Page 6 of Most Ardently (Return to Culloden Moor #5)

6

OUT WITH IT!

* * *

S leep wouldn't come. The manor had quieted hours ago as the festivities concluded, yet his mind refused to settle. He slipped from bed, donned his dressing gown, and headed outside in hopes that a walk through the night air might empty his mind.

The gardens behind Brigadunn spread in formal patterns with moonlight painting the gravel paths silver. Louis inhaled the crisp night air but it was no use. His thoughts were fixed on the mysterious maid who moved with unexpected grace and spoke with quiet refinement.

A shadow darted between hedges. Louis paused. There it was again, a figure moving along the house, pausing at window corners, then moving on. The silhouette was unmistakably feminine, wrapped in a dark shawl.

Louis kept to the shadows of the yew trees. She moved with purpose but caution, stopping occasionally to scan her surroundings. When she turned to look behind her, the moonlit clouds illuminated her features.

Violet!

She stood near the servants' entrance, her shoulders slumped with evident fatigue. She brushed something from her skirt and glanced up at the manor with frustration etched across her face.

Louis remained motionless. Her expression was unguarded now, no longer masked by the careful deference she displayed during service. Intelligence and determination shone clearly, alongside unmistakable disappointment.

Before he could decide whether to approach, Violet glanced over her shoulder one last time, then slipped inside. Louis waited only a moment, then followed.

The narrow corridor was lit by a single Argand lamp, casting bright circles against the stone walls. He trailed Violet at a distance as she made her way toward the main part of the house.

She halted, but Louis kept moving, closing the distance between them. Finally, he could see what had alarmed her—Lord and Lady Ashmoore appeared at the far end of the corridor, engaged in quiet conversation. They had not yet noticed the maid frozen in their path.

Violet pressed herself against the wall, clearly searching for an escape route. If the Ashmoores continued their current path, they would meet her directly.

Louis assessed the situation rapidly. Whatever Violet's purpose in the house, discovery by Ashmoore could mean immediate dismissal. His curiosity would remain unsatisfied, and something deeper within him rebelled at the thought of her being sent away.

He moved swiftly. Closing the distance between them in a few long strides, he reached Violet just as she became aware of his presence. Her eyes widened, but before she could react, he pulled her into the shallow alcove formed by a decorative arch in the wall.

“Forgive me,” he whispered against her ear, his arm securing her against him.

The Ashmoores' footsteps grew closer. Lord Ashmoore's deep voice echoed slightly in the corridor. “Consider it, my love. Why mill around here with your friends when you could be on the hunt with me? We could slip away?—”

The zing of a blade leaving a metal sheath echoed in the narrow hall.

Louis acted instinctively. He tilted Violet's chin upward and lowered his mouth to hers. Her lips were soft, warm and frozen in surprise. He felt her intake of breath, the tension in her slender frame, before she yielded slightly.

Ashmoore cursed just behind him. “You gave us a start.”

Louis broke the kiss but kept Violet's face turned toward his chest, hidden from view. He affected embarrassment as he glanced over his shoulder.

“Forgive me, my lord, my lady.” He cleared his throat, then shook his head as if at a loss for words.

Blair chuckled. “Come, love. Ye were just sayin’ ye’d like to spirit me away, were ye not? I’d like to hear more…” And with that, the pair left them in peace.

Louis maintained his protective posture until the Ashmoores' footsteps faded completely. Only then did he loosen his hold on Violet, though he did not release her entirely.

She stiffened, prepared to flee. He reached up and pushed the shawl from her head, then her cap. Dark waves tumbled free, framing a face too refined for a housemaid. In the glow of the lamp, her features transformed from merely pretty to striking. Her eyes met his directly, bright with a mix of apprehension and defiance.

“You are no maid,” he said. “Who are you truly, and what do you seek in my friend’s home?”

* * *

Violet remained frozen in Baron Astley’s loose embrace. Her thoughts jostled about like a child in a wagon, rolling over rocky ground. The warmth of his kiss lingered on her lips, an unexpected complication in an already precarious situation. And his arm around her waist felt secure rather than threatening. But his question still remained, demanding an answer she could not afford to give.

“I am exactly what I appear to be, sir,” she replied, her voice steady despite her internal turmoil. “A servant doing her duty.”

“Servants rarely wander the grounds at three in the morning, peeking in windows,” he said. “Nor do they examine ancestral portraits with such keen interest, nor speak as a Scot one moment and an English lady the next.”

She attempted to step back, but the shallow alcove allowed her little room. His arm remained at her waist, not restraining but present.

“You should return to your chambers, sir,” she said, striving for a servant's proper deference. “This encounter is most improper.”

“More improper than a sneakthief maid? Or less proper than a gentlewoman masquerading as a servant?”

Violet's composure slipped. He knew. Perhaps not the specifics, but he had deduced the essential truth. Denial seemed pointless, yet full disclosure remained impossible.

“You have my thanks, sir, for your timely intervention,” she conceded, changing tactics. “Lord Ashmoore would indeed have been displeased to discover me in disguise.”

“Why? What have you done to fear his displeasure?”

“Nothing,” she insisted. “That is, nothing beyond being where I ought not be.”

“And where ought you be?”

His persistence was maddening, yet something in his manner—concern rather than accusation—made her hesitate to dismiss him entirely.

“I beg you?—”

Footsteps sounded again from further down the corridor—not the Ashmoores returning, but someone approaching from the servants' quarters.

“We cannot remain here,” she whispered urgently.

Louis nodded, his expression serious. “Come with me.”

He took her hand and led her swiftly in the opposite direction from the approaching steps. They moved silently through the darkened house, with Louis navigating.

They didn’t stop until they were once again in Ashmoore’s private study. Clouded moonlight filtered through a pair of high windows and eliminated the need for a candle. The baron closed the door behind them and turned the key in the lock with a menacing click.

“We should be safe here,” he said, then strode to the far side of the desk, finally putting some proper space between them, though it was still dangerous to be caught alone together.

The room smelled of old leather and orange oil, much like her father’s library used to do. But she resisted the urge to let down her guard. The only thing she needed from this impromptu meeting was the man’s silence.

“How did you know?” she whispered.

He folded his arms and leaned back against the wall with the Jacobite’s portrait above him. “No housemaid walks like you do, or moves with your grace. No servant speaks with such education or observes with such attention.” His lips quirked upward. “And certainly no maid quotes Shakespeare under her breath while polishing silver.”

Heat rose to Violet's cheeks. She had indeed muttered a line from Hamlet while working in the dining room earlier, thinking herself alone.

The memory brought a laugh from her, and she repeated the line, just as quietly as she had before. “O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!” Then she sobered. “ I commend your observation, sir. But I assure you, my presence here is innocent.”

“I never suggested otherwise,” Louis replied. “Though I admit to considerable curiosity about what would drive a gentlewoman to disguise herself as a servant.”

The clouds shifted, blocking more of the moonlight, and removing most of the light from his face. She wished he’d light a candle and chase away the look in his eye that sent a shiver up her spine.

She had to think clearly. She had to weigh her options. Full disclosure seemed risky, yet this man had already protected her once. Perhaps a partial truth would satisfy him.

“I seek something that was hidden in this house,” she said finally. “Something that might lead to a treasure my father learned about.”

Louis leaned forward slightly. “Hidden by whom?”

“Jacobite sympathizers,” Violet explained. “After the failed uprising. My father spent his life searching for clues, and he was convinced it was connected to Brigadunn. He died before he could ever search here. The past owners were not…approachable.”

“And this search could not be performed through more conventional means? A simple request to Lord Ashmoore, perhaps?”

Violet laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Lord Ashmoore would hardly entertain such a request from the daughter of a disgraced neighbor. Especially when the treasure itself is viewed as nothing but a madman's fancy.”

“A treasure,” Louis repeated, his interest visibly piqued. “Gold? Jewels?”

“I do not know precisely,” Violet admitted. “My father spoke of Jacobite gold, Jacobite treasure. Either would suffice for someone…in dire straits. Most dismissed it as fantasy, the desperate dreams of a man who had gambled away his family's fortune. But I have found evidence suggesting he was right.”

He studied her for a long moment. “You take a considerable risk.”

“I am aware of the risk,” Violet replied, lifting her chin slightly. “And I deem it acceptable compared to the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Losing…something irreplaceable.” She did not elaborate further.

Louis pushed away from the wall and approached her, moving slowly as if afraid she might flee. When he stood before her, close enough that she could smell the faint spice of his shaving soap, he put a knuckle under her chin and lifted, so he could see her face better.

“I should explain all this to Ashmoore,” he said softly. “It would be the proper thing to do.”

Violet's breath caught. “Will you?”

Still, he held her chin up. “Not if you promise to tell me the full truth. Not here, not now, but soon. Both of us need our rest for tomorrow.”

Relief warred with fresh anxiety. “Why would you help me? You do not even know my name.”

“Then tell me,” he said simply.

She hesitated only briefly. “Violet Cottsweather, of Durrafair.”

Recognition flickered in his eyes. “The estate that borders Brigadunn to the west.”

“What remains of it,” Violet confirmed. “Once a prosperous place, it is now little more than a facade maintained through increasingly desperate measures.”

“And you believe something hidden here at Brigadunn could change your family's fortunes?”

“I believe that if I can prove my father was no madman, a modest reward could solve certain…problems. Yes.”

Astley considered for a moment. “Very well, Miss Cottsweather. Your secret is safe with me, for now.” He stepped back, restoring a proper distance. “But I expect to hear about these problems tomorrow.”

Violet's pulse quickened. “Tomorrow?”

“Midnight,” he said. “Here, in this room. I shall ensure it remains unlocked.”

She should refuse. Meeting him, alone, at midnight was beyond foolish. Yet she needed his silence, his complicity, if she was to continue her search.

“Very well,” she said. “Tomorrow at midnight.”

Astley smiled. “Then we have an agreement.” He moved to the door and turned the key. “I shall check the hallway.” He opened the door a crack and peered out. “All quiet. You go first.”

Violet nodded, returned her cap to her head, and smoothed her skirts. At the door, she paused to say, “Thank you, for your intervention earlier, and for your discretion now.”

He inclined his head. “Until tomorrow, Miss Cottsweather.”

As she slipped out into the darkened corridor, Violet couldn't suppress a shiver of anticipation. Tomorrow she would have to tell him about Iris. What would he think then? Would he still offer his protection, or would he withdraw it when he realized just how common her family had become?

More troubling still, why did she care so much about his good opinion? He was nothing to her—a momentary ally in her quest, nothing more. And yet, the memory of his kiss, however practical its purpose had been, lingered like a brand upon her lips.

Violet hurried down the servants' stairs, forcing such thoughts from her mind. She had more important concerns than the unexpected effect of Louis Condiff's proximity. Iris's safety depended on her singlemindedness.

She could not afford to be distracted, even by a pair of warm brown eyes. Not with a sister’s life hanging in the balance.

* * *

Louis remained in the study long after Violet had gone, turning over their encounter in his mind. The daughter of a neighboring estate, masquerading as a servant, to search for a treasure Ashmoore had never mentioned? Doubtful. And yet, he believed her. What else could motivate such a charade?

What troubled him was not her deception but his own response to it. He had intervened instinctively, without thought for propriety or consequence. He had kissed her—a shocking liberty, regardless of the justification. And now he had promised his silence, his complicity in whatever scheme she was pursuing.

It was madness. If they were forced to explain themselves, his peers would laugh him all the way back to London. His new title would be tarnished before he had properly grown into it. Yet when presented with the opportunity to withdraw, to take the details to the Earl, he’d only deepened his involvement.

“Fool,” he muttered, then returned to his room.

Standing at the window, loosening his cravat, he stared to the west. He could only imagine Violet’s home out there in the darkness. What secrets lay there? What circumstances had driven Miss Cottsweather to such desperate measures? And most troubling of all, why did he feel such an immediate, powerful urge to help her, to be a hero in her eyes?

The still-warm memory of Violet in his arms, her lips soft beneath his, threatened to unbalance his carefully maintained composure.

“This will not do,” he said quietly. “You are here to establish yourself in society, not to dally with the locals.”

Yet even as he said the words, he knew he would meet her tomorrow night. He would hear her story, and in all likelihood, he would offer whatever assistance she required. Not out of romantic interest—though he could not deny her appeal—but because something in her determination made him envious.

Perhaps in helping Violet Cottsweather, he might discover something he wanted as badly as she wanted to find that treasure.