âIf you want to return to your flock before daybreak, weâd better get a move on. Thereâs a more proper WC on the floor below, if you want to freshen up.â
She hurried after him, all the way down what shewas sure must be a hundred steps to the ground floor. After a quick stop at the bathroom, she met him outside.
The early-morning mists off the lake had sparkled the grass and flowers with dew. It still wasnât quite light, and the air held a milky quality, a thickness that made her want to reach out and gather soft handfuls of it. She breathed deeply of its sweetness, so different from the air surrounding her dear old Baltimore, as often rich with exhaust fumes as the scent of blooming honeysuckle. Here, the atmosphere begged to be inhaled, savored, held in memory.
âIâm not a rich brat,â Christopher said after they had driven a mile or so.
She slid farther down in the supple leather of the Jagâs passenger seat and yawned lazily. âDid I say you were?â
âYou implied as much back at Donan. What was your description of my life? Loose and perverted?â
âWell, you do live in a castle,â she stated accusingly.
âThatâs not a crime or indication of decadence. Donan is my legacy from my ancestors. I could let it crumble, sell it or sink a lot of money and back-breaking labor into restoring it, which is what I have been doing over the past few years.â
âReally?â
âReally. You should have seen its condition before I moved up from London. When the place is fully renovated and furnished, I hope to open it as a museum and memorial to both the Scots and English men and women who gave their lives fighting for it. Itâs never too late to mend fences, donât you agree?â
She considered this new side of him. âYour friendsare all in London, at least thatâs where their permanent homes are?â
âMost of them, yes.â
âWhy donât you just hire workmen to handle the restoration while you run along to whack polo balls with your chums? You obviously can afford it.â She had wanted to tease him, but he seemed not to take the remark with the good humor it had been intended.
His eyes turned stormy. Long fingers tightened on the steering wheel. âI have my reasons!â
She observed his expression. Something told her she should stop right now, but she couldnât. âIs one reason your daughter? The little girl in the picture.â
Christopher didnât answer for several minutes, but finally resigned himself to admitting what she had already guessed. âYes, thatâs Lisa. And she is my daughter.â He steered the Jag onto A7, north toward Edinburgh. âNow, if you please, we wonât talk anymore of her.â
The terrible thought occurred to Jennifer that the child might have died, and sheâd innocently reminded him of the pain of losing her. Or perhaps something else had come between them. For a moment she was horrified by her thoughtless questions. But then she replayed his words in her mind: âThatâs Lisa.â Present tense. And the photo looked quite recent. So at least it wasnât death that caused him such anguish.
She ached to ask him a thousand questions, but his icy glare had locked on the highway, and she knew that no amount of prodding would elicit another word from him on the subject of the child in the photograph. His face held that closed expression. Just as it had the day sheâd mistakenly driven up to Donan, thinking it was Bremerley. No trespassing.
They arrived at the hotel just after the sun had fully risen above the horizon, chasing away lingering pastel wisps of morningâs first light. Neither had spoken for the remainder of the drive. Sadly Jennifer reached for the Jaguarâs door, but before she could slip off the leather seat to the ground, his hand closed around her wrist.
âWait, Jenny.â There was a
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