I glanced up to where Christopher Manor crouched at the head of the valley. Ominous gray clouds rolled in over the mountain behind it, pulsing with bursts of lightning. Unlit against the odd, stark light of a purpling dusk, the manor appeared dark and somehow menacing. I shivered as I turned back to Bran, the wind cold against my back.
Thunder rumbled again from the dark clouds, making Ethel strain against her bit, eager to be off. I wondered idly what Moira would think about me sneaking off to meet some trespassing stranger. I decided I didn’t care.
“Okay,” I said. “That would be . . . I mean . . . yes, okay.”
This time, Bran’s smile was genuine. “Then I shall look forward to it. If that cantankerous beast over there doesn’t throw me again and break my neck . . .” He made a face at the gelding, now peacefully grazing several yards away. “I will be here the same time each afternoon.” He executed a funny, formal bow. Till then, Mistress Walton. I must say, it was surprisingly pleasant to meet you.” His lovely, mismatched eyes widened a bit. “Surprising considering the situation, I mean.”
I nodded, biting back a grin as the mare took off like a shot.
Under a crack of thunder, I thought I heard a shout. “See you soon, Hope Walton.”
The heavens opened as Ethel and I raced back toward the stable. Pebbles of rain drilled into me, stinging my face. My thighs chafed against the inside of damp jeans as I held on tight.
I should have been miserable. But I barely felt it.
Chapter 6
JET LAG BLOWS.
At least it was morning. Sort of, though according to the bedside clock it was hours till daylight. But Lucinda would be back today. I’d finally get some answers, which was good, ’cause I was really tired of all the secrecy.
The night before, Phoebe had obviously still been banished, since only Mac, Moira, and I shared the quiet dinner of lamb, curried peas, and something called Spotted Dick, which sounded horrifying but was actually a delicious, rich cake filled with currants and covered in a thick custard.
I’d expected to crash hard, to sleep off the wearying hours of flight and disappointment. My brain apparently had a different agenda, however, and I only managed a few fitful hours of sleep. As I flipped and flopped in the ridiculously lavish bed, my thoughts drifted to the boy from the river. Bran Cameron. I’d kept my promise. Hadn’t told a soul about his trespassing. He wasn’t hurting anyone, after all.
And he wants to see you again. I twisted over and buried my face in the down pillow. Let’s just hope he forgets the way you stared like a moron when you saw his eyes.
What the hell was that about, anyway?
The antique bedframe creaked as I flopped back over. Staring up at the deep blue canopy, I wondered how long it had been since someone inspected the aging wood that supported all those yards of heavy velvet.
I scrambled out of the high bed as if it were on fire and wrenched on my ratty flannel bathrobe. I needed a good old, dry history book. That’s just the ticket to take my mind off things.
As I crept downstairs in the quiet of predawn, a step groaned beneath my weight. When no one emerged to order me back to my room, I went on, keeping to the edge of the steps. Generations of grumpy-looking Carlyles and MacPhersons glared at me from their gilded frames as I descended.
“Problem?” I challenged a snooty matron with a poofy bun and squinty eyes. When she didn’t answer, I flicked her painted nose. “That’s what I thought.”
Only two lamps now illuminated the once-cheery library. Shutting the doors behind me, I reached for the nearest bookshelf, then froze.
Is that . . . music?
I skirted back and forth across the room, pausing occasionally to listen. Still barely audible, the music seemed to grow a bit louder as I weaved my way toward the rear wall. Next to a faded tapestry, I leaned in and placed my palm against a bare spot on the wall. Through the heavy wood paneling, I felt the definite thump of bass notes.
A puff of air that smelled like dirt and wet stone whiffed across my bare legs, ruffling the hanging’s embroidered sheep in their woven pasture.
I grinned, and peeled the weighty fabric aside, revealing the hidden door behind it. It stood slightly ajar, held open by a bronze spaniel someone had placed in the crack as a doorstop. An enormous padlock splayed open and dangled from its hasp.
Please. I prayed as I grasped the crystal doorknob. Please don’t let this be the room where they hide the deformed cannibal cousin. ’Cause it’s just too damn early for that.
I jerked the door open to find . . . brooms. Nothing inside the deep closet but exactly what you’d expect. Brooms and mops and, oh—how thrilling—a shelf of dusting supplies. I let my head roll back to stare at the ceiling. Nothing but a stupid, ordinary broom closet.