Timeless Desire (6 page)

The rare man who listened to more than the words spoken.
“Well, where I come from, a library is judged not just on its collection but upon the number of books it lends out. We call that its circulation. Your circulation, I am afraid to say, is one.”

It dawned on her that she had no idea if his circulation
was
one. For all she knew, he had a wife and family who used it. She flushed, realizing how he might interpret the question.

His eyes twinkled clear blue. “And the man who owns your library? How large is his circulation?”

She searched his face for deeper meaning, but his features seemed pointedly unreadable. “Well, size is not the only thing that matters, of course.”

“Is it not? I believe you just said it was.”

“All right, yes, size is important. Very important, in fact,” she added, walking the perimeter of the room to avoid looking into those eyes. “But there is range to be considered as well.”

“The wider, the better, I suppose.”

She gave him a look. He was alluding to more than range. She could see the laughter in those warm eyes.

“Yes,” she said carefully, “width is certainly a benefit.”

“Though you would argue for distinguishing oneself with commanding depth in a few important areas, too, I’m sure.”

“Yes, as well as the sensitivity with which the collector—”

“Aye, the sensitivity. Always a concern. Then you would say his library exceeds mine in all important aspects.”

The twinkle had turned to a kaleidoscopic glitter, and she flushed from her neck to the tips of her ears. “His collection is larger—”

Bridgewater put a hand over his heart. “Ooh. A crushing blow.”

“—but as for the rest . . . I don’t know. I would have to, well . . .”

“Sample it?”

His eyes met hers, only for an instant, but a seismic shock rattled her knees. Charming bastard. She downed a swig of brandy to moisten her throat. “Hmmm.”

“That can be arranged, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure it can. Take heart, though. A man with a humble collection can still make an impact.”

“Humble!”

“It’s a matter of attitude, attentive execution, and something with which you may not be closely familiar: humility.”

“Ouch. I withdraw to lick my wounds.” Bridgewater stretched his long legs and leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Well, I am sorry to hear his collection exceeds mine. That is indeed discouraging. However, nothing inspires a man to achievement like another man’s success.”

“I think perhaps we should close the topic of libraries.”

He chuckled.

It had been a long time since Panna had flirted with a man. The flutter in her chest and the charge of connection was like sunshine and fresh air to someone emerging from a lingering illness. It left her feeling both exhilarated and a little light-headed.

She had come to an odd, high window seat. Unlike the other window seats, which were of normal size and depth, this one jutted out an extra two feet from the side of the building and stood a good twelve inches taller, which made Panna assume it offered the best view. However, she found it nearly impossible to get into it, given her gown and the glass in her hand—that is, until she spotted a swing-out step, about a foot off the floor, built into the wall.

She opened the step.

“Oh, dear.” Bridgewater cleared his throat.

“What?” She hopped on the wood. The step was quite steady.

“I—well, never mind.” He shook his head.

“I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“No, I, er, wouldn’t think so.”

Once she sat down, she noticed another odd feature of the seat. It angled slightly downward toward the half circle of windows in which it was located, which made sitting upright a sort of isometric exercise. In addition, about a foot before the seat reached the windows, the angle of the incline became even more acute.

“This is very strange,” she said.

His cheeks reddened. “It belonged to the man who built this place.”

“Not you?”

“Oh, no. This castle was built three hundred years ago and has changed hands a number of times in the never-ending tumult of the borderlands. Most of it was destroyed in a fire forty or so years ago—the same year as the plague. Only this wing remains.”

“I see. And the seat?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Tis referred to as the surveying seat.”

She took in the sweeping view of the ramparts, the river, the buildings in the town, and the seemingly endless hills beyond. “I can see that. But the incline? And the odd height?”

“The story is told that the lord of the castle, apparently a roguish sort, designed it to give himself a standing view of all of his holdings—holdings that evidently were meant to include his lady . . . or, at least, whoever his lady was at the moment he decided to, er, take his survey.”

“Oh,” she said.
“Oh.”

The seat would accommodate a man standing, one foot on the swing-out step, and a woman, lying on her back, with her body angled downward and her head angled even more.

“Good God!” Panna exclaimed. “The view of his holdings would be directly between her—”

“Aye.”

Talk about seeing the world through rose-colored nipples.
She suddenly wondered if Bridgewater had ever used it for such a purpose, though the extent of his discomfort on the topic suggested either he hadn’t or he didn’t care to have someone thinking he had.

She didn’t know how to respond.

“As you said,” he murmured, “a room with a view.”

“Indeed.”

Quite speechless and blushing as well, Panna scrabbled to remember the topic that had preceded the discovery of this amazing seat. The depth and breadth of his library’s circulation had been almost as fraught with pitfalls. Determined to find a safer topic, she said, “There is one thing quite singular about your library, however.”

“Oh?” He sat up, as relieved as she was at the change of subject.

“Yes, you have two stories of shelves, and no ladder to reach the upper story.”

His face broke in a wide grin. “Do you know that you are the first person to notice? The army has been here three months and not a single officer has said a word.”

She hopped off the seat and continued walking around the room, scanning titles as she went. Milton, Hobbes, Fletcher, Newton—even a Bible grand enough to make her wonder if it was a Gutenberg.

But she didn’t stop to admire any of them, for while she was not exactly sure what she was looking for, she knew for certain the item did not come bound in leather.

She could feel the energy in the room shift and change as Bridgewater followed her with his eyes, and she wondered if she might even use that to help her identify what she was looking for. She reached the table at which he sat when the empty soup bowl caught her attention.

Scratched into the bottom were the words “They know.”

The pause in her step nearly gave her away, and he regarded her closely, but she managed to keep her attention on the bookcase in front of her.

“Your collection certainly reflects a wide range of interests,” she said, pulling the first thing out of the air she could think of while wondering about the message in the bowl.
Who
knew? The army? And
what
did they know? Reeves was obviously a well-trained and loyal servant.

“Thank you,” he said. “I was lucky to have a very fine tutor.”

She wondered if he
was
collaborating with the Scots, just as he’d been accused of. Of course, with the perspective of three hundred extra years, she knew the Scots
would
lose their independence to England and not gain it back completely even in her time. Were their struggles to remain free any less honorable than the struggles American colonists would be fighting three quarters of a century from now? Of course, in the eyes of a ruling power, a group fighting for its freedom looks both traitorous and dangerous.

“Your father must be very proud.”

At the mention of his father, Bridgewater’s expression hardened. She could see him wrestling with a response. “My father and I are not close.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It has been a great loss for me. Perhaps not as much for him.”

“Oh, I’m sure it
is
a great loss for him,” she protested, though the look on Bridgewater’s face said otherwise. “Charlie’s father—Charlie was my husband—wasn’t an easy person to get along with. Charlie’s older brother really resented it, and they were estranged. They ended up reconciling when Charlie’s father became ill. Charlie’s father always said the thing he regretted most in life was not doing what he needed to do to have his son in his life.”

Bridgewater shifted his weight from one foot to the other. She could see the enormous pain in his eyes.

“I think perhaps the situation with my father is different.”

“Don’t give up hope,” she said. “There’s always a chance people can mend their ways.”

He bowed. “I will do my best.”

She thought it best to let the subject drop and returned to her examination of the bookcases. A telltale flash of silver caught her eye.

The hinges were difficult to see—someone had attempted to camouflage them with brown paint—but a few scratches exposed the metal beneath. Her eyes followed the vertical line separating metal and wood upward to where it met another line running horizontally the length of the bookcase. About four feet below where that line ended, she saw a slight impression. She slipped her fingers in and slowly swung the heavy, book-filled door open.

A hand pressed it closed with a soft but definitive click.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”

Bridgewater had appeared at her side without a sound, and the pain in his eyes had been displaced by something colder.

“Oh.” The change in him disorientated her, and she found herself edging backward, clutching her brandy.

“I would appreciate if you took care not to mention the door to anyone.”

“Of course.”

He searched her eyes, evidently taking a measure of her trustworthiness. “If you cross me, you will suffer for it.”

“I won’t. I told you I won’t.”

She fought the trembling that had overtaken her knees, and his hardness abated a degree.

“I beg your pardon,” he said after a long moment. “You have been most kind. But a man cannot trust everyone.”

“Certainly. I understand.” Though she was not quite sure she did.

He found the book she’d left on the floor and picked it up. “I would like you to have this,” he said. “Raise my circulation to two.”

She felt odd taking it after his unsettling behavior. “I don’t know.”

“Please.”

She relaxed. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the book and tucking it under her arm.

“It has been a long time since anyone has cared for me,” he said. “You made me quite content.”

He took her hand and kissed it. His hand was soft and strong, and despite everything, she found herself lingering in his clasp.

A knock sounded at the door.

They froze. The alcove was half a room away. She began to run, but Bridgewater grabbed her arm, uttered a picturesque oath, and shoved her behind the door he had just forbidden her from entering.

“G
OOD EVENING
, C
APTAIN
.”

“General.” Bridgewater came to formal attention and waited. He had hoped his brief sojourn as a sparring partner for his half-brother’s guards had been all the army time he would have to serve today.

His visitor released him with a disgusted wave, the flawless queue of iron-gray hair flapping against his coat. “What happened to your face?”

“The colonel and I had a disagreement.”

He clucked his tongue. “Idiot.”

Bridgewater said nothing. He could still feel the softness of the woman’s skin against his lips. How the time with her had quenched the loneliness within him. Talking so openly had perhaps been foolish, but only a lover’s sort of incaution. He had not said a thing she couldn’t have learned from any inhabitant of the borderlands, if in fact she had entered the room not knowing it already.

Take care, man. Falling in love with a spy is a sure bet on disaster.

Yet, why had he thrust her into the one place he absolutely didn’t want her to go, unless somewhere deep within him he didn’t believe she was a spy?

You don’t want to believe it, that’s why. That was her plan.

“I meant
you
were the idiot,” the general said.

“I realize that, sir.”
And perhaps I was.

“Do you know why I’m in the borderlands, Captain? Do you know why Queen Anne sent her best general into this ungodly pen of bloody-minded brutes?”

Given that the seat of the general’s family had been in the north of England for the last three hundred years, albeit in the more “civilized” area of Carlisle, Bridgewater took the “pen” to which the general referred to mean the parts of England close enough to Scotland to share in their brutishness.

“Because you’re the most qualified man to lead this effort, sir.” And it was true. Whatever disagreements Bridgewater had with the man before him—and there were many—he was the most canny, experienced, levelheaded leader the queen’s army had ever produced. He had earned every ribbon on that coat as well as the title he carried, even though he’d been born to that. His remarkable rise from a daring captain to a distinguished general had been followed breathlessly by a youthful Bridgewater and had inspired him to take his own commission when he was old enough.