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It was still snowing hard when Marcus made the short walk from the estate office in the old stable block back to the castle. He prised his boots from his feet and left them by the kitchen door, then shook the ice off his coat before hanging it on a hook.
He’d almost forgotten about their unexpected guest until he walked into the drawing room and discovered Faith McKinnon sitting on the sofa she’d occupied yesterday. This time, instead of perching on the edge of the seat, she was sitting back against the comfy cushions, her legs crossed, drinking tea out of their Royal Doulton.
When she heard him approach she turned to look at him and put her teacup back on its saucer on the small mahogany table. The warmth that had been in her eyes faded.
‘Good morning, Lord Westerham,’ she said evenly.
Ah, she’d done her homework, had she? Discovered that as Bertie’s heir he had the use of one of his grandfather’s lesser titles. Not only that, she’d worked out the proper form of address for a courtesy earl. He wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or irritated. It would depend on whether she was trying to be polite or to butter him up. He could accept the former, but he detested the latter, and he didn’t know enough about her or her motives to guess which was true.
‘I’ve been talking to the landlord of the Duke’s Head in Hadsborough village,’ he said, looking at his grandfather. ‘He says the snow is drifting and it’s already more than a foot deep in some of the lanes.’
‘But the snow ploughs will be here soon, right?’ Faith stopped abruptly, as if she hadn’t meant to blurt that out.
He gave a rueful smile. ‘Oh, they’ll be here—eventually.’
‘And by “eventually” you mean…?’
Bertie reached over and patted her arm. ‘They’ll concentrate on the motorways and the main roads first,’ he said. ‘We don’t get much traffic in this neck of the woods. But don’t you worry… They’ll be here in a few days.’
‘That’s crazy! At home in Beckett’s Run the roads would be clear by the next morning.’
Marcus stepped forward. ‘Unfortunately this isn’t Beckett’s Run.’
She looked up at him, the look on her face telling him she was all too clear on that point. He met her gaze—the challenge she gave without even opening her mouth. And that was when it happened again. That strange feeling of everything swirling round them coming to rest. And this time they hadn’t even been touching.
Faith was sitting stock still, her face deadpan, but he saw the flash of panic in her eyes before the shutters came down.
‘Sorry, my dear,’ his grandfather said, looking less than crestfallen at the prospect of having an unexpected house guest. ‘It seems as if you’re stuck with us for a while yet.’
Faith tore her gaze from Marcus’s and fixed them on Bertie. ‘In that case,’ she said, in a very brisk and businesslike fashion, ‘is there somewhere I can plug my laptop in? I might as well get on with that research.’
She was meticulous. He’d give her that. Marcus watched as Faith wrote carefully in a large notebook with a pencil. She’d been at it since he’d returned just after lunch, pulling up research on her laptop and then recording it in her notebook in a clear, neat hand. He had the feeling she wasn’t the kind to scribble away furiously, no matter how excited she got.
He looked out of the window. The low sun was a pale glowing disc in a gunmetal sky. It had been snowing too hard most of the day for their guest to venture to the chapel, but now the weather had lost its fervour and flakes drifted lazily towards the ground. The forecasts had predicted clear skies tomorrow. He hoped they were right.
‘Haven’t you got other things you need to do?’ Faith asked quietly as she reached for the mouse once again.
He shook his head, and noted the glimmer of irritation that flashed across her features.
‘Are you sure?’
She didn’t like him hanging around watching her? Too bad. This was his family—his life she was carefully digging into before pulling it apart bit by bit—and today at least he had the luxury of being able to witness each new discovery. He needed to know before his grandfather if she unearthed anything significant.
‘You know what? If you’re so interested in what I’m doing—’ and the look on her face said she didn’t believe that for a second ‘—it would really help if you could check the estate archives for any mention of the window.’
‘I already have.’
She raised her eyebrows hopefully but he shook his head.
‘You’re sure? Finding some documentary evidence one way or the other would help me finish this more quickly.’
The eyebrows lifted again, but this time they had a slightly knowing air. She knew he’d like that suggestion.
He was ashamed to admit it was true. Something about her straightforward ‘don’t care’ attitude set his hair on end and raised his awareness.
He didn’t have the luxury of not caring. Once, maybe, he’d thought he’d be able to forge his own path, create his own life, but his father’s actions had scuppered those fantasies nicely. Now he had to care, whether he wanted to or not, and it irritated him that he’d been confronted with someone who had perfected that skill so perfectly.
He glanced over at her again. Her dark ponytail hung forward, draping over her shoulder, and she was lost in concentration. It didn’t stop him admiring the thick, slightly wavy hair, or her small, fine features.
No, not that kind of awareness, Marcus.
Well, partly that.
Okay, he found her attractive. But that wasn’t what he meant. Ever since she’d arrived and sent Bertie into hyperdrive about this window he’d felt like one of those big black guard dogs the security team used.
He’d spent two years trying to rebuild the family name after the crash of his father’s investment company and subsequent death, and now he’d discovered he couldn’t stand himself down when a potential threat appeared.
The current threat was crouched over her laptop on the antique desk, and he had no business noticing its thick ponytail or elegant nose. He didn’t want her digging around in the family’s past. Any skeletons lurking around in the Huntingdon closet—and he was sure there were many—should remain undiscovered. Maybe not for ever, but for now. He didn’t want to hide from the truth—just to wait until things were more settled.
As for his out-of-leftfield attraction to Faith McKinnon? He sighed. Well, maybe he didn’t need to worry about that. The fact that he’d ‘changed’ after his father’s death was one of the things that had sent Amanda running. She’d told him she was fed up with his snapping and snarling. Apparently women didn’t find it very appealing. And from the looks Faith McKinnon had been giving him all afternoon she’d joined that lengthy queue. Even if there was something strange humming between them, he was pretty certain she wasn’t going to act on it.
And neither was he. So that was all good.
‘Oh, my…’
Something about the tone of Faith’s breathy exclamation stopped him short. He leaned forward to look at the laptop screen. She was transfixed by an image of an oil painting of a richly robed redhead in a beautiful garden, her arms overflowing with fruit.
‘That looks a bit like the window,’ he said.
Faith looked up at him, her eyes shining. ‘It looks a lot like the window! Do you see that plant with yellow flowers in the corner?’ She used the mouse to zoom