Page 37 of A Stranger’s Promise

Oliver sat back in his chair with a thump and fell silent.

The mood in the room had shifted. He sighed. The magic of the moment had fled. He should have known better. Suppressing another sigh, he rose.

Charlotte stood. “Thank your father for the tale, Oliver.”

Father. He’d forgotten she thought him the wayward father. Of a certainty, she would be cautious with him, thinking him a scandalous rogue. But in this matter, Oliver came first. He couldn’t deliver another blow to the lad in his current vulnerable state. Who knew what it would do to him to learn that his true father had abandoned him entirely. He looked at the lad’s inscrutable face staring stoically ahead. Aye, he’d have to figure out just how to step into the role of ‘father’—no matter how foreign the word felt.

Charlotte nudged Oliver’s shoulder, but the boy shoved his chair back and ran from the room.

She started to follow, but Alistair caught her arm. “Time,” he said softly. “The lad needs time.”

She lifted her lashes, her brow furrowed. “He’s an angry boy, my lord.”

“Aye, he has every right to despise his ne’er-do-well father.” Charles deserved nothing less.

Her lashes fluttered. “I must find him before he finds mischief.” She dipped into a curtsey and disappeared into the boy’s room.

Alistair sighed. She’d slipped through his fingers once again.

He left the nursery and reached the main floor when the dinner gong sounded, but the thought of sitting across the table from Captain Edwards curdled his appetite. Alistair ordered men to investigate the area around the Swan Pond, then decided to skip the evening meal altogether.

No doubt, such a scandalous act would entertain them all. Lady Cassilis and her ilk could retire to the Blue Drawing Room afterwards and engage in hours of salacious gossip over the nature of his disappearance and his failure to execute the duties of a good host. He let an acidic chuckle escape. Ah, they’d never see he had done his job right well for them. Truly, what more could a host do but provide the old biddies such an enchanting evening of gossip?

He entered the study and divested himself of his coat and vest and tossed them over the back of a chair. With a quick tug, he freed his cravat, then settled comfortably in his shirtsleeves near the fire.

His headache had vanished. No doubt, Charlotte had something to do with that—just as she had in giving him the blasted headache in the first place. He yawned, then leaned his head against the soft velvet of the chair and smiled. She’d fit so well against him, been so soft as they’d waltzed. And the teasing manner with which she’d rapped his knuckles with the spoon… If only she would let her true self out more often. Why did she hide herself? Had Captain Edwards played a role in that? Whatever the case, he would make her forget him. His blood stirred at the thought of just how he would make her forget.

Wind howled outside and rain pinged against the windowpanes. He pictured Charlotte’s pink lips and soft curves. He’d had his hands on the small of her back. What would her flesh feel like beneath his fingers? If he’d pulled her just a little closer, her breasts would have pressed against his chest. Desire wound through him. He relaxed, and pictured her, head bent back, rising on tiptoes to meet his mouth as he lowered his head to kiss her. Alistair closed his eyes. She would be so sweet…so very sweet…

A sharp knock on the door startled him awake. Bleary-eyed, he glanced at the clock on the mantle. Ten-thirty. Had he slept over an hour?

Another knock sounded. “Enter,” he called.

The door opened and the old piper entered, his aged brows knotted with worry.

“What is it?” Alistair demanded.

“It’s the laddie,” he replied. “We have been searching everywhere, but he’s not been found. He may have left the castle.”

Alistair started. “Oliver?”

The piper nodded and Alistair tossed a glance at the darkness outside the window. Recalling the lad’s inordinate interest in the piper, he wondered if he’d venture out in such stormy weather.

“Bloody hell.” He rose and headed for the door. “I’ll lead a search of the cliffs and the shore.” Alistair brushed past the piper and the older man fell in alongside as he strode down the hallway. They reached the grand staircase and descended to the main floor. “Send men to search the stables, and anywhere else the lad’s been known to wander,” Alistair ordered as they reached the last step.

A footman carrying a hooded, black oilskin cloak met him at the door, as another opened the outer castle doors. Alistair swirled the cloak over his shoulders as he crossed to the threshold. He squinted into the inky rage of the storm as men gathered behind him with oil lanterns.

The wind howled as he took a lantern from the nearest man and started forward. Pellets of rain stung his cheeks and wild gusts tore at his cloak as they made their way through the darkness toward the cliffs. The waves crashed against the rocks below and blasts of salty wind stung his nose. He and his men shouted Oliver’s name, but in vain. The roaring winds ripped their voices from their throats and he feared the boy would never hear them, nor they him. The thought gave his step an extra urgency as he descended the slippery, rock-strewn path leading to the shore.

Once at the beach, they spread out over the rock pools. Alistair wiped rain from his face and studied the cave-pocked cliff rising dark and dangerous above them. Surely, the lad wouldn’t go into the caves, especially on a night as this and after hearing the piper’s tale. The winds whistled through the abandoned, crumbling arches like ethereal pipes playing in the night. Alistair raised his lantern and headed for the entrance when shouts from behind stopped him in his path.

The man reached them and shouted, “We found him, my lord.”

Alistair strained to hear. “You found him?” he shouted back.

The man nodded. “In the castle.” He said something else, but the words were drowned out by the wail of the wind and the pounding surf.

Relief flooded through Alistair, quickly followed by irritation. He hurried with his men up the path and through the castle doors to find himself cold and wet despite the oilskin cloak. As a footman peeled the garment off his back, Foster rushed forward to greet him.