Nods all around.
He couldn’t. He didn’t even know where to begin, how far back in time to go. For the last thirteen hundred years, Maronite alliances had shifted like quicksilver depending on what would best preserve their autonomy under the empire of the day: Byzantines, Muslim Arabs, crusaders, Mamelukes, or Ottoman Turks, they all had been friend as well as foe at different points, well, all except the Mamelukes, who had been hell-bent on eliminating mountain dwellers of all creeds rather than just taxing them. Now, if the pope was key to maintaining self-rule, yes, one would try to win him as an ally. However, had the Emperor of China proven more effective, Elias reckoned the local chiefs would have tried to make a deal with him.
Catriona had quietly receded back into the circle, but Elias felt her attention on his very skin, invisible yet physical like the warmth of the sun on one’s face.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you the story of the maps,” Elias said. “We didn’t draw them; they were drawn up in the forties by an Austrian prince and a British diplomat. I know it was their solution for our peasant revolt, but it was a revolt against ruling elites of all denominations, so how would drawing new borders and shuffling us around depending on creed solve an economic issue? It did the opposite, I think, hence the ‘trouble’ in the sixties, but the maps stuck. C’est tout.”
The silence in the circle assumed a different quality. Ice clinked against the rim of a glass. Lady Catriona was looking at him with a frozen face, as though she had seen a ghost. Damn.
“Quite the story,” Tomlinson said, nodding. “About the maps.”
“The story is called divide and conquer,” Lord Ballentine remarked. His tone was smooth but a cynical glint stirred in his eyes.
“A true and tested tale since the Romans, I’m afraid,” said the beautiful duchess.
“I’ll spoil the ending for you,” Ballentine said to Palmer. “Usually, it is a takeover by a rational third party.”
“I say.”
Elias looked at the viscount more closely. “I believe the prime minister at the time did say that we were in need of a ‘vigorous hand and a powerful head.’?”
“It never ceases to enrage me,” said Lady Lucinda, gesturing with her glass in hand. “The whole ‘not rational enough to manage their own affairs’ trick.”
“Goodness,” said Mrs. Blackstone. “It enrages women everywhere.”
“That’s how it goes,” said her friend. “First, you deny someone the capacity for rational thought, then you establish control over them with a clear conscience.”
“Sweet bulldog,” said Lord Palmer. “Let me grab one of those hors d’oeuvres. Ladies, as always, a pleasure.” He left, carefully balancing his strides as if in a daze.
Mrs. Blackstone thanked Elias for sharing his perspective, then she seemed to switch from political activist back to her role as hostess, a little sheepishly, and tried to steer the conversation to a lighter topic. Catriona was studying the pattern of the rug. Elias took a few deep breaths through his nose. He had never been so careless with his opinions on a stranger’s territory before. She was doing something to him, and he couldn’t say he liked it.
During dinner, it was as though there were a pane of glass between their chairs. Her conversation was so polite it almost felt insulting. From the end of the table, Mr. Blackstone’s penetrating gray gaze raked over him in irritating intervals.
When the dinner concluded, Mrs. Blackstone issued them into the drawing room for some “fun and games.” Catriona seemed part of the group moving toward the parlor, but she never arrived in the room.
“She loathes games,” Mrs. Blackstone told him in passing with a knowing glance. “She’s in a nook somewhere, reading a book.”
He pretended to not know why this should be of relevance to him. Playing with him once didn’t mean she wanted an encore. He couldn’t shake the feeling, however, that he had caused her change of mood with his debate in the reception room. After two rounds of some strange posh game, he went in search of her.
Chapter 12
She drank the first glass of Scotch too fast. A lulling warmth spread through her limbs, so she poured another. First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, she thought darkly. Then, the drink takes you. She was nestled deep in the armchair and about to finish her not-so-wee second dram when the door to Blackstone’s library opened.
“Lady Catriona.”
A zing of excitement hit her bloodstream, more potent than the Scotch. His face was cast in shadow but she recognized the outline of his solid torso and his curls, backlit by the light in the corridor. She carefully put her tumbler down on the side table.
“Mr. Khoury. Are you lost?”
There was a brief, amused pause.
“As it is,” he then said, “I have just found what I was looking for.”
Her belly swooped as though she were descending on a swing.
The posture of his silhouette looked rather formal. “Why aren’t you joining the games?”
“What are they playing?”
“When I left, it was Squeak, Piggy, Squeak.”
“Such fun.” She would need another drink or five to enjoy that.
“Forgive my directness,” he said at last, “but I had the impression that I offended you in the reception room earlier.”
They were conversing across a large room.
“Please, do come in,” she said.
He stilled. A gentleman did not spend time alone with a lady, behind closed doors.
“The door has a lock,” she added.
He considered it. She picked up her tumbler and indulged in another hot mouthful of vintage Springbank.
He entered and closed the door. Darkness fell. The lock snicked shut, and measured footfalls approached while her eyes readjusted to the dim light of the gas lamp on the nearby drinks cabinet. The hollow feeling in her belly spread up, between her ribs, a feeling close to nausea except it was thrilling.
Elias halted behind the Chesterfield sofa opposite her armchair, effectively keeping a barrier between them. He arched his brows at the glass in her hand.
“Whisky?”
“Are you terribly shocked?”
“Do I appear shocked to you?”
She studied him. The sooty glow of the lamp threw the sculpted angles of his face into somber relief. His charming disposition, usually so close to the surface, had given way to something impenetrable. Perhaps there was a trace of gentle mockery.
“I was wondering,” she said, “when you go birding, do you snare the birds?”
He huffed, surprised. “Not usually, no. I observe.”
“That’s kind.” She nodded at the bottle on the table. “May I offer you a dram?”
He declined.
“You prefer arak,” she guessed. The drink of choice in his corner of the world.
A half smile. “I do. Though I enjoy a Scotch, too, now and again.”