Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
“It doesn’t look like one building. More like a few of them,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
“Built in different time periods, aye? The foundations go back to the eleventh century. What we just passed? That was built in the thirteenth century and heavily fortified. This part of the castle was added in the seventeen-hundreds after the family did the king o’ England a wee bit of political work. Or so goes the tale. The place has been added to every century in between.”
“Even now?”
“The current duke has poured a fortune into repairs after the previous two let it go to rack and ruin. Spent their money on other things. Expensive hobbies, they had.” Debauching must be an expensive business. For a minute, I worry I might have said that aloud as his brow creases in a frown, but it’s gone just as quick. “I reckon I could get a job as a tour guide if I get sick of the gardens,” he adds with a laugh. “And in case you did’nae notice, we’re here.”
By now it’s almost fully dark as Cameron stops the car in a little courtyard. Lights burn from inside buildings to my right, which look like a row of terraced cottages. To the left, the windowless walls of the Castle loom cold and dark.
“The staff cottages,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the lights as Gertie’s tail begins to thump.
“But you don’t live here.” From the back seat comes a disgruntled snort before Gertie’s bulky form turns a circle on the back seat before flopping back down.
“No.” He pushes back his cap, ruffling his hair, his teeth shining white in the gloom. “I’ve got a place in the village. It’s very convenient for the pub.” Then he does that thing that men everywhere seem to have perfected; a sweeping glance that scans the whole of me yet leaves me wondering if I’d imagined his appraisal. “Once you get settled, I’ll take you there, if you like.”
So, not my imagination, then.
“You mean to the pub.” Amusement lingers in my words.
“Oh, aye.” It’s hard to tell in the light, but I’d swear his cheeks turn a little pink. “Maybe to start, I reckon.”
“Oh, do you?”
He’s not so shy as I’d first imagined. Plus, he’s not bad looking. And the ninety-minute journey has flown by in his easy company. I find myself wondering what harm could come from a drink with him. I might make a friend. Maybe even something a little more, because Lord knows I need to stop obsessing about a certain someone. Because if a certain someone was interested, he would’ve asked for my number, not given me his assistant’s. “If I’m still here in a couple of days, I might just take you up on that.”
“You’re not worrit about Mari, are you?” Consternation flickers over his brow. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I thought—”
“No, it’s fine. Forearmed is forewarned.” Or something. My gaze is drawn to where light suddenly spills from a doorway opening in the cottage we’re parked next to.
“Mari won’t make a peep. Just you wait and see.”
“Will you be keeping the lassie all night, Cameron Stuart?”
At the woman’s pointed question, a grin cracks across Cameron’s face. He turns as, behind him, the car door creaks open. Cold, crisp air floods in as an antidote to the scent of a damp dog.
“Bide your passion, Chrissy. I was just talkin’ to the lass.”
“The lass?” I repeat, though not in the same tone.
“You’ll be Holly.” The woman’s smiling face appears at Cameron’s shoulder. Pale hair falls in a straight sheet to her jawline, and the hand she thrusts my way is kind of meaty. “Chrissy,” she offers. “I’m happy to meet you.”
“Hi.” I slide my hand in hers, and she treats it to a hearty handshake. “I’m happy to meet you, too.”
“I suppose you would call Chrissy the housekeeper,” Cameron supplies over the top of our joined hands. “Or maybe the chief cook and bottle washer.” He turns to the woman with a grin. “What do ye think? Jack of all trades and master of none? Ow!” The latter is in response to the slap she delivers to the back of his head. But there’s no malice in the exchange.
“Cheek,” she mutters, pursing her lips. But when she turns back to me, her face is wreathed in a welcoming smile. “Will ye be comin’ in, then?”
“Oh, we’re here? This is where I’ll . . .”
“Be staying? Aye. Help the lassie in wi’ her bags,” she instructs. “You might’ve washed your car before picking the lass up,” she adds, though not unkindly as she straightens and Cameron climbs out of the Land Rover.
“What for.” Whit fir, sounds nearer to his reply. He opens the rear passenger door, and the bulky Labrador jumps out.
“Because it’s clarty, that’s what for.”