The Lady and the Laird. Nicola Cornick

disquiet as she grabbed her candle and opened the door a bare few inches, enough to slide out. She stole silently along the corridor to the tower stair. It was not that Forres Castle frightened her. She had grown up here and she knew every nook and cranny of the ancient building, all its secrets and all its ghosts. It was flesh and blood she feared, not the supernatural. She could not afford to get caught. She never got into trouble, never did anything wrong. Alice was the impetuous one, tumbling from one scrape into another. Lucy was good.

      Nevertheless when she had drawn the bolt on the heavy door at the base of the stairs and pushed it gently open, she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the night. The breeze was soft on her face, laced with the scents of the sea and the soapy smell of the gorse. The sound of the distant waves mingled with the sighing of the pines. The moon was sickle-sharp and golden in a sky of deep velvet. For a moment Lucy had the mad idea to go running across the lawns and down to the sea, to feel the cool sand between her toes and the lap of the cold water on her bare legs.

      Of course she would never do it. She was far too well behaved.

      With a little sigh she bent to collect the shattered pieces of the blue-and-white pot. The maids would notice the loss and would no doubt report it. Her father would be upset, for it had been one of the late duchess’s favorite pieces. There would be questions and explanations; lies. She and Alice would have to admit that they had broken it, just not that it had happened when they had been leaning out of the window to ogle young men. She hoped her papa would not be too disappointed in her.

      “Can I help you with that?”

      Lucy jumped and spun around, the shards falling for a second time from her fingers. Robert Methven was standing facing her, his back to the sea. Up close he was as tall, as broad as he had seemed from her vantage point above.

      “I didn’t know anyone was there,” Lucy blurted out.

      She saw him smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He bent down and picked up the pieces, handing them to her gravely.

      “Why don’t you put them down on the balustrade,” he suggested, “before you drop them again?”

      “Oh no,” Lucy said. “I have to go. I mean...” But she made no move to scuttle back to the tower door. “What are you doing out here in the dark?” she asked, after a moment.

      He shrugged, a quick, dismissive movement. “The company isn’t really to my taste.”

      “Wilfred, I suppose,” Lucy said. “I’m sorry, he’s quite horrible.”

      “I don’t particularly mind,” Robert Methven said. “But I would not choose to spend time with him.”

      “Neither would I,” Lucy said, “and he’s my cousin.”

      “Oh, bad luck,” Methven said. “That means you must be—”

      “Lucy,” Lucy said. “Lucy MacMorlan.”

      “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Lucy.”

      “And you are Robert Methven,” Lucy said.

      He bowed.

      “You’re nice,” Lucy said.

      He smiled at the note of surprise in her voice. “Thank you.”

      “Aren’t we supposed to be enemies?” Lucy said.

      His smile broadened. “Do you want us to be?”

      “Oh no,” Lucy said. “It’s old history.”

      “Old history has a tight grip sometimes,” Robert Methven said. “Our families have hated each other for generations.”

      “Papa thinks feuds are foolish,” Lucy said. She watched the play of moonlight across his face, the way it accentuated the planes and hollows, emphasizing some features and hiding others. It was oddly compelling. She felt a strange tug of emotion deep inside.

      “That’s why I am here tonight,” Robert Methven said. “To put history behind us.” He nodded toward the pot in her hands. “How did that happen?”

      “Oh...” Lucy blushed. “The window was open and the curtain caught it and knocked it over.”

      Methven laughed. “My brother, Gregor, and I are always getting into trouble for stuff like that.”

      “I don’t believe you,” Lucy said. She looked up at his tall silhouette against the deep blue of the night sky. “You are far too grown-up to get into trouble.”

      Robert Methven laughed. “You might think so, but my grandfather is a tyrant. We are always falling foul of his rules.”

      Lucy became aware that the sharp corners of the broken pottery were digging into her palms and that her bare toes were beginning to chill within her thin silk slippers. She wondered what on earth she was doing standing here in her nightclothes talking to Robert Methven, of all people.

      “I must go,” she said again.

      He made no effort to detain her. But he did smile. “Good night, then, Lady Lucy,” he said.

      At the door Lucy paused and turned. “You won’t give me away, will you?” she asked carefully. “I don’t want to get into trouble.”

      He laughed. “I’d never give you away.”

      “Promise?” Lucy said.

      He came right up to her. She could smell the smoke and fresh air on him and see the white slash of his teeth as he smiled. It made her feel a little bit dizzy and she had no notion why.

      “I promise,” he said.

      He bent and kissed her. It was light and brief, but still it left her so breathless and shaken that for a moment she stayed quite motionless with the surprise, the shards of the pot forgotten in her hands.

      “Was that your first kiss?” Robert asked. She could hear a smile in his voice.

      “Yes.” She spoke without thinking, too honest and innocent for artifice.

      “Did you like it?”

      Lucy frowned. The sensations inside her were too new and confusing to be easily described, but she did know that what she felt was very different from simple liking.

      “I don’t know,” she said.

      He laughed. “Would you like to do it again so you can decide?”

      Sudden, wicked excitement curled inside Lucy, giving her the answer. “Yes,” she whispered.

      He took the pieces of the pot very carefully from her hands and laid them down on the stone balustrade. He put his arms around her and drew her closer to him so that her hands were resting against his chest. The texture of his jacket felt smooth under her palms. She felt extraordinarily shy all of a sudden and might have pulled away, but then he kissed her and the shyness fled, lost in a sensation of sweetness and a warmth that made her tingle with excitement. Her head spinning, she dug her fingers into his jacket to steady herself. Her heart was beating a fierce drumbeat. She felt fragile and could not stop herself from trembling.

      Then, too soon, it was over and he stepped back, releasing her gently. For a second the moonlight illuminated his expression, surprise, puzzlement perhaps, the flicker of something she could not read or understand in his eyes. Yet when he spoke he sounded exactly the same.

      “Thank you,” he said.

      Lucy did not know what you were supposed to do after you had kissed someone, and now she felt very shy all over again, so she grabbed the pieces of the pot, mumbled a good-night and hurried away so quickly that she almost tripped over the hem of her robe. She sped up the dark spiral of the stair without really noticing the stone steps beneath her flying feet. Her mind was too full of Robert Methven’s kiss for her to be able to think of anything else.

      Alice was asleep when she got back to their bedroom. Looking at her serene face, Lucy could