Page 9 of Most Ardently (Return to Culloden Moor #5)

9

THE WATCHER

* * *

M idnight arrived with the sluggish pace of rising sap.

Violet spent the day in constant fear of discovery—both of her unauthorized absence from duties that morning and of the precious key concealed within her apron pocket. She dared not leave it with Astley, and she didn’t trust to hide it anywhere for fear of an army of maids stumbling upon it.

Each time Mrs. Finch called her name, each time a footman glanced her way, her heart leapt to her throat.

The servants' quarters fell quiet at last, the staff retired after completing the evening's duties. Violet waited until the last candle extinguished before slipping from her narrow bed and pulled the key from beneath her pillow. With bare feet and wearing only her wool nightgown, she picked her way silently to the master’s study.

The low light of dimmed lamps led the way, and the only shadow that made her jump was her own. And the chill that wracked through her was from the day’s heavy rains. The house was so quiet, she wondered if the excitement of the events had finally worn everyone out to the point they all needed a long night’s sleep.

All she heard was the distant ticking of a grandfather clock and the wind's whisper against the leaded glass.

She had nearly reached the study when a figure stepped out from a shadowed alcove, directly into her path. Violet stifled a gasp. Her hand flew to her throat.

“You are late,” Astley whispered, his face half-illuminated by the nearest lamp.

“I had to wait until the others slept.” Her heart eventually found its regular rhythm. “It would not do to be followed.”

Louis nodded once, then took her hand and gestured toward the study door. “Shall we?”

Nothing had changed since they’d left the room earlier that day, though now a single candle burned on the desk, casting a warm glow around them. A small fire burned in the grate, fighting back the Scottish chill that permeated the stone walls. The plaid carpet beneath their feet muffled their steps.

From somewhere outside, a long way off, came the melancholy drone of a bagpipe. Pipers were funny that way, playing at all hours, for their own pleasure, assuming everyone appreciated their music as much as they did. And to a man, no one would think to complain. For even in the middle of a dark night, there was a soul-deep comfort in the sound. A sure knowledge that, even in the darkest of times, there were others who felt as you felt. Missed home as you did.

Louis closed the door and locked it against surprise visitors. “We will not be disturbed,” he said, then led her to a chair by the fire before sitting down opposite her.

Throughout the day, she had rehearsed what she would tell him, how much she would reveal. Now, facing him in the dim light, all her carefully prepared words seemed inadequate.

“I believe you promised me the full truth,” Louis prompted gently.

Violet squared her shoulders. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her simple gown. “I hardly know where to begin.”

“Start with your father.”

“He was a gentleman who loved card games more than prudence. He lost much of our fortune gradually, at different establishments, ensuring no one realized the full extent of our decline until it was too late. Now, all we have left is the Scottish property, Durrafair.”

Louis's expression remained neutral, though his eyes held a hint of compassion. “And now your sister is in some trouble?”

Violet told him how her siblings had been dispersed to different parts of the country and how Iris came to be in the dangerous situation from which she urgently needed extraction. Her voice was barely a whisper. “The laird she serves is a brute who grows increasingly violent when he drinks. She fears—” Violet swallowed hard. “She fears he will kill her.”

“And she cannot simply leave?”

“In the middle of nowhere? The other dangers are too many to count. No. I must send for her, or go to her myself to make certain her employer allows her to leave. Once she is home, we will find a way to get by.”

“I see. And the treasure you seek, or the reward for its discovery, would provide the means to bring her home.”

“If it exists, yes. But at the very least, I could sell the key, if I can find no other clue, I should go to Lord Ashmoore and confess. You were right, the key is his, not mine. But I would have my sister back before I admit it.

“Brigadunn was once owned by a family sympathetic to the Stuart cause. That was why the treasure was brought here, when they couldn’t reach Prince Charlie in time. Then it was hidden, to prevent its seizure by the Crown. And the clues were hidden in the story that was told about the origins of this area.

“When my father became obsessed with the legend, as a boy, it angered my grandfather, who took the book away and burned it. My father then tried to record every word he remembered. And from that, he extracted clues, which he recorded in a separate journal. His greatest fear was to lose one or the both of them.”

She removed the key from her pocket, unwrapped it carefully. In the candlelight, the jewels glittered like miniature mysteries themselves.

Louis leaned forward for a closer look. “It makes my heart stutter to imagine what a key like that might unlock. But we shall never know if we cannot find the next clue.”

Violet failed to smother her grin. “As a matter of fact…” She lifted the key and turned the thin leather over, then lowered it to catch the light of the fire. “If you look closely, you’ll see writing. The ink has faded, but the spidery script is legible. I discovered it today, when I had a moment to look again. It says, Seek ye the watcher in the wood, within whose heart a burning truth is locked.”

“It could not be a man. A statue, perhaps? A face carved into a tree?”

“There is a wood that features prominently in the story, with a clearing where the knight left his damsel and promised to return. It is closer to my home. But if something were carved there, my father would have found it.”

“And how many of those trees would still stand today?”

“And if they did, what face might have been carved at eye level would be halfway to the sky by now.”

“Perhaps they never expected it to take seventy years for someone to follow the clues.”

Louis rubbed his face. “It is too late for riddles. We need sleep. Perhaps clearer thoughts will win the day tomorrow.”

“You are correct,” Violet conceded, rewrapping the key carefully and slipping it into her pocket. “We have both gone too long without proper rest.”

Louis rose and offered his hand to help her from her chair. She took it, and for a moment after she stood, he seemed unwilling to relinquish his grasp.

“It would be folly to see you to your quarters. Can you manage?” He shook his head and gave a nervous laugh. “Of course you can manage.” Finally, he released her hand, though the warmth of his touch lingered.

At the door, he paused, listening. Satisfied, he turned the key and opened it to check the hallway. “The way is clear,” he whispered, but made no move to step aside.

Violet looked up at him, suddenly aware of how close they stood yet again. His eyes held hers, searching. Was he looking for permission to kiss her again?

“If we cannot decipher the riddle upon the morrow,” he finally said, “we shall journey to your woods and I shall climb every tree if I must.”

She smiled. “Every tree?”

“Each one,” he promised. His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Whatever it takes to find this watcher.”

He leaned toward her, close enough that she felt the brush of his breath against her lips. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to this single moment of possibility.

Somewhere in the house, a man coughed and the spell was broken.

Violet stepped back. “Tomorrow,” she whispered.

Louis nodded once and pulled the door wide. Then he bit his lips together as he watched her go. Mindlessly, she made her way back to her cot with the ghost of an almost-kiss trailing on her heels.