was shades of brown, coiled into a no-nonsense bun in the nape of her neck. She dressed plainly. A man could make the mistake of thinking her features were unremarkable. Yet Lucas could see they were not. Her skin was flawless, pale cream and pink rose, a true Scottish complexion, scattered with endearing freckles. Her blue eyes had a sleepy gaze that was both misleading and sensual. When she had looked him in the eyes he had felt the impact like a punch through his whole body. But it was her mouth that was so potent, full and lush, reminding Lucas of her kisses. He shifted slightly. He found Christina MacMorlan ridiculously seductive and he was quite at a loss as to why that should be the case. But it might be useful. Christina’s was quite evidently the hand that steered the Kilmory estate whilst her father dabbled in whatever outlandish project took his fancy on any particular day. She was also the leader of the whisky smugglers, and he was convinced now that they had had a direct involvement in Peter’s death.
Over to the west, beyond the clipped hedges of the parterre, he could see the Duke of Forres wandering through the rose garden. He appeared to be talking to the plants, which was a curious thing to do. Lucas watched as the duke strolled over to the sundial in the middle of the garden and leaned over to check the time. It was quite clear that the man was an eccentric, in a world of his own. Lucas thought it unlikely that the duke was aware of anything that went on in his household, let alone that his eldest daughter ran a smuggling gang.
He had been lucky that the duke had offered him the job. Lady Christina certainly would not have yielded to his blackmail. The minute he had applied a little pressure she had come back with plenty more of her own. It was an unfortunate coincidence that Sidmouth’s clerk had given him Sir Geoffrey MacIntyre as a reference when Lady Christina was acquainted with the man. But actually he doubted everything that Christina had said and suspected she had made up the entire tale of financial impropriety simply to be rid of him.
His lips twisted in wry appreciation. It would not do to underestimate Lady Christina MacMorlan. She was strong, determined and clever, more than a match for him.
She would be entirely capable of covering up a murder.
He had to remember that and not let the fierce attraction he had to Christina MacMorlan cloud his judgment.
He watched the front door close behind her. He was forgotten. A small smile touched his lips at the lordly way in which the duke’s daughter had dismissed him. It would be useful if she considered him beneath her notice. Servants were meant to be invisible; he could go about his investigation whilst remaining unobserved.
Beyond the tall pine trees that bordered the terrace he could see the corner of a building and the glitter of the sun on long glass windows. That must be the hothouse where he would find Hemmings, the head gardener. Being outside, laboring in a physical job was far preferable to him than being indoors, catering to the whims of the nobility. Lucas straightened and squared his shoulders. It was time he got to work.
DAMNATION.
Christina loved her father, but there were times when she could happily wring his neck, and this was one of them. She closed the door of her private parlor behind her with exaggerated calm and sank down into her favorite armchair. For a moment she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling the scents of wax polish and roses mingled with the faint smell of dust and the ashes in the grate. It was quiet, reassuring. For a little while she felt soothed, comfort flowing through her and easing her tense muscles. Then she remembered Lucas’s smile—and the fact that he was now a member of the staff at Kilmory Castle, which was precisely the outcome she had not wanted.
She opened her eyes and blinked, rubbing her forehead where the beginnings of a headache stirred. She told herself that it did not matter; Lucas was clearly very keen to have a job at Kilmory. He would do nothing to put that at risk.
She was a fool to think he’d risk his future by kissing her again. Lucas Ross was a great deal younger than she was and sinfully handsome. Of course he would not be attracted to an old maid. Their passionate encounter the night before had been driven by a wild relief and the vivid excitement of being alive. Now, in the cold light of day, everything was different, and she should welcome that because lust, passion, held no place in her life.
There were no mirrors in her parlor. In fact, when they had moved to Kilmory Castle, she had removed several of the ancient speckled pier glasses from the walls because she did not want to see her reflection forever staring back at her. She knew what she looked like: a thirty-three-year-old spinster in elegant but not particularly modish gowns whose hair was neither auburn nor brown nor blond but some sort of mixture of all three, whose eyes were pale blue and fanned by fine lines that grew less fine and more deep as the years passed, whose complexion had lost its youthful sparkle and whose chin was already showing signs of sagging. In fact, everything was showing signs of sagging, as it did with age. She had no illusions, and before the previous night she had had no desire to look any different. Her appearance had been almost irrelevant to her. Her sisters were the beautiful ones.
Now, though, Lucas’s youth and vitality made her keenly aware of the passing years. She felt old and faded, and ashamed of feeling so fierce an attraction to him. She knew that her late mother’s dearest friend, Lady Kenton, would laugh at her for such scruples. Lady Kenton firmly believed that a view was there to be admired. But Christina did not want to feel anything for Lucas. She did not want to feel anything for any man. It was too risky. She, who took risks with her life and her personal safety every day when it came to outwitting the revenue officers, was too scared to risk her heart again.
A politely deferential knock at the door roused her. It must be Mr. Bevan, the land agent, early for their meeting. But before Christina could call him in, the door opened and Galloway poked his head in.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but Mr. Eyre is here to see you.”
Christina felt a sharp stab of alarm. Mr. Eyre was the exciseman, the government’s tax collector, who hounded the local families mercilessly for every last penny they owed. Possessed of a zealous desire to drain every drop of revenue from Kilmory’s farmers and villagers, he had threatened to arrest the illegal whisky distillers and see them hang.
“Please tell Mr. Eyre that I have an appointment in ten minutes and cannot spare him the time—” she began, only for Eyre to shoulder his way past Galloway and barge into the room.
“This won’t take long, Lady Christina.” He was a big man, florid, with small gray eyes in a fleshy face. His gaze darted about the room as though checking to see that she had not concealed an illegal whisky still beneath the table. “Still consorting with criminals and smugglers, I hear.”
“I beg your pardon?” Christina’s voice dripped ice.
Eyre, however, was not a man to be intimidated. He thrust his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, smiling. “I saw you entering Mrs. Keen’s cottage yesterday. Her son was arrested for illegal distilling back last year—”
“Which is one of the reasons why I visit her.” Christina did not trouble to hide her dislike. “She is an elderly woman, in poor health, alone in the world, who has little income and who has been persecuted unforgivably by the authorities.”
Eyre snapped his fingers. “She should not have harbored a known criminal, then.”
Christina could feel her temper rising. She knew that Eyre deliberately set out to anger her; he had been an enemy ever since she had written to Lord Sidmouth to complain about his methods and his corruption. It was always a struggle not to rise to his provocation.
