Page 17 of A Stranger’s Promise

The wind tore through the open courtyard and nearly ripped her bonnet from her head. Charlotte clapped a hand on the hat, turned her head aside, and grabbed her skirts with her free hand lest her legs be bared in seconds.

As the children exited the carriage behind her, the main door opened and an elderly, crag-faced man dressed in dark trousers and clutching a green Cassilis plaid cloak about his bowed shoulders hurried toward the carriage. A redheaded, ample-bosomed, white-aproned maid followed him.

They reached the coach as the children huddled beside Charlotte.

“Welcome, welcome, I’m Angus Foster, the Cassilis piper, but call me Foster, lass,” the elderly man introduced himself with an openhearted smile. “You must be Miss Atchenson, the governess.”

“Charlotte.” She raised her voice above the buffeting winds. “Charlotte Atchenson, but please call me Charlotte.”

Foster’s wrinkled cheeks split into a grin and his gaze fell upon the children. Turning to the young freckle-faced maid behind him, he added, “This is Meg. She will care for the bairns now.”

The words struck Charlotte to the core. Care for the bairns? She frowned.

“‘Tis my task now, Miss Atchenson,” Meg said in a loud, booming voice. She waved the children toward the castle. “Come with me now, ye wee folk. I’ve warm tea and biscuits in the nursery, and fresh, clean, new clothes for the both of you. Losh, but you look asleep on your feet.”

Charlotte watched them go, suddenly on the verge of tears. Had she been replaced? Why? Had Lord Cassilis changed his mind? Had Lady Prescott or some other personage convinced him that hiring her was a mistake, after all? Heavens…had he discovered her mastery of the French language included only the colorful words one would never repeat in polite society?

She turned to the piper in dismay. “I fail to understand.” A strong gust of wind tore through the courtyard, ripping the words from her lips.

The piper crooked a finger and beckoned her to follow, then hurried to the castle. She entered behind him, the wind nearly pushing her through the open door.

Once inside, the old man faced her. “Och, the winds blow bitter today, lass, don’t they now?”

Charlotte struggled to blink back tears. What was she to do in Scotland? Alone. Homeless.

“If you will follow me.” The old piper was already shuffling away. “His lordship has requested your immediate presence in the library.”

Immediate presence. Charlotte’s heart sank to her toes. She followed the piper through the dimly lit entrance hall and past a massive display of swords and pistols mounted on the wall. Beyond the weapons display, a grand, central, oval staircase swept upward. She paused on the first rich, red-carpeted step behind him and looked up the twisting stairs to the magnificent, white Corinthian columns ringing the floors above and to the domed glass cupola at the very top.

The piper glanced back at her. “Come, lass,” he gently encouraged. “His lordship awaits.”

Charlotte nodded woodenly and forced her feet to carry her up the stairs.

The piper led her to the second floor and down a passage to the left. They passed under crystal chandeliers ablaze with white candles and strode past portraits in gilded frames. Here and there, a marble-topped table stood elegantly off to the side, holding ornate brass, lit tiered candlesticks that provided glimpses of more elegant rooms and passageways. The castle looked like paradise—especially after more than a week of traveling through mud.

Finally, the piper stopped in front of an old, massive oak door. He knocked, then opened the door, and nodded for her to enter. Charlotte stepped into a large room lit by a crackling fire contained by a grate of iron pelicans. The orange glow penetrated enough shadows to discern shelves filled with books, with tapestries hung between the shelves. The comforting smell of leather hung in the air.

Hesitantly, she approached the hearth and two wing-backed chairs upholstered in gold-striped velvet. On a small table positioned between the chairs sat a chessboard, several empty glasses, and a crystal flask filled with a light amber liquid.

“Thank you, Foster,” Lord Cassilis’s deep voice broke the silence.

Charlotte jerked as the piper bowed and left, closing the large door behind him.

The next moment, Lord Cassilis stepped into view from the shadows near the shelves halfway between the door and the hearth. He wore a loose, white, puff-sleeved shirt with his cravat undone and his brocade vest unbuttoned. Her mouth dropped open, the intimacy of his undress heating the tips of her ears.

“Miss Atchenson.” A smile creased his cheeks. “Please, join me by the fire.”

Charlotte took a deep breath. “My lord.” She dipped into a curtsey. “I—”

“Have a seat, please.” He motioned toward the two chairs as he strode toward them. “You have only just arrived. I dare say, you must be dead on your feet.”

He waited until she took a seat, then lowered himself in the opposite chair. As he leaned back and stretched out his long legs, she couldn’t help but notice how his breeches showcased his muscular thighs, nor did she miss the tanned flesh revealed by his open collar. Memories of her hands on his bare chest at the inn popped into her head.

Steady on there, Charlotte, she warned. Steady on. She had her employment to fret over now, not the firmness of the man’s chest.

Lord Cassilis snagged the crystal flask from the table. “I know you are quite weary, Miss Atchenson, so I shall not take much of your time.”

Charlotte swallowed and nodded.