into a thick rope of strawberry curls and she had the palest blue eyes
Evelyn had ever seen.

“Paisley,” Jean warned lightly, “mind your manners, darling.”

“She’s perfectly correct,” Evelyn said. “Puppy’s an automaton. A
mechanical dog,” she added to the girl’s exclamation.

“Oh, a little like Neco?”

“A little, yes.” Evelyn chuckled. “Although I’m sure Neco wouldn’t
appreciate the comparison.” She stepped up to the kitchen table and folded back
her sleeves. “Now, I might not be competent, but I am willing. What can I do to
help?”

She’d have been tossed out—politely, of course—from any English kitchen,
but this was Scotland. Jean also had no way of knowing that she was putting a
duchess to work peeling root vegetables.

As the easy chatter got underway again, Evelyn wasted no time in
sticking her nose into Forleough’s business. It wasn’t long before she’d learnt
the reason for the oppressive air that clung to the castle like a damp ghost.

“Grey’s father fell from the upstairs window?” she repeated in muted
shock.

“Jumped, more like it,” Paisley snorted.

“Paisley,” snapped Jean. “We don’t go spreading tales of the dead.”

Paisley shrugged. “The old laird wasn’t right in the head and he just
got worse after Aragon drowned in that crossing last year.”

“The laird was never the same after his Eleanor died.” Jean murmured,
her eyes cast down as she diced the meat.

“In childbirth,” Paisley whispered. “Poor Grey shouldered the brunt of
the blame until the day he couldn’t anymore and left. He wasn’t much more than
a boy. I hope the old man’s soul is rotting in hell,” she said heatedly.

That, Jean heard. Her knife came up with her eyes and her voice
hardened. “That’s quite enough.”

Evelyn had been on the point of asking who Aragon was, but decided her
questions would fare better if she got Paisley alone. The chance came a short
while later when Paisley mentioned Grey’s preference as a boy to take his baths
in the river, even in the dead of winter.

Evelyn wasn’t sure about winter, but right now it was a middling early
summer afternoon and her skin was clammy from the kitchen’s heat. “What a
marvellous idea. Jean, could you spare Paisley? I wouldn’t dare to swim without
someone to keep a watch out.”

Jean looked set to deny the request, but her gaze settled on Paisley’s
pleading expression and her face softened. “Off with you then, I can manage the
rest.”

Upstairs, Evelyn stripped to her bloomers, replaced her corset with a
loose linen undershirt and threw a travelling cloak over her shoulders. The Red
Hawk hadn’t yet returned and there didn’t seem to be any one else around to
bear witness to her state of undress. Paisley brought a couple of bare-threaded
towels and they raced each other out the castle grounds and along the grassy
bank of the Tay until they reached a bend sheltered with an ancient weeping
willow that hung over the water. The river swirled slowly around flat rocks and
into deeper pools that made an ideal swimming hole.

“This was Grey’s favoured spot,” Paisley said as she stepped out of
her smock to stand in a cotton undershirt that had long sleeves and stopped
just short of her knees.

Evelyn tossed her cloak over a weeping branch and followed Paisley
into the river. She’d immersed little more than her toes when the icy water
turned her teeth to chattering.

“Dawdle and you’ll lose courage.” Paisley promptly dived beneath the
water and came up a moment later, her cheeks a ruddy red, her lips blue and her
smile wide. “It’s a little c-cold,” she stuttered. “Gawd, I haven’t done this
in years.”

Evelyn braced herself, determined to get in and stay in long enough to
wash the worst of the last night and day’s grime away. She held her breath and
pinched her nose and flopped forward.

The water numbed first her skin, and then probed frosty spears deep
into her veins until she swore she could feel her blood flowing thicker as
liquid turned to ice. It only took another second to decide she was quite clean
enough and pop to the surface, dragging herself onto the closest rock.

Paisley didn’t last much longer, and soon both girls were wringing the
water from their clothes and spreading limbs over a flat rock beneath a sun that
was low enough in the sky to touch the peak of a distant mountain.

“So,” Evelyn said casually, “who was Aragon?”

Greyston’s brother, as it turned out. Neither he nor his new bride had
survived when an Atlantic storm had ravaged the steamer they’d been aboard.

“That’s when the old laird truly lost it,” Paisley informed her. “He
dismissed all the staff—”

“Except for you and Jean.”

Paisley shook her head. “Ma simply refused to leave. She told the
laird she’d been Forleough’s housekeeper forever, this is where Rabbie—that’s
my pa—is buried, and this is where she’ll die. The laird also sold off
everything he could, every last head of cattle and all the land not directly
entailed to Forleough and gave the money to the church.”

“But what of Grey’s inheritance?”

“I think that’s exactly why he did it. Not that Grey cared either way.
He left before I turned twelve and only returned now to put his brother’s death
to rest, I reckon, and then he’ll be away again.” Paisley’s voice dropped.
“There was always bad blood between Grey and his pa and, if you ask me, that’s
why the old laird jumped. Probably thought Grey was home to stay. With Aragon
gone, Forleough would belong to Grey one day and I reckon the old laird
couldn’t take that.”

“That seems rather drastic, even if he blamed Grey for his mother’s
death.” Which in itself was an archaic notion. Evelyn wondered if the girl
wasn’t embellishing a little too much on the horrid detail. There wasn’t much
else around here to keep one entertained.

But then Paisley said, “I reckon this all goes back to Cragloden,” and
Evelyn’s interest perked.

“Cragloden?”

“Grey’s mother was a lady of Science, studied in Edinburgh apparently.
Ma’s lips are sealed tight on any matter of real interest, but I know Eleanor
used to attend regular
Scientific
meetings at Cragloden.” Paisley leaned
in, her gaze sweeping the area as if afraid her mother might creep up on them
with a bar of soap to wash her mouth out. “It’s just funny, if you ask me, Grey
being sent off to Cragloden and then after the explosion there—”

“Wait.” Evelyn’s nose wrinkled in confusion. “Are you saying Grey was
at Cragloden when that gas explosion blew it to pieces?”

“I don’t know if he was there, but he was supposed to have been. And
then there was a huge barney between him and his pa when he came back here
straight after.” Paisley leaned away again and folded her arms. “Grey and Neco
took off and we never saw nor heard from them until now.”

“Well,” Evelyn huffed, wondering what else Grey might have failed to
mention and even more concerned now about Lily’s trip to Cragloden. They’d been
gone a good couple of hours already and a suspicious feeling niggled. “Does
Forleough really only stable three horses?” she asked, and relaxed slightly
when Paisley nodded.

“Grey brought them with him, otherwise there’d be none at all.”

Evelyn glanced up to see how far the sun had set and caught sight of
an abnormally large black bird sweeping in on them. As it flew closer, the
shape transformed into the sleek lines of a ship with a single red sail dancing
in the wind.

She sprang to her feet, reaching for her cloak. “It’s the Red Dancer.”

“The Red Hawk, you mean,” Paisley said, quickly pulling on her smock.
Her face turned up to the sky and stayed there. “It must be such an amazing
experience to fly across the skies.”

“I’m sure Grey would take you up if you asked.”

“Perhaps,” Paisley said quietly. “When he lived here, he was such a
stormy tempered, serious boy, but I could ask anything of him. Now the man
seems to be all charming grins and light-hearted pleasantries, as if nothing in
the world could ever darken his mood, and I’m afraid to ask a thing.”

Evelyn gave her an understanding smile. “Life rarely makes sense,
especially when a man is involved.”

The hum of the engines reverberated in the air, growing louder and
louder until the shadow of the ship passed right over them, the vibrations
rippling the surface of the river. They watched until the Red Hawk descended
from sight, then made their way to Forleough at an amble.

Evelyn’s cloak only fastened with a ribbon at her throat and she had
to use both hands to keep the folds draped around her undergarments, taking
extra care when she saw Neco outside the stables, rubbing down the horses.

“Is Lily inside?” she asked.

“Yes, m’lady.” He paused in his task to straighten and look at her.
“We’ve only just returned.”

Paisley hung back to chatter with Neco, but Evelyn had no wish to run
into Greyston or any of his crew so unsuitably attired. Besides, she was in a
hurry to learn what all, if anything, had happened at Cragloden.

She slipped inside the hallway and up the staircase, was sneaking down
the landing when a door flung open. She spun her head in that direction and
came face to chest with Greyston.

One hand instinctively flew to her throat while the rest of her was
caught on her tiptoes in the doorway to his bedroom. Her other hand maintained
some control over her cloak, although apparently not enough for his sharp eye.

His grin came out as his gaze roamed to a slit where white bloomers
peeped from the dark folds.

“Grey, I was just—”

“Looking for me?” he cut in succinctly.

His fingers curled around her wrist, unfortunately the one belonging
to the only hand left holding her cloak together. He tugged her neatly inside
the room and whipped the towel from his shoulder to the floor all in one
motion.

She was so busy grabbing for the edges of her cloak, she didn’t see
what happened next. But suddenly the door was closed, she had her back pressed
up to the wall and Greyston’s mouth was moving over hers, warm, firm and
sensual. A protest gurgled up her throat and stupidly parted her lips, giving
him the entry he sought.

His tongue delved inside her mouth.

Evelyn did the first thing that came to mind. She bit down.

He rocked backward on a curse. “What the hell was that?”

She answered with the second thing that came to mind. A sharp slap
across his cheek that left a blistering sting on her open palm.

He caught both her hands and locked them above her head, against the
wall. Her cloak fell wide open, leaving her bared to his smouldering gaze but
for a partially damp, practically transparent undershirt.

“I don’t usually play quite this rough,” he drawled in a husky voice.

“I’m not playing at all,” she hissed in caustic fury. “Are all
Scotsmen this barbaric, or would that be just you?”