Panic gripped Lucy. She did not stop to think. She groped behind her for the handle on the first door she came to and tumbled backward through it. It was a service corridor of some sort, stone floored and dimly lit. She was halfway along it and regretting her impulsive attempt to escape when she heard the stealthy sound of the door at the end opening and shutting again. Robert Methven was behind her. She was certain it was he. Now there was no way back.
She scurried along, her slippers pattering on the floor. Behind her she could hear the measured tread of Methven’s boots. Her heart raced too, an unsteady beat that only served to fuel her panic. It was too late now to turn and face him. She felt foolish for running away and gripped by hot embarrassment, awkward and nervous. She could have brazened it out before; now it was impossible.
The corridor turned an abrupt corner and for one terrible moment Lucy thought she was trapped down a dead end before she saw the small spiral stair in the corner. She wrenched the door open and shot up the steps like a squirrel up a tree trunk, panting, round and round and up and up, until the stair ended in a studded wooden door. It was locked. Lucy almost sprained her wrist turning the huge heavy iron key and ran out onto the castle battlements.
The wind caught her as soon as she stepped outside, tugging at her hair, setting her shivering in her thin silk gown. Darkness had fallen and the sky was clear, the moon bright. Any heat there had been in the day had gone. It was only April and the brisk breeze had a chill edge.
Lucy hurried along the battlement walk to the door in the opposite turret. She turned the handle. The door remained obstinately closed. She pulled hard. It did not budge. Locked. She realized that the key must be on the inside just as it had been on the door she had come through.
She spun around. She could see Methven’s silhouette moving toward her along the battlements. He was not moving quickly, but there was something about him, something about the absolute predatory certainty of a man who had his target in his sights. Lucy pressed her palms hard against the cold oak of the door—and almost fell over as it opened abruptly and she stumbled inside. Down the stairs, along the maze of shadowy corridors with the flickering torchlight, back through the door into the great hall, running, panting now, her heart pounding...
She paused for breath behind the spread of a large arrangement of ferns, leaning one hand against the cold hard flank of the suit of armor for support as her breathing steadied and her heartbeat started to slow down. Five minutes of chasing around Brodrie Castle, but at least she had shaken off Robert Methven.
“It’s a cold night for a stroll on the battlements, Lady Lucy.”
Lucy spun around. The suit of armor clattered as she jumped almost out of her skin.
Methven was standing directly behind her, a look of sardonic amusement on his face.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Lucy said.
In silence he held out his hand. Nestling on his palm were several of her pearl-headed hairpins.
“Oh!” Lucy’s hand went to tuck the wayward strands of hair back behind her ears. She had not realized the wind had done quite so much damage. “Thank you,” she said. “I... Yes, I...I was out on the battlements. I have always been interested in fifteenth-century architecture.”
“A curious time to pursue your hobby,” Methven said. “If only I had known, I could have arranged a tour for you. In the daylight.” He shifted. “And there was I, thinking you were out there because you were running away from me.”
“I wasn’t—” Lucy started to deny it, saw the amused cynicism deepen in his eyes as he waited for her to lie and stopped abruptly.
“All right,” she said crossly. “I was running away from you.”
“That’s better,” Methven said. “Why?”
“Because I don’t like you,” Lucy said, “and I did not wish to speak with you.”
Methven laughed. “Much better,” he approved. “Who knew you possessed the gift of such plain speaking?”
“Generally I try to be polite rather than hurtfully blunt,” Lucy said.
“Well, don’t bother with me,” Methven said. “I prefer frankness.”
“I cannot imagine that we shall have much opportunity for conversation of any sort,” Lucy said frigidly, “frank or otherwise.”
“Then you are not as intelligent as you are given credit for,” Methven said. “We start now.”
He put out a hand as though to take her arm, but in that moment a slightly shambolic figure stumbled toward them, almost upsetting the suit of armor.
“Lady Lucy! How splendid!”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Methven’s face at the interruption. Lucy recognized Lord Prestonpans, one of Lachlan’s ne’er-do-well friends. Prestonpans looked more than a little the worse for wear; his color was high, his fair hair rumpled and a distinct smell of alcohol hung about his person. He leaned confidingly toward Lucy, and she drew back sharply, trying to edge away.
“Been looking for you the entire evening, ma’am,” he said. “Need your help. Need you to write one of your letters for me.”
Lucy went very still. She could feel Robert Methven’s gaze riveted on her face in polite and amused inquiry.
“One of your letters?” he repeated gently.
Disaster. Lucy felt cold all over. How could she silence Prestonpans or steer him away from danger? How could she keep Methven from overhearing? She could feel cool sweat prickling her back, could feel her whole reputation unraveling.
“Of course, my lord,” she said quickly, taking Lord Prestonpans’s arm to draw him away. “A letter to the Lord Advocate? I would be delighted to help. Come and see me next week in Edinburgh.”
She smiled at him and started to walk away, hoping that Prestonpans would take the hint, but he did not. Instead he followed, nipping at her heels like a terrier. Lucy sped up, heading for the ballroom door. Prestonpans galloped after her, raising his voice with disastrous clarity.
“Not one of your legal letters,” Prestonpans bellowed. He was trying to keep up with her, slipping slightly on the highly polished floor. “One of y’r other sorts of letters. Your brother told me you write special letters, emotic—” he slurred “—erotic ones—”
“You must excuse me, my lord.” Lucy spoke quickly and loudly, trying to drown him out, desperately hoping that Robert Methven had not heard his last words, despite the fact that they had echoed to the rafters. “My chaperone will be wondering where I am—”
“I’ll call on you!” Prestonpans said, waving gaily as he staggered away toward the refreshment room. “I’ll pay good money!”
There was a long silence. Lucy was aware of nothing but the thunder of her heartbeat in her ears and the tightening of her nerves as Robert Methven walked slowly toward her. He let the silence between them spin out. And then:
“Erotic letters?” he queried in the same deceptively gentle tone.
“You misheard,” Lucy said desperately. “Lord Prestonpans said exotic letters. Unusual letters, written in...”
“Green ink?” Methven suggested. “That would be exotic.”
Green ink. Lucy remembered recommending to Lachlan that he copy out the letters to Dulcibella in green ink to make them look more romantic.
“Or perhaps,” Methven continued, “Lord Prestonpans meant letters written in exotic language? Poetic letters, love letters...” His expression was impassive as he waited politely for the next