The Secret Gift (26 page)

But halfway down the hall he stopped at an open door and was stunned by what he found inside.

It was a drawing room with carved oak paneling that gleamed beneath an elaborate plasterwork ceiling. Furnishings of cherry and mahogany were freshly polished, revealing centuries-old craftsmanship, and the walls were adorned with gilt-framed portraits and mirrors. A stone mantelpiece featured proudly along one wall, surrounded by brocade-covered settees and chairs. Fresh flowers filled porcelain vases, and the scent of lemon perfumed the air.

He felt as if he had stepped back in time. At any moment he expected to see a Victorian-era butler come walking through, silver salver in hand. In all the weeks he’d been living in the castle, Graeme had yet to set foot in this room. Libby had been there but one day—half a day, really—and already had given the place her touch.

Farther down the hall, he was not at all surprised when he saw the room she’d decided to take up residence in. When he’d first bought the castle, this room more than any other had “spoken” to him. It was as if there was a spirit to the chamber, a soul that even the dustcovers had been unable to shroud. Now, fresh and clean and alive, the place virtually pulsed.

Had circumstances been different, he would have chosen this room for her himself.

The hearth was indeed cold, as he’d expected, so he bent to place a brick of peat on the grate, fueling it with kindling underneath. It lit easily and soon caught flame. He crisscrossed logs on top of the peat, watching as the wood began to burn. When he was certain the fire wouldn’t go out, he headed for the bathroom to wash the soot and dirt from his hands.

He never made it to the sink.

She was there, asleep in the tub and utterly naked.

Graeme froze in the doorway, relishing the sight of her. Several times, when they’d been alone, he’d allowed himself to imagine what she must look like beneath all those bulky sweaters and shapeless trousers she favored wearing. And that night by the fire, he’d been on the very brink of satisfying his curiosity, until Flora and Angus had shown up unexpected. His imagination, however, hadn’t been nearly so vivid as what he saw now reclined in that tub.

She was ...

... beautiful.

Her dark hair, freshly washed, curled damply about her ears, one twisting tendril falling over her cheek, her darkly lashed eyes. Her skin was rose-petal pale, unblemished and pink from the bath. Her breasts were full, though not overly so, their rose tips taut from the cold. They were utterly magnificent. He felt his groin grow tight just looking at her, and his gaze moved down over the flat belly, gently flared hips, and shapely legs. One leg was bent, shielding him from a more thorough study, and he ached just to run his hand along that leg. Just once.

A gentleman wouldn’t stand there staring at her like that, but he found he just couldn’t deny himself the sheer, unadulterated pleasure.

Until the fire in the bedchamber behind him suddenly popped.

And Libby stirred, coming awake.

Libby opened her eyes and quickly realized she had drifted off to sleep in the bath.

How long had she been lying there, completely out of it? Apparently it had been some time since the sky was dark outside, and the water had gone cold. Just realizing it, she began to shiver and sat up, pulling the stopper from the drain. She stood, dripping, as she reached for her towel, wrapped it around herself, and headed for her bedchamber to retrieve her robe.

It was warmer there, and a moment later she realized why. There was a fire crackling in the hearth.

Who had ... ?

She looked across the room to her chamber door, which was just slightly ajar. She knew Flora had left before she’d gone into the tub.

She glanced back to the bathroom door.

Had Graeme ... ?

Libby felt a tingle race over her skin that had nothing to do with either the chill or the fire.

She got dressed, slipping on one of her oversized sweatshirts and flannel lounging pants. She combed the tangles from her hair and left it loose to dry, then went down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Flora, she discovered, had left a plate of scones.

The kettle was just starting to boil when Graeme came in. Libby looked at him and felt herself blush. She didn’t dare ask him if he’d come upon her in the bath. “Would you like tea?”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

He, too, was wearing a pair of lounging pants and an oversized T-shirt. Libby measured out the tea leaves while he took out jam and butter for the scones.

“I saw the room upstairs, that blue room. You did a brilliant job with it.”

“The Blue Room,” which was just down the hall from Libby’s chamber.

He had come into her bedchamber.

A fresh blush stole across her face.

“Thanks. Seems a shame to hide all the furnishings and lock away all the rooms. I hope you don’t mind that I ...”

“It is your right, until the court may judge otherwise.”

Libby frowned at his stiff reply.

Graeme must have noticed the look on her face and said, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t very well done of me. To tell the truth, I had thought the same thing and intended one day to set about restoring the castle to its former condition, but just hadn’t had the time.”

Libby nodded, changed the subject. “How are things going with your project?”

“Very well. I’m working on some preliminary sketches right now. In fact, I’ll be traveling to London tomorrow for a meeting at my firm.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t expected he’d be leaving, and so soon.

“Would you—” Graeme hesitated, as if weighing his next words. “I mean to say, you had mentioned some London book dealers you were interested in speaking with. I’ll be going down to the city only for the day. It wouldn’t be any trouble if you wanted to go along.”

“Oh,” Libby said for the second time now. It was as near a truce as she was going to receive. “That would be—I mean, if you’re sure you wouldn’t mind, I’d love to go. I’ll need to make arrangements for an airline ticket. Which flight are you on?”

“My un—,” He stopped and said instead, “No need to worry. I have a helicopter coming. Much easier than waking at dawn to spend half the morning driving to Inverness and then the rest of the morning flying to Gatwick.”

“Oh,” Libby said for a third time now. “What time should I be ready to leave, then?”

“Half eight, unless you need me to make it later?”

“No, that’s fine. Half eight it is.”

Libby was in the kitchen and had prepared a pot of tea by eight the next morning when Graeme came down.

Libby did a double take when he walked into the kitchen. He was wearing a suit, a well-tailored dark gray suit, crisp white shirt, and perfectly knotted burgundy patterned tie. He was incredibly handsome, his dark hair neatly groomed and his face freshly shaven.

She looked down at her own trousers and baggy sweater, and L.L.Bean loafers and cringed. But digging through musty bookshelves wasn’t much suited to dressing smartly.

At precisely eight-thirty, Libby heard the distinctive sound of a helicopter approaching outside. She looked out the kitchen window just as the craft approached off the North Sea.

“That would be our ride,” Graeme said, and tucked a cardboard tube that held his drawings under one arm as Libby grabbed her purse.

Together they headed for the door.

The chopper touched down in the open field adjacent to the castle, terrifying the sheep, which went bounding off. Libby waited while Graeme greeted the pilot and then introduced her. The helicopter was so loud, she scarcely could hear, but was reasonably sure he’d said his name was Martin.

Graeme turned to help her inside, handing her a pair of headphones, which she slipped over her ears. Then he climbed onto the seat beside her, donning a matching set. Libby listened while the pilot did a series of checks in preparation for takeoff, explaining safety procedures and their intended flight path. They would be cutting east across the Highlands before heading south along Britain’s east coast. “And if you start to feel ill, Miss Hutchinson, make certain you tell me. I can turn up the heat or turn on the vents for you.”

Libby nodded.

“Are we ready, then?”

Libby looked at Graeme. He nodded. Martin engaged the engine and off they went.

Contrary to what she would have thought, riding in a helicopter was much smoother than being in an airplane. Libby had taken enough twin-engine puddle jumpers commuting back and forth across New England to expect to feel her stomach lurch the moment they took off. Instead, this was more a sensation of being lifted by some lofty hand and carried over the landscape.

She hadn’t realized how low they would fly. As they soared over the village, Libby could see the villagers walking on the high street, stopping to shield their eyes as the helicopter flew overhead. The glorious mountain peaks of Ben Loyal and Ben Hope stretched out before them, ringed in mist beneath a brilliant morning sun.

The flight took just over three hours, and the changes in the landscape from Highlands to Lowlands, Scotland to England, were astounding. Libby didn’t think she’d ever seen a countryside so beautiful, so truly in harmony with nature’s hand. As they neared the British capital, Martin brought the helicopter down below a thousand feet because of the city’s flying space restrictions, giving her a true bird’s-eye view of such landmarks as the Tower Bridge, the huge Ferris wheel called the London Eye, Big Ben, and even Buckingham Palace, all snaked through with the silty waters of the River Thames.

It was like living in a movie. By the time they landed at the heliport, Libby’s pulse was racing.

“Did you see the river? Wasn’t it amazing?”

Graeme enjoyed just watching her, her almost childlike delight in something he’d been doing almost all his life.

A private car was waiting at the heliport to convey them into the city.

Graeme cringed when the driver greeted him with “Good morning, my lord.” But thankfully Libby was still so taken with by the flight and their surroundings, she didn’t seem to have noticed.

Graeme offered to have the driver drop him at his firm so that Libby could have use of the car for driving and for carrying any books she might purchase. They would meet up later that afternoon when he was finished at his office.

He bid her farewell in front of the glass-encased high-rise that housed Clyne and Partners, Architects.

The security guard who waited in the inside lobby looked up when Graeme came in.

“Well, good morning, m’lord. Haven’t seen you in this place in quite a while.”

Graeme stopped to sign in. “Peter, how many years have I been walking into this lobby?”

“Ay’d haf to say must be five years now, m’lord.”

“And for those five years, you knew me as Mackenzie. Graeme Mackenzie. Correct?”

“Aye, m’lord.”

“Am I the same person who came here each morning for those five years?”

“Aye, m’lord.”

“So doesn’t it seem, well, for lack of a better word,
absurd
to suddenly start referring to me differently after all that time?”

The guard hesitated, clearly uncertain, but finally admitted, “Aye, m’lord.”

“I’m the same person, Peter,” Graeme said, turning for the lifts. “Mackenzie will continue to suffice.”

“Aye, m’lord Mackenzie.”

Graeme sighed, waved a hand, shaking his head as he went.

Up on the thirty-second floor, the receptionist nearly dropped her morning coffee when she recognized Graeme coming around the corner. “Graeme—I mean, Lord Waltham.”

“Graeme will do, Margaret,” he said. “Is Philip in his office?”

She just nodded, her mouth still slightly ajar, speechless, apparently regretting the time she’d turned him down when he’d asked her out for lunch.

Before he’d fallen into line for his inheritance.

He started down the hall, hearing her on the phone behind him. “Yes, Mr. Clyne, Lord Waltham is on his way back to see you.”

Philip Clyne was a distinguished graduate of Cambridge University. Forty-six, happily married, with three children ages fourteen to six, he’d established Clyne and Partners and built it into the top architectural firm in London, with project offices worldwide. The studio had received countless awards and citations for excellence and had won over fifty national and international competitions. Philip himself had been awarded the RIBA Royal Gold Medal for Architecture, the Gold Medal of the French Academy of Architecture, and the American Institute of Architects Gold Medal, otherwise known as an industry hat trick. A council member of the Royal College of Art and trustee of the Architecture Foundation of London, he was rumored to be on the shortlist in line for a knighthood.

But none of that mattered more to Graeme than the fact that Philip Clyne had taken him under his wing, serving as mentor, father, role model, and friend at various times during the ten years they’d known each other.

“Graeme!”

Philip clasped Graeme in a bear hug, clapping him on the back without any thought to the wrinkles he might bring to Graeme’s Gieves & Hawkes tailored suit. “You look well. Seclusion agrees with you.”

“Must be some healthy color has returned to my face, having not been under the ultraviolet glow of the press corps’ flashbulbs these past weeks. People were beginning to think I must spend hours in a tanning bed.”

The two men laughed as Philip’s assistant, Gwendolyn, brought in a tray of coffee and pastries.

“Gwendolyn,” Graeme said with a nod in greeting.

“My lord,” she said as she hastened for the door.

Graeme simply shook his head. “It’s as if I’m some sort of carnival feature.”

“Pay them no mind. They only know what they read in the tabloids. Speaking of which—” Philip grinned. “Read you were out on the Riviera having banana-and-peanut-butter sandwiches with Elvis. So tell me, is he still ‘nothin’ but a hound dog’?”

Graeme had to appreciate his lightheartedness, remembering that ridiculous photo from
The Buzz’s
recent edition. Philip was one of only three who knew where Graeme had been living the past months, the other two being his mother and his uncle. All communication between Graeme and the office went through Philip directly. It was the only way Graeme had managed to stay hidden so successfully.