through its centre.
‘The mermaids left it for me.’
‘You are very lucky then,’ she replied. ‘They never left anything for me.’
‘Do you live near the sea, too?’
‘No. But there is a pond. With frogs.’
Jamie giggled.
‘Mermaids don’t live in ponds.’
‘I imagine they don’t. They would be pondmaids, wouldn’t they? What is this?’ she raised a smooth disc of glass to catch the glint of firelight.
‘Papa said this is from Jules Keezers’s quizzing glass. Grandfather Uxmore has a quizzing glass and it makes his eye look like a beetle.’
‘I did not know Julius Caesar had a quizzing glass, but I like that it is blue. Do you think he had one in every colour? Perhaps when it was cloudy he used a yellow one to brighten up the world.’
‘And then he could put the yellow with the blue to make the world green. Papa showed me that. I could take it to the desert with me because Papa says there is no green there. Not much anyway.’
‘No, I dare say there isn’t. But there are oases, aren’t there?’
‘O-a-sees?’ Jamie enunciated.
‘Yes, springs of water in the middle of the desert. Imagine—you are riding on your camel’s hump for days and days, all thirsty and hot, and suddenly at the edge of the world you see green and then you come closer and there are trees and a spring of cool water. It must seem like magic, too.’
Jamie stared up at the ceiling, as if the world was opening up above them and the image descended from the heavens, then he turned and finally noticed Benneit standing in the doorway.
‘Papa! I am showing Jo my treasures.’
‘Not “Jo”, but Mrs Langdale, Jamie. We should observe the proprieties now we are at Lochmore.’
Benneit moved forward, nodding to Mrs Langdale as she shifted on to her knees unhurriedly and stood.
‘It is my fault, Your Grace. I forgot and asked him again to call me Jo.’
‘I see. Bedtime, Jamie. It has been a very, very long week.’
Mrs Langdale nodded, as if well aware the admonition was for her.
‘Goodnight, Jamie. Thank you for showing me your treasures.’
Jamie shrugged sulkily, but as she reached the door he spoke: ‘Tomorrow will you come see where I find them, J—Mrs Langdale?’
‘Of course, Jamie,’ she answered. ‘Goodnight. I will dream of deserts tonight, I think.’
* * *
Benneit stopped her by her room down the hall from the nursery.
‘A word, Mrs Langdale.’
She drew back her shoulders, but her face remained a complete blank, standing with her back to her door as if guarding dangerous prisoners inside, or protecting them.
‘I am grateful you accompanied us to Lochmore and I admit your presence made the trip a great deal more bearable for Jamie. But as you are not planning to remain here more than a few days I think it is best not to establish too great a degree of intimacy with my son. He does not attach easily, but for some reason he has decided to be more open with you than is his nature.’
His carefully measured oration began to flag under the absolute blankness in her eyes. Once again he had the sensation that somewhere far behind the still grey gaze she was dissecting him just as he had once seen the men of the Royal Academy dissect a dog’s cadaver—efficiently and utterly without mercy.
‘Am I clear?’ he persisted.
‘As clear as the Scottish wind, Your Grace, and just as brutal. Shall I confine myself to my room until my departure? Perhaps give him the cold shoulder when he addresses me? If that is what you expect from me, I suggest you make arrangement to send me back to England at first light tomorrow.’ She breathed in, visibly reining in the flow of words, then continued in a more conciliating tone. ‘I do not believe Jamie will be harmed by a show of interest on my part, even if it makes our parting more difficult. Your son is a lovely boy with a thirst for company and while I am here I intend to be as I am. If that is not what you wish of me, you have the power to send me on my way. You may inform me of your decision in the morning. Goodnight, Your Grace.’
He stared at the door that shut in his face. Whatever response he had expected from her, he had not anticipated such long-winded insolence. His foot twitched with a long-forgotten urge to give her door...his door...a savage kick. However, that might draw her back out and he was damned if he knew what to say to her after that tongue-lashing.
Jo could not remember the last time she had lost her temper anywhere but in the confines of her own mind.
Yes, she could, actually. After her mother told her they must leave their home to live with Lady Theale, she had thrown a fine tantrum, blaming her mother for everything—her father’s death and the loss of their home and freedom and pride. Her mother held her through the weeping that followed her outburst, but later that night Jo heard her crying and felt like a worm and apologised the next day. She had not openly lost her temper again since.
Until last night.
Her usual defences were failing her too often recently. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the trip, the daunting bleakness and imposing size of the castle as they approached it last night, huddled on the rainy promontory like a glum grey giant. Or perhaps it was that the Duke’s stern lecture brought back unpleasant memories of that dreadful Season six years ago when he had regarded her with the same critical exasperation as the rest of the Uxmores, making her feel irredeemably wrong-footed. During the trip north that sensation faded, at least until last night as she stood backed against her door, the light of the single candle in the sconce accentuating the harsh lines of his handsome face. He was too big, too sure of himself, too disapproving and far too oppressively male...
And the worst, the absolute worst, was that he turned her pleasure in Jamie’s company, the one bright spot in her confusion, into something objectionable. Part of her understood his concern, but another part—already tender and afraid of the future—wanted to curl into a ball and cry. That or lash out and do as much damage to him. So she had.
It was not the first time her tongue had slipped its leash in this impossible man’s presence, but this time she had truly gone too far. She was a beast to have spoken to him so and rebuked him, too, merely because he was worried about Jamie being hurt. Whatever she thought of the Duke of Lochmore, she did not doubt he loved his son deeply, or that Jamie utterly adored him.
Perhaps she was jealous. Of both of them.
She was a worm. And a sanctimonious one at that.
She stopped as she saw Angus exit a room to her right.
‘Angus,
