surely lesser pharaohs.
“Come,” the big man said.
They followed him up the path to the door. It opened to a circular reception area, where once, it was planned that the enemy should be bottled and trapped, were they to get this far. Now, the area was a mudroom.
“If I may?”
The man took her cape. Ralph held tightly to his overcoat. The big man shrugged.
“Come.”
They passed through a second door to an outstanding hall. Here, modernization had definitely been in effect. In fact, the room was actually gracious. The stone stairway curved to an upper level and balcony, and the stairs were covered in a warm, royal-blue runner. Weapons lined ceilings and part of the walls, but they were interspersed by beautiful oils, some of them portraits, others medieval and pastoral scenes. She was certain that many were the works of great masters.
A fire crackled in a massive hearth. The furniture surrounding the hearth was in deep brown leather, yet not austere in the least. Rather, it offered a plush and welcoming comfort.
“You, wait here,” the man told Ralph. “You, come with me,” he said to Camille.
Ralph stared at her like a frightened puppy being left behind in a ditch. She inclined her head to let him know that it was quite all right, and followed the man up the curving stairs.
He led her into a room with a massive desk and endless shelves of books. Her heart leaped at the sight of them. So many! And the subject matter on one wall was that near and dear to her heart. Ancient Egypt was a massive tome aligned next to The Path of Alexander the Great.
“The master will be with you shortly,” the big man said, closing the door behind him as he left.
Standing alone in the large room, Camille was first aware of silence. Then, bit by bit, those little noises that intruded upon the night. From somewhere, she heard the plaintive, chilling call of a wolf. Then, as if to alleviate that chill, the snap of a fire burning brightly in the hearth to the left of the entry.
A crystal decanter of brandy, surrounded by fragile snifters, sat on a small brown table. She was tempted to run to it, seize up the elegant crystal and imbibe the brandy until it was gone.
Turning again, she noted a large and beautiful painting behind the great desk. The woman within it wore clothing of perhaps a decade earlier. She had lovely light hair and a smile that seemed to illuminate. Her deep blue eyes, almost a sapphire, were the most alluring aspect of the painting. Fascinated, Camille moved closer.
“My mother, Lady Abigail of Carlyle,” she heard, the tone deep, richly masculine, yet somehow harsh and menacing.
She spun around, startled, not having heard the door open. Despite herself, she was afraid that she gaped, as well, for the face she saw upon the fellow who had entered the room was that of a beast.
He wore a leather mask, she realized, molded to face and features. And though not really unattractive—and certainly artistic—it was still somehow frightening. And in the back of her mind, she wondered if it hadn’t been crafted to be so.
She wondered, as well, just how long he had watched her before speaking.
“It’s a beautiful painting,” she managed to say at last, praying that the time she had stared at him, mouth open, was less than she feared. She tried hard not to let her voice waver, though she couldn’t tell if she succeeded.
“Yes, thank you.”
“A very beautiful woman,” she added, the compliment sincere.
She was aware of the eyes behind the mask, watching her. And she noticed, because the mouth was somewhat visible beneath the edge of the facade, that there was a mocking amusement to him, as if he was accustomed to gratuitous compliments.
“She was, indeed, beautiful,” he said, and came closer, his strides long, one hand clamped around a wrist behind his back as he neared her. “So, who are you, and what are you doing here?”
She smiled and extended a hand graciously, hating the fact that she was playing at the social butterfly—which she was not and never would be.
“Camille Montgomery,” she said. “And I am here on a desperate quest. My uncle, my guardian, is lost, and he was last seen upon the road before this very castle.”
He looked at her hand a long time before deciding to bow to courtesy and accept it, bending over it. The lips beneath the mask were searing as they touched her flesh, yet he released her instantly, as if it were he who had touched hot coals.
“Ah,” he said simply, walking past her.
Though not so tall as the giant who had come to the gate, he was certainly a few inches over six feet, and his shoulders were very broad beneath his handsome smoking jacket. His stature was trim, his waist quite narrow, his legs long and powerful. He appeared both strong and agile, whatever the condition of his face. A beast? Perhaps, for she could too easily recall the heat of his lips against her flesh, the length of his fingers, the power in his hand.
He didn’t speak; his back was to her as he, too, surveyed the painting above the desk.
At last, she cleared her throat. “Lord Stirling, I do apologize with the greatest regret for intruding upon you at this hour and without inquiry. But I am, as you can well imagine, distressed beyond all measure. The dear man who raised me is missing, and there are so many dangers in the woods. Cutthroats, wolves…all manner of creature might be about in the night. I am so very worried, and therefore I pray that I may turn to a man of such high position as Your Lordship.”
He turned, once again very amused.
“Oh, come, my dear! All of London has surely heard of my reputation!”
“Reputation, sir?” she said, feigning innocence. It was a mistake.
“Ah, yes, the misbegotten beast! Were I simply the Earl of Carlyle and recognized as such with a modicum of respect and dignity rather than fear, dear woman, you’d not have come to the gates with the least hope of being received by me.”
His tone was flat and harsh, allowing no quarter for a pretense of ignorance. In fact, she nearly took a step back, but refused to allow herself to do so—for Tristan’s sake.
“Tristan Montgomery is here, somewhere, sir. He was traveling with a companion and disappeared outside your gates. I want him given into my care, immediately.”
“So you are related to the loathsome rascal who crawled my walls like the most common of thieves this evening,” he said, unperturbed.
“Tristan is no loathsome rascal,” she denied hotly, although she refrained from declaring that he was certainly not a thief. “Sir, I believe he is in this castle, and I will not leave without him.”
“I hope then that you are prepared to stay,” he said flatly.
“So, he is here!” she claimed.
“Oh, yes. He took a bit of a fall in his attempt to relieve me of my possessions.”
She swallowed, trying to maintain her composure. She had
