It made him respect Townsend, just a little bit more.
But he didn’t want to notice any of Townsend’s good points. He didn’t want to respect him, even a little. Didn’t want to think he was amusing. Didn’t want to give this attraction any opportunity to sink its claws in. Even if Townsend was inclined toward men—which Ian wasn’t at all sure of in the first place—Ian worked for the estate. He wasn’t idiotic enough to get involved with the earl’s brother, when he would be the one with his livelihood at stake if things turned sour.
He’d already been in danger of losing his position once, due to one of Annabel’s schemes, and that was for a far lesser transgression than committing illegal acts with Lord Arden’s brother. He wasn’t going to risk his position again.
Anyway, even if Ian wasn’t Lord Arden’s factor and Townsend wasn’t Lord Arden’s brother, Ian had never approached a potential lover without first seeing hunger in their eyes, without being absolutely sure—it was too dangerous, otherwise. It was a little dangerous regardless—some men were hungry and hated themselves for it.
If Townsend was hungry, he hid it well.
And Ian had never approached a potential lover he knew he would see again, either, which meant Townsend was untouchable for more reasons than one. This self-imposed rule also meant it had been a very long time since Ian had fucked anyone, and even when he’d had more opportunity, it had still been a precarious thing. Ian could count the number of lovers he’d had on one hand, and they had all been so long ago that the memories were dull and faded.
That was probably all this was, then. This spark of awareness. This heat. It had been too long and there’d been too few and Townsend was always underfoot.
And that was all it would be. All Ian could allow it to be.
“You’re too kind,” Ian said eventually. Most people would mean that statement as a compliment. Ian didn’t.
Townsend huffed. “I’m too kind?”
“People take advantage of kindness.”
He smiled suddenly. “I’m kind but crafty…the perfect combination. Don’t worry on my account.”
Ian felt like scowling. “I wasn’t. But I don’t wish to see Lord Arden return to find his home being ravaged by the Worthingtons.”
Townsend’s expression shifted subtly, though his smile was locked in place. He didn’t like it when Ian called his competence into question by bringing up his brother, and Ian knew it. If Townsend was kind, then Ian was cruel.
“Ravaged by the Worthingtons,” he said sardonically. “That should be the title of a book. Speaking of which, you seemed distressed by the idea of reading in front of a room earlier.”
Ian’s head jerked back. It was a low blow, and he hadn’t been prepared for it. Hadn’t been prepared to absorb it coolly, without flinching, as he would have liked. Townsend’s eyes narrowed on his reaction.
Townsend might be kind, but when he was hit first, he hit back. Ian wished a part of him didn’t admire Townsend for it.
“I don’t entertain on command,” he said.
“Like me?” The other man lifted an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. He propped himself against the wall, as though this were the sort of conversation he had every day. “Can you read?”
Ian’s pulse clamored in his ears. “Of course I can read. Don’t be a fool, Townsend.”
“Then, if I gave you a book right now and asked you to read a few lines out loud…”
Damn it. This wasn’t something he discussed. It wasn’t something that was even a weakness—until he was around people like the Townsends and the Worthingtons, who were determined to turn it into one.
“I wouldn’t have become a factor if I couldna read. But I read…slowly.”
“What do you mean?” Townsend’s face was impassive. If there’d been any judgment there, Ian probably wouldn’t have continued.
“I learned to read as an adult. I didn’t go to school and my parents didn’t know how, so I had to teach myself. I can read and write letters with some effort. Sometimes I’ll read passages from books on farming or livestock, if there’s something I need to learn, but anything else…it takes too long.”
He didn’t add that he liked stories. Or that he liked poetry…particularly when Townsend was the one reading it.
Townsend absorbed this. “I see.”
Ian wished he had some idea what the other man was thinking. “Does that satisfy ye?”
“Does that mean you didn’t read any of The Adventures of Constable Whitley?”
For a second, Ian simply stared at him, bewildered. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I am simply curious.” He lifted a shoulder. The motion seemed a bit forced to Ian, but he continued before Ian could dwell on it for very long. “I don’t know if my plan worked. I didn’t notice anyone behaving strangely around you. Or at least not any more strangely than usual.”
“What should we do, then?”
“The stolen items have to be somewhere. If the rain holds off tomorrow, I’ll have Georgina take everyone to the stables, and I’ll search the rooms.”
“By yourself?”
He cocked his head. “Worried about me again, Cameron?”
“It would go faster with two people,” Ian said, choosing to ignore his remark. “And since it involves me, I should be there to make sure it’s done properly.”
A smile twitched at the corner of Townsend’s mouth. Ian did his best not to stare at his lips. “Don’t strain yourself by asking nicely,” he said drily. “Very well. Tomorrow.”
With a nod, and that amused smile still hovering around his mouth, he left. Ian watched him go with the unsettling feeling that he’d just agreed to an assignation.
Chapter Seven
Morning came and rays of sunlight attempted to filter through the clouds, though the clouds remained obstinate and kept shifting to block the sun. Robert ate breakfast dutifully and then dutifully declined a short excursion to the stable, claiming a late night. Everyone else welcomed a chance to go outdoors and agreed.
He watched Georgina struggling with a pair of metal pattens, a contraption meant to keep her shoes an inch or two off the muddy ground.
“Do those actually work?”
“They’re better than nothing,” she said, which didn’t sound like a clear yes or no. She lowered her voice. “I’ll keep them out for as long as I’m able. Be careful.”
“I am always careful. Exceedingly so.”
His sister didn’t look convinced. He gave her a hand up and watched her leave with the other guests, chatting merrily the whole time. His sister was a good actress…perhaps that should worry him a little more.
Less than thirty seconds after Georgina was gone, the air seemed to shift around him, and he felt, rather than saw, Cameron’s presence. “Well?” the other man said from behind him, voice tinged with impatience.
Robert ran a hand through his hair. He was tired. He’d spent several hours working on Constable Whitley the night before and had only managed to force himself from bed because he’d remembered he had plans.
With Ian Cameron, of all people.
Robert turned. The Highlander was, in true contrary fashion, one of those people who were at their best in the morning—his face was alert, gray eyes sharp and observant. He’d probably bounded out of bed at dawn and wrestled a few sheep.
Robert would need at least three cups of tea before he even imagined bounding anywhere, let alone wrestling sheep.
Cameron’s brows lifted at the sight of him. Unlike Robert, he hadn’t perfected the one-eyebrow lift—he was resigned to raising his whole brow to show surprise or ridicule. And, at the moment, he was definitely displaying the latter.
Robert spoke before Cameron could. “Don’t.”
“Don’t?”
“You were about to say something disdainful. I don’t wish to hear it.”
“Because ye stayed up late drinking?”
“That didn’t disprove my point.” Robert brushed past him and heard the heavy tread of the other man following.