she heard Alice murmuring as she slipped beneath the covers of the bed. “Well, I suppose he is quite handsome.”
“He’s married,” Lucy reminded her. “Besides, he had his back to you when you first saw him.”
“He turned round,” Alice argued. “Face to me, back to the sea. True love. Perhaps his wife will die. Be sure to close the window properly, Lucy,” she added, “so no one knows we were watching.”
Lucy sighed, still struggling to shift the window, which remained obstinately stuck. The heavy velvet hem of the curtain knocked over the blue-and-white china vase on the shelf by her elbow. She watched as in slow motion the vase teetered on the edge, escaped her grasping fingers and tumbled through the open window to smash on the terrace below. Transfixed, she stared down into the darkness. Nothing moved. No one came. She could see the broken shards gleaming in the moonlight as they lay scattered on the stones.
“You’ve got to go and pick it up.” Alice’s voice reached her in an urgent whisper. “Otherwise they’ll find it and know we were watching.”
“You go down,” Lucy said crossly. “I didn’t knock the vase over,” Alice argued.
“Neither did I!” For all their age, there was a danger of this degenerating into a nursery quarrel. “You go,” Lucy said. “It was your idea to hang out of the window like a strumpet.”
“If I get caught I’ll be in trouble again,” Alice said. Suddenly her bright face looked young and anxious and Lucy felt a pang of something that felt oddly like pity. “You know how Papa is always telling me how Mama would have been ashamed of how naughty I am.”
Lucy sighed. She could feel herself weakening. She would never get Alice into trouble. It was part of the pact between them, binding them closer than close, sisters and best friends forever. Lucy sighed again and reached for her robe and slippers.
“If you go down the steps in the Black Tower, you will be there quickly and no one will see you,” Alice said.
“I know!” Lucy snapped. Nevertheless she felt a frisson of disquiet as she grabbed her candle and opened the door a bare few inches, enough to slide out. She stole silently along the corridor to the tower stair. It was not that Forres Castle frightened her. She had grown up here and she knew every nook and cranny of the ancient building, all its secrets and all its ghosts. It was flesh and blood she feared, not the supernatural. She could not afford to get caught. She never got into trouble, never did anything wrong. Alice was the impetuous one, tumbling from one scrape into another. Lucy was good.
Nevertheless when she had drawn the bolt on the heavy door at the base of the stairs and pushed it gently open, she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the night. The breeze was soft on her face, laced with the scents of the sea and the soapy smell of the gorse. The sound of the distant waves mingled with the sighing of the pines. The moon was sickle-sharp and golden in a sky of deep velvet. For a moment Lucy had the mad idea to go running across the lawns and down to the sea, to feel the cool sand between her toes and the lap of the cold water on her bare legs.
Of course she would never do it. She was far too well behaved.
With a little sigh she bent to collect the shattered pieces of the blue-and-white pot. The maids would notice the loss and would no doubt report it. Her father would be upset, for it had been one of the late duchess’s favorite pieces. There would be questions and explanations; lies. She and Alice would have to admit that they had broken it, just not that it had happened when they had been leaning out of the window to ogle young men. She hoped her papa would not be too disappointed in her.
“Can I help you with that?”
Lucy jumped and spun around, the shards falling for a second time from her fingers. Robert Methven was standing facing her, his back to the sea. Up close he was as tall, as broad as he had seemed from her vantage point above.
“I didn’t know anyone was there,” Lucy blurted out.
She saw him smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He bent down and picked up the pieces, handing them to her gravely.
“Why don’t you put them down on the balustrade,” he suggested, “before you drop them again?”
“Oh no,” Lucy said. “I have to go. I mean...” But she made no move to scuttle back to the tower door. “What are you doing out here in the dark?” she asked, after a moment.
He shrugged, a quick, dismissive movement. “The company isn’t really to my taste.”
“Wilfred, I suppose,” Lucy said. “I’m sorry, he’s quite horrible.”
“I don’t particularly mind,” Robert Methven said. “But I would not choose to spend time with him.”
“Neither would I,” Lucy said, “and he’s my cousin.”
“Oh, bad luck,” Methven said. “That means you must be—”
“Lucy,” Lucy said. “Lucy MacMorlan.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Lucy.”
“And you are Robert Methven,” Lucy said.
He bowed.
“You’re nice,” Lucy said.
He smiled at the note of surprise in her voice. “Thank you.”
“Aren’t we supposed to be enemies?” Lucy said.
His smile broadened. “Do you want us to be?”
“Oh no,” Lucy said. “It’s old history.”
“Old history has a tight grip sometimes,” Robert Methven said. “Our families have hated each other for generations.”
“Papa thinks feuds are foolish,” Lucy said. She watched the play of moonlight across his face, the way it accentuated the planes and hollows, emphasizing some features and hiding others. It was oddly compelling. She felt a strange tug of emotion deep inside.
“That’s why I am here tonight,” Robert Methven said. “To put history behind us.” He nodded toward the pot in her hands. “How did that happen?”
“Oh...” Lucy blushed. “The window was open and the curtain caught it and knocked it over.”
Methven laughed. “My brother, Gregor, and I are always getting into trouble for stuff like that.”
“I don’t believe you,” Lucy said. She looked up at his tall silhouette against the deep blue of the night sky. “You are far too grown-up to get into trouble.”
Robert Methven laughed. “You might think so, but my grandfather is a tyrant. We are always falling foul of his rules.”
Lucy became aware that the sharp corners of the broken pottery were digging into her palms and that her bare toes were beginning to chill within her thin silk slippers. She wondered what on earth she was doing standing here in her nightclothes talking to Robert Methven, of all people.
“I must go,” she said again.
He
