A Trap So Tender. Jennifer Lewis

vase stood high on the stone mantel. “Your family doesn’t go in for redecorating, do they?”

      He chuckled. “Not since about 1760. You could say we’re a bit set in our ways.”

      “At least you don’t waste money on passing fads.”

      “Not often. These newfangled glass windows were controversial when they first came out, but we like them.”

      She smiled. “And you can still open them to pour boiling oil on marauders.”

      “Absolutely. The designers thought of everything.”

      “Is there a bathroom, or have those not established themselves in fashion for long enough?”

      He gestured to a low wood door. She pulled the handle with some trepidation, and was surprised when it opened into a large, heavily marbled room with an appropriately antique-looking tub and sink and toilet in sparkling condition. At least she wouldn’t have to wash herself from a jug.

      “There’s no shower, I’m afraid. We’re still not convinced those are here to stay, but water does come out of the taps, so you won’t have to call for Angus to bring it.”

      “That is a relief. I’m not sure I want Angus seeing me in a towel.” She wanted to laugh, but somehow managed not to. “I am beginning to worry about finding this cup.”

      “Why?” He frowned, which annoyingly made him look even more handsome.

      “The place makes big look small.”

      “It’s sprawling, but quite simple to navigate, and there’s little clutter to deal with. The Drummonds always seem to have gone in for a sparse, minimalist style.”

      “How forward thinking.”

      “Are you tired?”

      “No. I was thinking about that bacon and what lucky person might get to eat it.”

      He laughed. “Let’s go.”

      Breakfast was served in a grand hall. They sat at a long wooden table, its surface polished to a high sheen. The blue-and-white porcelain plates had probably been imported from China in the 1700s. After they ate their fill from a collection of covered dishes, James offered to give her a whirlwind tour of the castle.

      “You might be the first non-Drummond to see inside the east wing this century,” he murmured, as he pulled open a wood door studded with dark iron. He ducked through the low entranceway.

      “Are you sure you won’t have to kill me because I’ve seen too much?” Her skin prickled with excitement, partly from gaining entry to the Drummonds’ inner sanctum, but mostly from continued proximity to James.

      “Time will tell.” He shot her a dark gray glance that made her freeze for a second, until she saw the humor sparkling behind his steely visage.

      She swallowed. Time would tell all, but she’d make sure to put plenty of distance between them before that happened.

      He gestured for her to enter. The hallway was narrow and she brushed against his arm as she passed. Even through his expensive shirt, his touch still sent a hot flash of awareness coursing through her. What did his body look like under his elegant armor? Was he muscled and athletic, or was that just her fevered imagination at work?

      Her heart pumped faster as she entered the low hallway with its coffered ceiling. Her cute shoes clacked annoyingly on the flagstone floor. James could probably lock her up in one of these rooms and it would be months—years—before anyone found her. “Where are you taking me?”

      “The oldest part of the house. It’s where Drummonds piled their junk once they cleared it out of the more inhabited rooms. It’s the first place I’d suggest looking for the cup piece.”

      “What kind of shape is it?” Online research into the story had told her it was the base of the cup they were looking for, but no need for him to know she’d done some digging on her own.

      “Round, I’d guess. It’s the part that sits on the table, the base, so it could be a hexagon or similar.”

      “I hope it hasn’t been thrown away over the years.”

      “Or melted down to make bullets. That’s the kind of thing the Drummonds might do with miscellaneous metal.”

      “They sound a lovely bunch, your ancestors.”

      “‘Keep thy blade sharp’ is the family motto. It’s right on the crest under the raven’s claws.”

      That might explain James’s ruthless pursuit of his goals. He had no idea she even knew of his reputation. She decided to call his bluff. “You seem so different.”

      “Am I?” He didn’t look at her, but out a small leaded window, at the white sky. “Sometimes I wonder.”

      “Why do you think of yourself as ruthless?” Maybe she could make him peer into his own hard heart and appeal to his sense of right and wrong to get her father’s factory back. Then he’d be grateful to her for helping him see the light. They could be friends—or lovers?—and live happily ever after.

      Reality smacked her in the face as his laugh bounced off the thick stone walls. “I think I’m the last person you should ask about that.”

      She decided not to push further. Not yet. She was here as his guest, and she didn’t want him getting suspicious about her motives. The hallway seemed to go on forever, and all the doors along it were closed. “What’s behind all these doors?”

      “Small bedrooms. Probably once inhabited by vassals.”

      “What the heck is a vassal?”

      He chuckled. “Hangers-on. People who lived off the good grace—what little there was of it—of the auld Drummonds.”

      Like me. “Interesting. What would they get out of keeping such people around?”

      “People who are obligated come in useful when you need a favor. Or some dirty work done.”

      She glanced behind her, for no good reason. Had James brought her here for reasons of his own? She thought she was so cunning to get invited into the heart of his empire, but maybe he had his own nefarious plans for her.

      The fearsome clack of her own shoe heels was getting on her rather raw nerves.

      Suddenly James took a turn to the left and pulled back an iron bolt on a tall wood door. “Welcome to the oldest part of the castle.”

      The door opened onto a sort of balcony. She stepped through it and peered over a stone rampart into a square-shaped hall. Antique wood furniture sprawled uninvitingly on the flagstone floor of the hall about thirty feet below where they stood. Above them a ceiling of great wood beams had probably held up the roof for a thousand years.

      James marched along a gallery and down a flight of narrow wood stairs toward the main floor. She followed slowly, staring around the space. She could almost feel the presence of all the men and women who must have breathed the air in this space over the years. “This is incredible. How come you don’t use it?”

      “The newer parts of the castle are more comfortable. And they have heat.”

      A grand stone fireplace stood cold and empty. Visions of a roaring flame, and maybe something roasting on a spit, crowded her mind. “How strange to think that your ancestors have lived here since the day it was built.”

      “They haven’t.” He stared up at a carved crest above the fireplace. “Gaylord Drummond lost the whole estate in a game of dice in the eighteenth century. That’s how some of the Drummonds ended up in America. He gambled and drank away everything they owned except the one mysterious cup everyone’s so excited about, so his three sons took off for the untamed shores of the New World to make their fortunes. There they apparently split up the cup and each took a piece, vowing to reunite it one day.” His stony gaze still rested on the chiseled stone.

      “And