that made his belly clench took him entirely by surprise. Flora Carmichael, spoilt little rich girl, was most certainly not his type. She turned to him with one dark brow raised, holding out her genteel little hand. He caught a waft of her flowery scent and it was intoxicating. For a moment, for just a moment, he actually thought she felt the jolt of connection, too, as his fingers touched hers and her eyes widened a little. Then he remembered who he was and where he was. Women like Flora Carmichael did not look twice at men like him, and men like him did not fraternise with the enemy. He dropped her hand abruptly and sat back down, realising too late that he hadn’t even returned her greeting and had thus most likely confirmed her assumption that he was a complete boor before he’d even opened his mouth.
* * *
Flora took her place by her father’s side on the sofa, somewhat confused. Had she just been snubbed? Across the room, the rude corporal kept his eyes firmly on his commanding officer, allowing her to study him covertly. He looked to be about Robbie’s age, perhaps two or three years older than herself, though it was difficult to tell, for there was a hard edge to him that her elder brother did not possess. Jet-black hair, cropped ruthlessly short. Was he, then, a recent recruit? Dark eyes rimmed with thick dark lashes were set under a high, intelligent brow. His face was all angles, softened only by the fullness of his lower lip. It was a memorable face and a handsome one, though not in the least gentle or kind.
His attention switched, and he caught her staring at him. She refused to avert her gaze, though she could feel the colour creeping up her neck. What had she done to earn such overt antagonism? He was positively bristling with it.
‘Flora?’
She stared at her father blankly, her fingers straying to her cravat.
‘The colonel has been explaining that Corporal Cassell will be in day-to-day charge of the requisition handover. Unfortunately the lieutenant assigned to the role is indisposed.’
‘Naturally I will be keeping tabs on things,’ the colonel said. ‘I’m staying with an old colleague who lives just next door, a Colonel Patterson—do you know him, Lord Carmichael? We fought the Boers together, you know.’ Colonel Aitchison paused, looking somewhat confused. ‘What was I...’
‘The guided tour. Sir,’ the corporal prompted, none too subtly, ‘to ascertain which rooms can be utilised for what.’
His voice was unexpected, his accent softly lilted. ‘You are Welsh,’ Flora exclaimed in some surprise.
‘I am a soldier, Miss Carmichael.’
It was not just antagonism, he had obviously taken an instant dislike to her, which shouldn’t matter one whit, and most certainly should not hurt her. Flora got to her feet, forcing the colonel and the rude corporal to stand. He was taller than she expected, more intimidating as he stood there in his pristine uniform, his feet in their gleaming boots planted slightly apart, as if he was on guard duty and would challenge her right to pass. In her own home!
‘Let us proceed with the tour at once.’ Because the sooner this is over, the sooner I shall be rid of you, she implied as she strode past him, her nose in the air, knowing that she must look perfectly ridiculous as well as appearing dreadfully rude. ‘Good morning, Colonel.’
‘My daughter is right,’ she heard her father say, ‘the sooner the better. If that is all for now, Colonel?’
‘A few signatures, the rest can be ironed out later. As I said, I shan’t be far away. Hoping to bag a few grouse while I’m here, actually. Maybe even a salmon. Patterson was telling me there is excellent fishing on his stretch of the river. In the old days...’
The meeting was clearly over. Flora fumbled with the latch.
‘Allow me.’
Corporal Cassell reached around her, the sleeve of his jacket brushing her arm, ushering her through the open door. She was absurdly conscious of how slight she was compared to his broad physique. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She had expected him to return to the drawing room, but instead he followed her out to the Great Hall, wandering over to the stone fireplace and studying the display of claymores ranged in a wheel on the wall above it. ‘Do you keep these in readiness to repel an invasion by the English?’ he asked.
Flora rarely lost her temper, but she felt her hackles rise. This man was insufferable. ‘It may have escaped your notice, but we are actually fighting on the same side in this particular war.’
‘I doubt you and I will ever be on the same side, Miss Carmichael,’ Corporal Cassell said, turning his attention to the array of muskets in a case by the window. ‘You’d do well to make sure the colonel doesn’t clap eyes on these, else he’ll be requisitioning them.’
‘They would be of little use, since they are over a hundred years old.’
‘I’m willing to bet they’re still a damn sight more effective than what they’ve been giving our boys to train with,’ he exclaimed with surprising viciousness. ‘Broom handles, pitchforks, guns minus bullets if they are very lucky,’ he added, in answer to her enquiring look. ‘This war has caught the army on the hop. If you could but see...’ He stopped abruptly.
‘If I could but see what, Corporal Cassell?’
He shrugged and turned away to look at a large flag displayed on the wall.
‘The standard you are looking at was borne at Culloden,’ Flora said, addressing his back. ‘Though some of the clan fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie, others were on the side of the crown.’
The corporal made no reply. Thoroughly riled, and determined to force him to acknowledge her presence, Flora went to stand beside him. ‘Above the standard is our family crest, which is also carved over the front door. Tout Jour Prest. It means...’
‘Always ready. You see, I am not wholly uneducated.’
‘I did not think for a moment that you were. Why do you dislike me so much, Corporal?’
He twisted round suddenly, taking her off guard. ‘I bear you no ill will personally, Miss Carmichael, but I do not approve of your type.’
‘My type?’ His eyes, she realised, were not black but a very dark chocolate-brown. Though he clearly intended to intimidate her, she found the way he looked at her challenging. It was deliberately provocative. ‘And what, pray tell, do you mean by that?’
‘All this.’ He swept his arm wide. ‘This little toy castle of yours. All these guns and shields and standards commemorating years of repression. A monument, Miss Carmichael, to the rich and privileged who expect others to do the filthy business of earning their living for them.’
‘My father works extremely hard.’
‘Collecting rents.’
‘He does not— Good grief, are you some sort of communist?’
She could not help but be pleased at the surprise on his face. ‘What on earth would you know about communism?’ he demanded.
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I am a socialist and proud of it.’
‘Like Mr Keir Hardie? He has made himself most unpopular by campaigning against the war. Are you also a pacifist?’
‘A conchie? Hardly, given my uniform and my rank. What do you know of Keir Hardie? I wouldn’t have thought someone like you would be interested in him.’
‘Someone like me! A female, do you mean, or one of my class? Do you have any idea how patronising that sounds? Silly question, of course you do.’
‘I did not intend to insult you.’
‘Yes, you did, Corporal Cassell.’ Flora glared at him. ‘Please, feel free to continue with your barbs. Being a patriot, I am delighted to afford you the opportunity to practise something that gives you such obvious pleasure.’
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