Catriona showed their unexpected guests to spare rooms and provided dry linens and hot water. Robert had just pulled on a dark-blue box coat when Ian Cameron emerged from the stairwell. He must have been sleeping when the knocks sounded; like Georgina, he had the appearance of hastily pulling on clothes—dark, loose trousers and a white linen shirt—and his thick red-brown hair was tousled. His shirt was open at the throat, untied, and Robert was a bit startled by a view of the hollow of the man’s throat, a smattering of dark hair at the top of his chest, and the strong, graceful sweep of collarbone.
He looked like a rake, just tumbled out of bed after a long, sultry night—except he was too proud, too work-worn, too wiry with muscles born from daily labor to ever truly be mistaken for one. Robert glanced around, wondering if he should tell the other man to put on some clothes in mixed company. But they were alone in the hall—Georgina must have left to help Catriona—and Robert simply stared at him for too long a moment.
Or rather, stared at that flash of vulnerable skin, pale from being hidden from the sun. He quickly jerked his gaze back up, ignoring a sudden pulse of want, a frisson of heat deep in his stomach.
As he always did around Ian Cameron.
It wasn’t really his fault—the man looked like a damn Roman statue come to life, all broad shoulders and hard planes and sweet, sculpted lines.
Of course, any frisson of heat was doused like fire in a cold rain when they actually spoke to each other. It was a pity, really—if Cameron’s body reminded Robert of a marble sculpture, his personality was built to match.
“What’s happening?” Cameron’s voice rasped just the slightest bit from sleep. His Highland accent sounded softer, somehow, at night—edges blurred, sharp points rounded. “I thought I heard something.”
“You did,” Robert said. The words came out unexpectedly curt, and Robert winced inwardly—he didn’t want the other man to think he was bothered by all the stoic glances, the cool stares, the way his mouth wouldn’t even curve when Robert made a jest. But he wasn’t sure if Cameron had even noticed—he didn’t look daunted in the slightest.
“Some travelers,” Robert finally said and went on to explain the situation. “They said they had a few more valises in the cart; I was just going to retrieve them.”
Cameron glanced toward the door, which was currently being battered by a fresh gale. “I’ll help.”
“That’s not necessary,” Robert said.
“I don’t want Lord Arden to return to his brother drowned in a rainstorm while I stand here and watch.”
Robert’s gut tightened with annoyance. He could take care of himself—Cameron didn’t have to act like he was some pitiful creature he needed to protect for the sake of his employer. But Robert didn’t really feel like arguing with him. He doubted it would help.
So he started toward the door instead, hesitated, and then pulled a cloak from the hook. He tossed it toward Cameron, who caught it in midair. He was a little irritated with himself for the small kindness, but old habits died hard, and he didn’t particularly want to see Cameron’s shirt plastered to his chest.
Actually, he’d very much like to see it, which meant he should avoid it at all costs.
Cameron was broader than Robert, a bit wider in the shoulders, but Robert was a couple of inches taller. He felt a strange shot of satisfaction when he saw that the cloak, which went to the ankle on him, was touching the floor on Cameron.
Together, they trudged out into the storm. They didn’t speak. Even if they’d wanted to, which Robert doubted, the rain and wind would have drowned out their voices. Robert navigated with an oil lamp, a weak light in the dark night, but it was just enough to see the path in front of him.
They found the cart, stuck in the muddy, narrow road that went past the castle, and Cameron grabbed two valises that looked quite heavy without straining at all. Robert was left with a small portmanteau.
He felt like Cameron had just lifted a glove and smacked him across the face in insult. But getting in a fight with his brother’s factor regarding how much each of them should carry was completely ridiculous, so he clutched the portmanteau and they walked silently back to the castle.
Just as he was stepping inside, a dark, wet blur shot past his feet and sent him sprawling. He fully expected to land face-first on the hard stone of the great hall, but a hand caught his arm and hauled him up roughly.
“Watch yerself.”
Watch himself? It wasn’t Robert’s fault the bloody cat was a menace. The servants’ door had a hole cut from the bottom, specifically so the cat—named Willoughby by Annabel—could come and go, and he still insisted on using the entrance to the great hall instead.
A bit high in the instep really, that scoundrel Willoughby.
Robert didn’t dislike cats, but he’d always been more of a dog person himself—one knew where one stood with a dog. They didn’t stare at a person with those unreadable, impassive eyes. With cats, it was impossible to tell if they liked you or if they might be plotting your murder.
Rather like a certain person he knew. Except that was more of a debate between complete and utter indifference or murder.
He pulled his arm from Cameron’s grasp. Too quickly. Too abruptly. “Thank you,” he said, trying to sound calm.
He usually got along with people much better than this. He usually had no trouble being charming enough to get past their defenses when he chose to. And he’d tried. He couldn’t say he hadn’t tried. Cameron was either all defenses, or he just didn’t like Robert very much.
Robert didn’t know why he let it bother him—he shouldn’t care about the opinion of one lowly factor.
But around Ian Cameron, Robert felt like a piece of refuse, and he was starting to hate it.
And the feeling was made all the more potent by the desire that he couldn’t seem to shake.
He turned toward the man. His hair was slick with rain, curling into wet tangles at the nape of his neck, and darkened, like red-black velvet. “Why do you dislike me?” Robert blurted out. “I’ve never been unkind to you, have I?”
Cameron cocked his head. There was an expression, there and then gone. Robert didn’t have time to decipher it.
“Dislike ye?” He almost sounded amused. His lips were curved slightly, more of a smirk than a smile. Cameron seemed incapable of a pure smile, of happiness without a touch of derision. “Why do you assume I think of you at all?”
Robert felt heat crawling up his throat.
Before he could even figure out how to respond, Cameron was speaking again. “Thank you for the coat,” he said, as pleasantly and formally and coolly polite as though the last few seconds hadn’t even occurred.
He dropped the cloak into Robert’s hand, leaned against the wall to peel off his muddy shoes, and then strode away without a backward glance.
Robert felt like he’d just been dismissed by someone of higher rank. Theo really shouldn’t employ someone who was so…undeferential. Of course, maybe he was perfectly deferential when Theo was around. Maybe it was just Robert.
Why do you assume I think of you at all?
His grip tightened on the cloak. The silk lining was still warm from the heat of Cameron’s body, from sleep-warmed skin. He quickly draped it over a hook.
Why, indeed.
Chapter Two
Ian Cameron was going through some of the quarry expenses when a knock sounded at his door. It was past dawn, but the sky was still dark from low-hanging clouds. He paused, wondering if he could ignore it, but whoever was knocking had probably already seen the light from his candle seeping beneath the door.
He half expected it to be Townsend.
His pulse kicked up. From irritation. Fine…maybe not entirely from irritation. He could admit Robert Townsend was as handsome as the devil, and he had a voice to match, deep and dark and smooth and curled with smoke at the edges.
He hadn’t thought it would be a problem when he’d agreed to move in temporarily. He’d observed the man—couldn’t help but observe him—and been relieved to find that Townsend didn’t have much else to recommend him. He was like a nicely wrapped package with nothing in it, and Ian wasn’t so young that he found that appealing.