There really was no response to make to that so Diarmot left the nursery. It was a cowardly retreat, but he did not falter in making it. Fraser was not so many years older than he, but she displayed a true skill at making him feel like a foolish child. She could also quickly and precisely ferret out the truth of a person's heart, which was another good reason for him to get away from her. His heart was filled with far too many tangled, conflicting emotions at the moment to allow anyone to stare into it.
Once inside his ledger room, he poured himself a tankard of wine, and sat in a high-backed chair before the fireplace. It was a moment of glaring into the low fire and sipping his wine before he noticed the heavily carved oak chair he sat on was a lot more comfortable than it had ever been before. He looked to see what he sat on, then studied its match on the other side of the chest he used as a table. There were cushions on the seats and a thick, soft sheepskin draped over the back of each chair. Ilsa was obviously not satisfied altering the rest of the keep to her tastes; she had entered his sanctuary. Diarmot wondered if she had spent her youth plucking bald every goose in Scotland and was now turning to skinning the sheep.
Diarmot slouched in his chair and drank his wine. He was sulking and he knew it. He also knew he was being unreasonable. The chair was comfortable and the needlework upon the cushions was exquisite. The design was of a large griffin encircled by thistles, not some far too feminine display of flowers. It was foolish to feel as if she had unforgivably intruded. Complaining about it would only make him look petulant. It was his wife's job, after all, to make her husband's home more comfortable, more elegant and welcoming. Considering how often he retreated into this room, he did wonder when she had managed to change it without him discovering it until now.
He had a brief vision of Ilsa lurking outside the room, waiting until he left, then dashing in to toss cushions about and he smiled. And hang tapestries, he thought, as he finally noticed the one over the fireplace. Diarmot frowned slightly as he looked around seeing two others, one behind his ledger table and one on a wall near the door. Where was the woman finding all of these things? He did not recall her bringing that many chests of goods with her.
A rap at his door drew his attention and he called out, "Enter."
His man Geordie walked in, smiling faintly as he looked around. "Tis looking verra fine in here, m'laird," he said as he shut the door behind him. "S'truth, the entire keep begins to look verra fine."
"Aye, my wife has been verra busy indeed," he murmured. "I was just wondering where the devil it was all coming from."
"Ah, weel, from a storage room down in the dungeons. Tis a perilous warren of passages and rooms down below. Her ladyship insisted upon wandering through it all and found a veritable treasure trove."
"No one has e'er made mention of it."
"We all thought ye kenned it, but wouldnae touch it because it had been gathered by your uncle. The mon gathered up many fine things, yet ne'er used them, or used verra few. Tis as if he liked bonny things but didnae ken what to do with them. He must have been a wealthy mon."
Or would have been if he had not tossed it all away on things he couldnae use, thought Diarmot. He felt the return of an old anger as he recalled how little his uncle had helped Connor in caring for his family and his clan, in rebuilding Deilcladach after the devastation wrought by years of war. That his uncle had hoarded wealth while he and his family had fought starvation was simply more proof of how badly his uncle had wanted them to fail to survive. It also explained why the man had never brought any of them to Clachthrom, even in an attempt to hide his guilt and hate behind simple familial charity. One of them could have discovered his wealth, rousing their suspicions about him.
Diarmot pushed aside those dark thoughts and asked, "Do ye think he was a thief?"
"Nay," replied Geordie. "Those who were here in his time all mutter about his waste of coin on things he ne'er used. Her ladyship was told of the things when she began to ask if there was anything set aside that she might use to add some warmth and color. She had already raided Lady Anabelle's rooms. Your late wife also hoarded many lovely items."
After finishing his wine, Diarmot had Geordie take him to his uncle's treasure. Shock held him silent as the man showed him two large rooms in the bowels of the keep that were filled with more riches than Diarmot could easily comprehend. His uncle had indeed been a wealthy man and now he was. Once he put his fury at his murderous uncle back into the past where it belonged, Diarmot suspected he would be pleased.
"With all of this, Clachthrom could become as fine as a king's palace," he murmured, idly looking over a collection of fine tapestries.
"Aye, m'laird," replied Geordie. "I believe Lady Ilsa thinks the same."
Diarmot suspected Geordie was right and wondered why that did not bother him as much as it should. Ilsa was inching beneath his shields, plucking away at his barriers with passion, as well as the care of his children and his home. If he was not careful he would wake one morning to find himself dangerously besotted.
What truly terrified him was how easily she was doing it.
CHAPTER NINE