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“Papa invited him,” Lucy whispered back. “He says he has no time for feuds. He considers them uncivilized.”
The Forres and the Methven clans had traditionally been enemies. The Forreses and their kinsmen the earls of Cardross had held for the Scottish crown since time immemorial. The Methvens had been brigands from the far north, descended from the Viking earls of Orkney, a law unto themselves. Lucy knew little about the Methvens other than that they were reputed to be as fierce and elemental as their ancestors. She looked down on Robert Methven’s face, etched so clear and sharp in the moonlight, and felt a shiver of something primitive echo down her spine.
Enemies for generations... It was in the blood, in the stories she had been told from the cradle. Clan warfare might be a thing of the past, but it was not long gone and old enmities died hard.
“One day,” Wilfred was saying, “I’ll take back the land your family stole from our clan, Methven, and I’ll make you pay. I swear it.”
“I’ll look forward to that.” Robert Methven sounded amused. “Until then, shall we partake of some more of the duke’s excellent brandy?”
He walked straight past Wilfred as though the conversation no longer interested him. Wilfred, looking foolish, barged past him to assert his precedence and go through the drawing room door first. Methven shrugged his broad shoulders, uncaring.
Alice let the curtain fall back into place. “I’m cold,” she grumbled. “I’m going to bed.”
Lucy struggled to reach up and pull the casement window closed. It was just like Alice to leave her to tidy up. That was the trouble with Alice; she was careless and thoughtless and Lucy was always having to smooth matters over for her.
“Hamish Purnell...” she heard Alice murmuring as she slipped beneath the covers of the bed. “Well, I suppose he is quite handsome.”
“He’s married,” Lucy reminded her. “Besides, he had his back to you when you first saw him.”
“He turned round,” Alice argued. “Face to me, back to the sea. True love. Perhaps his wife will die. Be sure to close the window properly, Lucy,” she added, “so no one knows we were watching.”
Lucy sighed, still struggling to shift the window, which remained obstinately stuck. The heavy velvet hem of the curtain knocked over the blue-and-white china vase on the shelf by her elbow. She watched as in slow motion the vase teetered on the edge, escaped her grasping fingers and tumbled through the open window to smash on the terrace below. Transfixed, she stared down into the darkness. Nothing moved. No one came. She could see the broken shards gleaming in the moonlight as they lay scattered on the stones.
“You’ve got to go and pick it up.” Alice’s voice reached her in an urgent whisper. “Otherwise they’ll find it and know we were watching.”
“You go down,” Lucy said crossly. “I didn’t knock the vase over,” Alice argued.
“Neither did I!” For all their age, there was a danger of this degenerating into a nursery quarrel. “You go,” Lucy said. “It was your idea to hang out of the window like a strumpet.”
“If I get caught I’ll be in trouble again,” Alice said. Suddenly her bright face looked young and anxious and Lucy felt a pang of something that felt oddly like pity. “You know how Papa is always telling me how Mama would have been ashamed of how naughty I am.”
Lucy sighed. She could feel herself weakening. She would never get Alice into trouble. It was part of the pact between them, binding them closer than close, sisters and best friends forever. Lucy sighed again and reached for her robe and slippers.
“If you go down the steps in the Black Tower, you will be there quickly and no one will see you,” Alice said.
“I know!” Lucy snapped. Nevertheless she felt a frisson of disquiet as she grabbed her candle and opened the door a bare few inches, enough to slide out. She stole silently along the corridor to the tower stair. It was not that Forres Castle frightened her. She had grown up here and she knew every nook and cranny of the ancient building, all its secrets and all its ghosts. It was flesh and blood she feared, not the supernatural. She could not afford to get caught. She never got into trouble, never did anything wrong. Alice was the impetuous one, tumbling from one scrape into another. Lucy was good.
Nevertheless when she had drawn the bolt on the heavy door at the base of the stairs and pushed it gently open, she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the night. The breeze was soft on her face, laced with the scents of the sea and the soapy smell of the gorse. The sound of the distant waves mingled with the sighing of the pines. The moon was sickle-sharp and golden in a sky of deep velvet. For a moment Lucy had the mad idea to go running across the lawns and down to the sea, to feel the cool sand between her toes and the lap of the cold water on her bare legs.
Of course she would never do it. She was far too well behaved.
With a little sigh she bent to collect the shattered pieces of the blue-and-white pot. The maids would notice the loss and would no doubt report it. Her father would be upset, for it had been one of the late duchess’s favorite pieces. There would be questions and explanations; lies. She and Alice would have to admit that they had broken it, just not that it had happened when they had been leaning out of the window to ogle young men. She hoped her papa would not be too disappointed in her.
“Can I help you with that?”
Lucy jumped and spun around, the shards falling for a second time from her fingers. Robert Methven was standing facing her, his back to the sea. Up close he was as tall, as broad as he had seemed from her vantage point above.
“I didn’t know anyone was there,” Lucy blurted out.
She saw him smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He bent down and picked up the pieces, handing them to her gravely.
“Why don’t you put them down on the balustrade,” he suggested, “before you drop them again?”
“Oh no,” Lucy said. “I have to go. I mean...” But she made no move to scuttle back to the tower door. “What are you doing out here in the dark?” she asked, after a moment.
He shrugged, a quick, dismissive movement. “The company isn’t really to my taste.”
“Wilfred, I suppose,” Lucy said. “I’m sorry, he’s quite horrible.”
“I don’t particularly mind,” Robert Methven said. “But I would not choose to spend time with him.”
“Neither would I,” Lucy said, “and he’s my cousin.”
“Oh, bad luck,” Methven said. “That means you must be—”
“Lucy,” Lucy said. “Lucy MacMorlan.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Lucy.”
“And you are Robert Methven,” Lucy said.
He bowed.
“You’re nice,” Lucy said.
He smiled at the note of surprise in her voice. “Thank you.”
“Aren’t we supposed to be enemies?” Lucy said.
His smile broadened. “Do you want us to be?”
“Oh no,” Lucy said. “It’s old history.”
“Old history has a tight grip sometimes,” Robert Methven said. “Our families have hated each other for generations.”
“Papa thinks feuds are foolish,” Lucy said. She watched the play of moonlight across his face, the way it accentuated the planes and hollows, emphasizing some features and hiding others. It was oddly compelling. She felt a strange tug of emotion deep inside.
“That’s why I am here tonight,” Robert Methven said. “To put history behind us.” He nodded toward the pot in her hands. “How did that happen?”
“Oh...” Lucy blushed. “The window was open and the curtain caught it and knocked it over.”
Methven laughed. “My brother, Gregor, and I are always getting into trouble for stuff like that.”
“I don’t believe you,” Lucy said. She looked up at his tall silhouette against the deep blue of the night sky. “You are far too grown-up to get into trouble.”
Robert Methven laughed. “You might think so, but my grandfather is a tyrant. We are always falling foul of his rules.”
Lucy became aware that the sharp corners of the broken pottery were digging into her palms and that her bare toes were beginning to chill within her thin silk slippers. She wondered what on earth she was doing standing here in her nightclothes talking to Robert Methven, of all people.
“I must go,” she said again.
He made no effort to detain her. But he did smile. “Good night, then, Lady Lucy,” he said.
At the door Lucy paused and turned. “You won’t give me away, will you?” she asked carefully. “I don’t want to get into trouble.”
He laughed. “I’d never give you away.”
“Promise?” Lucy said.
He came right up to her. She could smell the smoke and fresh air on him and see the white slash of his teeth as he smiled. It made her feel a little bit dizzy and she had no notion why.
“I promise,” he said.
He bent and kissed her. It was light and brief, but still it left her so breathless and shaken that for a moment she stayed quite motionless with the surprise, the shards of the pot forgotten in her hands.
“Was that your first kiss?” Robert asked. She could hear a smile in his voice.
“Yes.” She spoke without thinking, too honest and innocent for artifice.
“Did you like it?”
Lucy frowned. The sensations inside her were too new and confusing to be easily described, but she did know that what she felt was very different from simple liking.
“I don’t know,” she said.
He laughed. “Would you like to do it again so you can decide?”
Sudden, wicked excitement curled inside Lucy, giving her the answer. “Yes,” she whispered.
He took the pieces of the pot very carefully from her hands and laid them down on the stone balustrade. He put his arms around her and drew her closer to him so that her hands were resting against his chest. The texture of his jacket felt smooth under her palms. She felt extraordinarily shy all of a sudden and might have pulled away, but then he kissed her and the shyness fled, lost in a sensation of sweetness and a warmth that made her tingle with excitement. Her head spinning, she dug her fingers into his jacket to steady herself. Her heart was beating a fierce drumbeat. She felt fragile and could not stop herself from trembling.
Then, too soon, it was over and he stepped back, releasing her gently. For a second the moonlight illuminated his expression, surprise, puzzlement perhaps, the flicker of something she could not read or understand in his eyes. Yet when he spoke he sounded exactly the same.
“Thank you,” he said.
Lucy did not know what you were supposed to do after you had kissed someone, and now she felt very shy all over again, so she grabbed the pieces of the pot, mumbled a good-night and hurried away so quickly that she almost tripped over the hem of her robe. She sped up the dark spiral of the stair without really noticing the stone steps beneath her flying feet. Her mind was too full of Robert Methven’s kiss for her to be able to think of anything else.
Alice was asleep when she got back to their bedroom. Looking at her serene face, Lucy could not help smiling. She could not feel cross with her twin for long. She loved her too much, the sister who was different from her in so many ways and yet closer to her than the other half of the apple.
She placed the pieces of pot carefully back on the shelf and slipped into bed, burrowing into the warmth and falling asleep. She dreamed of the sickle moon shining over the sea and of strong magic and of Robert Methven’s kisses. She knew he would not give her away. They were bound together now.
CHAPTER ONE
Forres Castle, Scotland, February 1812
“LUCY, I NEED you to do me a favor.”
Lady Lucy MacMorlan’s quill stuttered on the paper, leaving a large blob of ink. She had been in the middle of a particularly complex mathematical calculation when her brother Lachlan burst into the library. A gust of bitter winter air accompanied him, lifting the tapestries from the walls and sending the dust scurrying along the stone floor. The fire crackled and hissed as more sleet tumbled down the chimney. Lucy’s precious calculations flew from the desk to skate along the floor.
“Please close the door, Lachlan,” Lucy said politely.
Her brother did as he was bid, cutting off the vicious draught up the stone spiral stair. He threw himself down, long and lanky, in one of the ancient armchairs before the fire.
“I need your help,” he said again.
Lucy smothered her instinctive irritation. It seemed unfair that Lachlan, two years older than she at six and twenty, always needed her to pull him out of trouble. Lachlan had a careless charm and a conviction that someone else would sort out the trouble he caused. That someone always seemed to be Lucy.
They all had their roles in the family. Angus, the son and heir, was stodgy and dull. Christina, Lucy’s eldest sister, was an on-the-shelf spinster who had devoted her life to raising her siblings after their mother had died and now acted as hostess for their father. Mairi, Lucy’s other sister, was a widow. Lachlan ran wild. Lucy had always been the good child, the perfect child in fact.
What a perfect baby, people had said, leaning over her crib to admire her. Later she had been called a perfect young lady, then a perfect debutante. She had even made the perfect betrothal, straight from the schoolroom, to an older gentleman who was a nobleman and a scholar. When he had died before they married, she had become perfectly unobtainable.
Once upon a time she had been a perfect sister and friend too. She had had a twin with whom she shared everything. She had thought her life was safe and secure, but she had been wrong. But here Lucy closed her mind, like the slamming shut of an oaken door. It did no good to think about the past.
“Lucy?” Lachlan was impatient for her attention. He looped one booted leg carelessly over the arm of the chair and sat smiling at her. Lucy looked at him suspiciously.
“What are you working on?” he asked, gesturing to the papers that were scattered across the desk.
“I was trying to prove Fermat’s Last Theorem,” Lucy said.
Lachlan looked baffled. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I enjoy the challenge,” Lucy said.
Lachlan shook his head. “I wouldn’t choose to do mathematics unless I absolutely had to,” he said.
“You wouldn’t choose to do anything unless you had to,” Lucy pointed out.
Lachlan’s smiled widened. He looked as though he thought she had paid him a compliment. “That’s true,” he said. He fixed her with his bright hazel eyes. “How is your writing progressing?”
“I am working on a lady’s guide to finding the perfect gentleman,” Lucy said. She spoke with dignity. She knew that Lachlan was laughing at her. He thought her writing was ridiculous, a mystifying hobby. All the Duke of Forres’s daughters wrote; it was an interest they had inherited from their mother, who had been a notable bluestocking. The sons, in contrast, were not bookish. Lucy loved her brothers—well, she loved Lachlan even though he exasperated her, and she tried to love stuffy Angus—but intellectual they were not.
As if to prove it, Lachlan gave a hoot of laughter. “A guide to finding the perfect gentleman? What do you know of the subject?”
“I was betrothed to such a man,” Lucy said sharply. “Of course I know.”
The light died from Lachlan’s eyes. “Duncan MacGillivray was hardly the perfect gentleman,” he said. “Nor was he the perfect match for you. He was too old.”
Lucy experienced a tight, trapped feeling in her chest. “You are so rude,” she said crossly.
“No,” Lachlan said. “I tell the truth. You only agreed to marry him because Papa wanted you to wed and you were still grieving for Alice and you weren’t thinking straight.”
Alice...
Another cold draught slid under the door and tickled its way down Lucy’s spine. She shivered and drew her shawl more closely about her shoulders. Alice had been dead for eight years, but not a day passed when Lucy did not think of her twin. There was a hollow, Alice-shaped space inside her. She wondered if she would always feel like this, so empty, as though a part of her had been cut out, leaving nothing but darkness in its place. Alice’s absence was like a constant ache, a shadow on the heart, and a missed step in the dark. Even after all this time, it hurt so sharply it could sometimes make her catch her breath. Her childhood had ended the day Alice died.
She pushed the thought away, as she always did. She was not going to talk about Alice.
“The point,” she said, “is that I know what constitutes gentlemanly behavior, and more importantly—” she looked down her nose at her brother “—what does not.”
