“What is it about classic literature that you find so boring?” she queried defensively.
“Everything.” He sniffed, his despair replaced by disgust. “I read penny dreadfuls because they have intrigue and monsters and murder. All of the things that thrill and inspire. We read about love and melancholy and it’s so dull.”
“Indeed?” Mena asked, an idea beginning to stir. “What if I told you that I would keep your secret for three days, if you read three separate works that I specifically pick out for you?”
“I’ll do it.” Andrew sighed and looked down at Rune, who’d just wiped a streak of drool on his trousers. “Which ones?” he asked skeptically.
“What if I said that in one of them, a woman is violently raped by two men, and they cut off her hands and her tongue to keep their secret? Then her father kills them and bakes them into a pie which he feeds to his enemy? Would you find that interesting?”
“Aye.” Andrew nodded vehemently, his eyes round with shock.
“Well, that’s Shakespeare for you.”
“Nay!” he said in disbelief.
“Titus Andronicus.” Mena nodded, feeling a thrill at having enraptured the attention of one previously so morose. “Or what about a novel that accounts a man who was betrayed by an evil villain and is wrongly imprisoned for being a Bonapartist. This man escapes from prison and exacts terrible and sometimes violent revenge on all those who wronged him.”
“I’ll read that one.” Andrew nodded.
“Yes, you will.” Mena smiled victoriously. “But you can only read The Count of Monte Cristo in French.”
His face fell into a droll sort of acceptance. “All right, Miss Lockhart, ye win, I’ll learn my French.”
“Excellent!” Mena stood and beamed at him. “Thank you for being a darling, and I promise that you can trust me with your secret … for three days, Andrew. That is all I dare give you.”
Andrew nodded solemnly. “Three days.”
Looking around the messy room, she brushed an errant puff of goose down from her skirts. “Well, let’s tidy up in here, shall we? Before one of the staff discovers our intrigue.”
“Aye.” Andrew set the puppy on the floor, and Rune chased a ball of fluff under the bed. “Ye know, Miss Lockhart,” he mumbled as he turned back to his bucket and retrieved the scrub brush. “I’m glad ye’re here.”
“Thank you, Andrew,” she said, turning to hide eyes grown misty. “I am, too. Very glad, indeed.”
* * *
Liam had never been the kind of man to kneel, even in a church. The old oak pew groaned beneath his weight as he sat, and he glanced around Ravencroft’s chapel to ensure his solitude. Centuries had tarnished the ornate candelabra on the decorated altar, and the late afternoon light filtered through the stained glass that surrounded it on three sides. The window depicting a compassionate and loving Redeemer, resplendent in red robes, glowed in the middle of adjacent renderings of Saint George, the patron saint of warriors, and Saint Andrew, the patron saint of Scotland.
He would not be welcomed into their exalted presence, Liam knew that. His very existence was an affront to the man they called the Prince of Peace. But something in his restless soul had drawn him to this silent, hallowed place. Guilt, maybe. A sense of contrition tinged with emptiness. When one was haunted by the ghosts of the past, or faced with a horrible possibility, where did one turn to find clarity?
He could think of nowhere else.
It was no ghost who’d tried to kill him today. But a man. Someone strong enough to push that barrel from its nest.
It had been his personal consideration of all the people who might want him dead that had driven him to this place, beneath which several generations of Mackenzie lairds were entombed.
His brother Thorne, who still saw their father when he looked at Liam. Who blamed him for so much, including Colleen’s death.
The ever-present Jani, who’d truly glimpsed the Demon Highlander more than any other person on this earth. The gentle boy had scrubbed the blood of his own countrymen off Liam’s uniform more times than he could count. Had he been biding his time, waiting until Liam felt not only safe, but affectionate toward the boy, to take the revenge he rightfully deserved?
Then … there was his own child. His heir. Though Andrew was of smaller stature than him, he teetered on the cusp of manhood. He was sturdy … but was he strong enough? Maybe his hatred had lent him the might he’d needed to push that barrel. Maybe he wouldn’t wait until he could look Liam in the eye to challenge him, but would use his cunning and intellect, instead of brute strength and physical prowess.
The thought lodged in the cavity of his chest, driven like a wedge with a mallet, until the pressure was more than Liam could possibly bear. His chest refused to expand. Guilt and regret were heavy mantles, smothering him until he fought for breath.
Lost in his struggle, Liam barely noted the whisper of soft slippers against the long violet carpet leading up the aisle until the ruffle of a golden skirt teased at his peripheral vision.
He didn’t want to look at her. She was a temptation that didn’t belong in this sacred place. To gaze upon her was to commit a dozen sins at least. How was it that God could grant someone so angelic a body crafted for little else but wickedness?
“Forgive me if I’m disturbing you.” His governess’s voice permeated the stillness and warmed the cold stones of the walls with a sacrosanct melody. Like the song of a seraphim in spoken form. “I confess I didn’t expect to find you here.”