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)
“Just fine.” The piece of statuary stuffed under my bed, not so much. And I have my own concerns because neither of the boys seem to have much experience with keeping secrets. Which is a good thing, I know, but not for me when I’m sleeping over a headless heirloom Michelangelo, or whatever that is. “Today, Archie decided he’s not going to be a veterinarian but a vegetarian farmer when he’s grown,” I say, pouring out two cups of the dark brew. “Hugh is still set on joining the army, it seems.”
“One wants to save animals, and the other wants to kill his fellow man.” She absently breaks off a little of the cookie, dropping it to the dog’s expectantly open jaws.
“He’ll be an officer which, seems to me, that’s just an extension of being the big brother, bossing other people about.”
“Quite.” Seeming to come back to herself, she takes a bite from the cookie, cupping her hand under her chin to catch the crumbs. “These are sweeter than I remember.” Her nose wrinkles a touch as she places it back on the tray.
“Tastes change.”
“Don’t they just.” She gives a tiny wry smile. “Hugh won’t be a soldier but a duke if my brother doesn’t hurry up and do something about it.” The prospect doesn’t seem to make her at all happy. “Though I suppose he should find a wife first.”
“And he doesn’t . . .?”
“There isn’t anyone.” She shakes her head as though to stop herself from going on.
“I imagine it’s some responsibility, being a duke.”
“Yes, it is. It’s a lifetime commitment and one I don’t want for Hugh. Sandy hasn’t, well, he hasn’t had the easiest of times. As the head of the family, he’s like the figure of Atlas, but instead of the world, he’s balancing his family, the estates, all that responsibility on his shoulder. Is this from the garden?” Slender fingers reach out to stroke the petal of the white rose as she adroitly changes the topic. “It’s a beauty.”
And so is she. Built on slender aristocratic lines. High cheekbones and deep blue eyes. Sad eyes, I think, though that’s probably more to do with her current circumstances. “It’s one of the first of the season,” I say, passing a cup and saucer into her hand. “Or so Cameron says.” There’s no need to mention who it was originally meant for. Or how I’d taken a moment to rearrange the contents of the tray on the way up here, then took a photo for my Instagram. I’ll post it later, once I’m in better range of the Wi-Fi. Stone walls make for a terrible internet connection, so I’m finding.
“My mother used to love her roses.” Once again, she rouses herself from her thoughts. “And speaking of family, my brother will be at the castle this weekend.”
“Oh? Well, I’m sure you’ll be happy to have him here.”
“Yes. And no.” She tries to temper a smile and fails, though she tries to conceal it as she begins to doctor her coffee by adding milk and a raw sugar lump. “Like Hugh, Sandy is a bit of a force of nature.”
Good. Maybe he can take some of that energy and use it to beat up his brother-in-law. Not that I get the impression Lady Isla would let him ride roughshod over her. And while I’m not usually an advocate for violence, I’ve (accidentally) heard (okay, eavesdropped) some of the vile things he’s said to Isla over the phone. And siblings can be protective. Just ask my sister. The chatter in the kitchen yesterday touched on how Isla’s ass of an ex threatened to come to the castle but that he didn’t turn up. Word was he probably thought better of the plan when he remembered the place has stocks. And a dungeon. Not to mention a rifle room and a wife who is, so they say, a crack shot.
“I met his grace’s chef earlier.”
“Dougal.” She sort of grimaces, then lifts the cup to her lips, the matching saucer balanced in her other hand. “His cooking is better than his personality, though I will say he’s extremely meek when Sandy is within earshot.”
I hope my smile looks more sincere than it feels because that makes the man sound like he’s an ogre. “Will he be staying long?”
“I shouldn’t imagine so. Not while the tourist season is in swing. He says it’s like living in a goldfish bowl. He’s a very private person, you see.”
I smile again, but this time it’s genuine. He must be extremely private because when I was researching this job, not one photograph of him as an adult came up on my internet search. I imagine that’s because Isla got all the good looks, leaving him with a face like a gargoyle. A face for radio, my granny would have called it.