Kitabı oku: «Spring Skies Over Bluebell Castle», sayfa 4

A few moments later, her bedroom door flew open to bang against the flimsy wall, jolting Lucie upright at the noise. Bright light spilled in through the window as Constance flung open the curtains then turned to face her, fists on her hips. ‘Lucinda Mary Kennington, you stop that now!’ Though her voice quavered a little, there was no mistaking the determined gleam in her mother’s eye. ‘You’ve told me you’ve done nothing wrong, so stop acting like you’re guilty. I want you up and in that shower, right this minute.’ Her delicate nose wrinkled. ‘It smells dreadful in here. You’re 27, not 17, far too old to sulk.’

Shocked at this new assertive side her mother had never shown before, Lucie allowed herself to be herded into the little bathroom. When she emerged from behind the flimsy plastic curtain it was to find her grubby pyjamas had been replaced with clean jeans and a jumper, and her favourite pair of fuzzy socks.

Feeling better than she had for days, Lucie tugged a comb through her long hair as she wandered back into her bedroom to find the bed stripped bare and the window open to let in a chilly, but blessedly fresh breeze. The mugs, plates and other detritus she’d accumulated had all been swept away. Catching a hint of lemon polish in the air, Lucie shook her head in amazement. In the time she’d been in the shower, Constance had even managed to wipe a duster around the room.

Wondering which version of her mother awaited her, Lucie slunk into the small open-plan living space they shared to find a fresh cup of tea and a plate of toast waiting on the little gateleg table squeezed beneath the window. A copy of The Times lay open beside her plate, with something circled in biro. Curious, Lucie picked up the paper as she sat down, eyes scanning the open page. It was the Register section, where people placed announcements of births, deaths, marriages and—she blinked at the circled entry—advertisements.

Wanted: art historian, archivist, or other expert with relevant skills, to undertake a full assessment and survey of the Ludworth Collection at Camland Castle, Derbyshire. Full board and reasonable expenses covered for an initial two-month period, with room for extension on proof of need. No timewasters. Immediate start preferred. Apply to Sir Arthur Ludworth with full CV and covering letter to Ludworth@CamlandCastle.co.uk.

‘Well, what do you think, darling?’ Constance asked as she slipped into the opposite chair with her own cup of tea.

‘What do I think about what?’ When her mother raised a sculpted eyebrow, Lucie prodded a finger at the advert. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘I think it would be prefect for you, just what you need to keep yourself occupied and a wonderful chance to get out of London for a bit. Some fresh air would do you the world of good and think how exciting it would be. The chance to live in a castle, for heaven’s sake, even if it’s only for a couple of months!’ Constance gestured around the little room which even with her very best efforts to make homely was about as far from a castle as it was possible to get.

‘But, I can’t just up and leave you, and what if Witherby’s want to interview me again?’ Lucie still couldn’t get her head around what her mum was suggesting.

‘Of course you can leave me, darling, I’m not completely helpless.’ Constance glanced down at her tea, a delicate blush heating her pale cheeks. ‘Although I’ve given a fair impression otherwise for far too long. I can manage perfectly well here on my own, better in fact if I thought you were doing something with your life other than worrying about me.’ She straightened up, the little flash of steel back in her eye. ‘And as for whatever that nonsense is with Witherby’s—’ she held up a hand before Lucie could interject ‘—I know, you’ve told me you can’t talk to me about it, darling, but it doesn’t mean I can’t be furious about the way they’re treating you. What do they expect you to do? Sit here in suspended animation until they finally get their backsides in gear?’

‘I can’t leave town, Mum. I just can’t.’ Wouldn’t running away just make her look guilty? Lucie sipped her tea, half-amazed she was even given credence to the idea. But then again, didn’t it feel like Witherby’s were already treating her like the guilty party? Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t…

‘You’ll have your phone with you, so if they need to speak to you again, they can contact you,’ Constance pointed out.

‘I probably won’t even get it. This Sir Arthur Ludworth, whoever he is, is probably looking for someone with a lot more experience…’ Was she actually considering this crazy idea? Apparently so.

‘That’s as maybe, but there’s no harm in applying, is there?’

‘I suppose not.’ And that was how Lucie found herself plonked on the sofa with her laptop on her knee as she worked and reworked her covering letter, trying to find the right combination of words to indicate she was immediately available without mentioning her current suspension. If she made it as far as the interview stage, she would speak to Sir Arthur face-to-face about what had happened, she reassured her pang of conscience.

*

A week later, Lucie was lugging her suitcase down the steps of the intercity train she’d boarded at St Pancras several hours previously. The crowds on the platform thinned out as her fellow travellers marched off in different directions, each apparently secure in their onward journey.

Unlike Lucie.

There’d been no interview stage, just a cursory reply accepting her application with instruction to report to the castle no later than the tenth of the month and a vague instruction that catching the train would be her best option. Her Google searches hadn’t revealed a great deal about the Ludworths or Camland Castle other than a dubious link to Arthurian legend she’d quickly dismissed. No pictures of the family beyond the odd image on the Hello! website of a middle-aged, slightly portly man. In one he was dressed in full top hat and tails at Ascot, the caption beneath it stating simply ‘Baronet Ludworth’. Another showed the same man in amongst a group of similarly aged men clad in dinner jackets and women in flowing evening dresses, snapped at some grand party held to celebrate the birthday of somebody she’d never heard of.

There were plenty of images of the castle walls, a few that showed a glimpse of grey stone in the distance taken through thick, high iron gates and tree cover, so clearly the castle wasn’t open to the public. Most of the tourist photos online were of the village that shared a name with the castle, and showed a mix of stone cottages, a handful of shops and a pub. The surrounding dales looked wild and untamed, and her heart had fluttered in both excitement and a little trepidation at living in the shadow of those mysterious hills. The family holidays she’d enjoyed as a child hadn’t involved a lot of trekking or hiking and she could imagine how easy it would be to get lost in that beautiful, if bleak, Derbyshire wilderness. The pictures which had really captured her imagination, though, were those accompanying a feature article listing some of Britain’s hidden natural treasures. Beneath the tangled limbs of what was clearly an ancient wood, a sea of dancing bluebells spread out to a faded blur in the distance. The ground looked untouched, as though no one had walked beneath those ancient boughs for years. A magical place, like the photographer had strayed through the barrier between reality and fantasy and if the observer just looked hard enough, they might spot a fairy, or sprite peeking out between the roots of one of the ancient oaks. Would she get a chance to see it with her own eyes? Gosh, she hoped so.

Of the Arthur Ludworths listed on social media, none looked to be likely candidates, although she couldn’t be sure as several of the accounts had their security settings locked so she could do no more than view their most basic information. A reference she’d found in the Gazette to Sir Arthur’s recent listing on the Roll of Baronets had led her down a rabbit warren of searches into the weird and wonderful world of the Honours and Peerage system, fascinating but ultimately worthless to the job she’d been hired to do.

As she wrestled with the stubborn handle on her suitcase which was refusing to be pulled out, Lucie spotted a man dressed in the navy and red uniform of the local rail network and gave him a wave. ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for the next train to Camland?’

Tucking the signal paddle he was holding into one voluminous trouser pocket, the guard retrieved a timetable from the other. ‘You’ll be wanting Platform 7B, my love.’ He pointed to the farthest platform from where they were standing, and then to a concrete and corrugated panel construction behind him. ‘Up and over the bridge, there.’

‘Okay, thank you!’ Lucie staggered a little as her final tug released the locking mechanism and the handle of her case flew up.

‘Need a hand with that, my love?’

Though she knew he meant nothing by it, and likely referred to every female he encountered from 8 to 80 in the same manner, the man’s colloquial endearment rankled her feminist sensibilities almost as much as his assumption she couldn’t manage her own luggage. ‘I’ll be fine, thanks. Platform 7B, right?’

‘Up and over.’ The guard nodded, then turned away towards what looked like the main ticket office. The moment he stepped inside, a vicious whip of cold wind blew down the platform, followed by an ominous rumble from the dark clouds overhead. Lucie glanced from the ticket office to the far platform that appeared to offer no form of shelter with a sigh. Up and over it was.

By the time she’d panted her way to the top of the concrete incline and onto the bridge itself, Lucie was regretting not accepting the guard’s offer of assistance. In a panic over what might be deemed suitable clothing for residing in a castle, she’d stuffed pretty much the entire contents of her wardrobe into her suitcase—including a bottle-green velvet formal dress she’d found in a charity shop for the university leavers’ ball that no one had invited her to. In addition to the weight of her case, the rucksack on her back was stuffed to bursting with every reference book and cataloguing guide in her considerable collection. Rubbing her red and aching palm against her leg, Lucie hitched the rucksack a little higher on her back, ignoring the dull ache spreading across her shoulders. Switching hands, she towed the case over the bridge, thankful that at least the walk down the opposite slope would be easier.

When the case banged into her ankle for the third time, its weight and the momentum of the slope causing it to careen a little unsteadily, she realised she’d been too quick in giving those thanks. With a huff and an angry shove that sent the unwitting cause of her misery spinning into the chain link fence lining the rear of the station platform, Lucie sank down onto the cold metal bench nearby. She scanned up and down the platform for an electronic sign, or a timetable noticeboard at least, but there was nothing as far as she could see. There was nothing she could do, it seemed, but wait.

Wanting to make a good impression, she’d chosen to wear a skirt suit and a pair of low heels, teamed with her best wool coat. A decision she now regretted as the cold wind whistled past her once more, sending a run of goose bumps over legs clad only in thin nylon tights. To add insult to injury, a fine drizzle began to fall from the clouds overhead, soaking through the wool of her coat in a matter of minutes. Unable to face the return journey back over the bridge, and with no idea how much longer she would have to wait, Lucie tugged a beret from her pocket to cover her hair, hunched her shoulders and willed the train to hurry up.

Ten long minutes later, a single carriage train pulled up at the platform disgorging several passengers who scurried past Lucie with barely a glance. With no sign of any member of staff around, Lucie approached the open door of the train and peered inside just as the internal door to the driver’s area slid back. ‘Eee, you startled me, love!’ A grey-haired man with the kind of creases on his cheeks that said he smiled a lot clutched at his chest and staggered back in an exaggerated movement, the twinkle in his eyes telling her there was no harm done. ‘Are you all right, there?’ he added, taking in her bedraggled state with a quick once-over.

‘I’m looking for the train to Camland.’

‘Then you’re in the right place. Hop on, love, and I’ll get you there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, or forty-seven minutes if you go by what the timetable says.’

Grateful at the chance of shelter, Lucie hurried to retrieve her suitcase, and didn’t demur when the driver reached down to help her lift it into the train. ‘Blimey, love, you running away to join the circus?’

His kind, familiar manner was so unlike the brisk efficiency of London, she smiled. She would have to get used to being called ‘love’ or spend the next couple of months in permanent offence if he and the guard she’d spoken to previously were anything to go by. It could be worse, she mused, unbuttoning her wet coat and hooking it over the back of the seat in front of her. She’d take chatty over being ignored any day of the week. The door shushed closed behind her, and Lucie settled back in her seat, grateful for the warmth of the carriage. Well, for the first few minutes until she could feel dampness beneath her armpits and her wet coat started to steam. The central heating on the train had clearly been set to tropical.

Standing up, she tugged open the nearest window with a sigh of relief as a blast of cold air hit her glowing face, followed swiftly by a much less wanted shower of raindrops. Another gust drove more rain through the open window and she shoved it closed with a gasp. She could either boil or drown. Great.

Over the next ten minutes, the train door opened and closed as a handful of other passengers climbed aboard. As was human nature, they scattered around the carriage with as much space between each other as possible, and were soon plugged into headphones, or had their noses buried in e-readers, tablets or paperback books. Not everyone was social in this part of the world, apparently, and Lucie was grateful for that as it gave her time to gather her wits and think about what lay ahead.

From almost the moment she’d opened the email offering her the position at Camland, she’d been thinking about what she should say if Sir Arthur asked any awkward questions about why she’d left her position at Witherby’s. On her application, she’d said she wanted the chance to explore a collection in depth, and highlighted the six months she’d spent in the cataloguing and records section at the auction house as part of her training. Not a lie, but also not the truth, and it was beginning to sit uncomfortably with her. That bloody non-disclosure agreement had tied her hands. Then again, who in their right mind would let someone suspected of what she’d been accused of doing cross their threshold? Talk about a Catch-22 situation. She’d just have to hope the topic didn’t come up. As the train pulled out of the station, she leant her head back, closed her eyes and began to run over the introductory speech she’d been working on.

*

In what seemed like a matter of moments, Lucie woke to a hand shaking her shoulder lightly. ‘Wake up, love, this is the end of the line.’

Panic and adrenaline shot through her. ‘Have I missed my stop?’

The driver shook his head with an amused smile. ‘No, love, Camland is the end of the line. The end of the world some folks might say.’

Fuzzy from the heat and her impromptu nap, Lucie tried to concentrate as she collected her belongings, shrugging on her now only slightly damp coat and shouldering the cursed backpack once more. When she reached the luggage area, it was to find the driver had already lifted her suitcase down onto the platform and popped up the handle with apparently no problems. ‘That’s very kind of you, thanks.’

‘My pleasure, love. Now you know where you’re headed?’

‘The castle. I’m hoping it shouldn’t be too hard to find,’ she said with a grin.

The driver laughed. ‘Not hard at all, love. Just keep heading up until you can’t go any further.’

Oh. Great. Trying not to let her smile slip, Lucie gave him a wave and trundled down the little platform towards the open gap at the end which led onto a tiny car park big enough for no more than a dozen cars. ‘The end of the world, indeed,’ she murmured to herself at the idea of any place small enough to manage with so little parking.

The stone cottages she’d seen on her computer screen looked a little grimmer in real life, set as they were against a heavily leaden sky. Without the pretty hanging baskets and blooming window boxes of summer it was easy to see the peeling paint, the cracked and weathered pathways, the moss on the roof tiles. The front of more than one was marred with the ugly wheelie bins that pervaded housing estates throughout the country, even remote areas such as this, it seemed.

Glancing left, then right, it wasn’t immediately obvious to Lucie which way she should go, and the tiny car park didn’t bear something as metropolitan as a taxi rank. Did they do Uber in Derbyshire? Lucie retrieved her phone from her pocket, stared at the single bar on her screen and tucked it away with a sigh. They might do Uber, but they didn’t do 3G.

The path to her right was the more appealing of the two, with its gentle downward slope, but that’s not what the driver’s instruction had been. Taking a deep breath, Lucie grasped the handle of her suitcase and turned left. Up, the driver had said, and boy, he wasn’t kidding.

CHAPTER FIVE

The yammering and barking of what sounded like every dog in the castle echoed around the great hall, the wild cacophony enough to draw Arthur out of his bedroom where he’d been changing his shirt ready for dinner. With only the cuffs on his navy-blue dress shirt buttoned, he strode along the landing then leaned over the thick oak bannister that edged the top of the stairs. Like a churning maelstrom of black, gold and brindle fur, the dogs circled a small black-clad figure who was edging away towards the side of the room. ‘Sit!’ Arthur bellowed, gratified as the noise cut off in an instant as he bounded down the stairs.

‘What the hell is all the fuss about…?’ He glowered at the now quivering pack of dogs who lay flat on their bellies, all eyes fixed on him.

‘I…I did knock several times, but nobody answered.’

The soft response drew his eyes away from the unruly mongrels he was unfortunate enough to call his pets towards the small woman perched awkwardly on the edge of one of the sofas which lined the room, a large backpack making it impossible for her to sit properly. Beneath a sorry looking beret, he could make out a straggle of dark red hair and a smudge of pale skin. Weaving through the dogs, Arthur moved closer and realised her coat wasn’t black as he’d first imagined, but a paler grey turned dark by the rain pummelling the windows outside.

‘I didn’t mean for you to sit,’ he said, unable to help a grin as he realised it wasn’t only the dogs who’d responded automatically to his harsh command. Offering his hand, he nudged Nimrod, who’d planted himself at the woman’s feet, gently aside. ‘And I’m sorry for the unholy greeting you received from this rabble.’ A whine came from beside his hip, and Arthur dropped his free hand to caress the silken ears of Bella, the other of the pair of greyhounds who’d come over seeking forgiveness.

When the woman continued to gawk up at him, Arthur shook his extended fingers impatiently in her direction. ‘Let me give you a hand up and out of that wet coat, you’ll catch a chill.’

‘I’m not the only one,’ she replied, cheeks flaming with colour.

Following her gaze downwards, Arthur noted the expanse of bare chest showing through the open sides of his shirt and drop his hand to hurriedly button it. ‘Sorry, I was dressing for dinner when these hell hounds started up.’ Once he looked halfway decent, he extended his hand once more. ‘Arthur Ludworth, at your service, Miss…?’

Fingers freezing a couple of inches from his, the woman’s head jerked up, giving him a first full glimpse of her face. And what a face, it was. Like one of the carved marble statues in the long gallery, her alabaster skin was smooth and flawless. Those deep-set green eyes were nothing like the dead stares of those goddesses and nymphs though. Nor the mane of glorious russet red hair, a shade or two deeper than a fox’s pelt, that spilled down her back now she’d tugged off that ugly hat. ‘A…Arthur Ludworth? As in Sir Arthur Ludworth?’

‘That’s right.’ From the startled expression on her face she’d clearly been expecting someone else. ‘I’m sorry, you have me at an advantage.’

‘Oh, yes, I’m Lucinda Kennington, you’re expecting me…’

Ah. The art expert. Bloody Tristan and his stupid idea to post an ad in the paper. Of the dozens of responses to his advert, she’d been one of the few who hadn’t been either a crank or a blatant charlatan. By the time he’d reached Miss Kennington’s email, he’d been about ready to throw his laptop out the window in disgust over so much of his morning wasted.

Her ability to use the correct grammar had been cause enough for celebration even before he’d glanced over the CV she’d attached. Arthur had fired back an immediate response and consigned the remainder of the unread applications to his electronic trash bin. She’d acknowledged his job offer and promised to confirm her arrival date and then he’d heard nothing further. ‘I didn’t know you were arriving today, Miss Kennington, forgive my confusion.’ Mind racing, Arthur wondered how long it would take Mrs W to get a room ready. From the looks of her, their unexpected arrival looked in dire need of a hot shower and a change of clothes.

Russet lashes flickered in surprise. ‘I sent you an email confirming I would be travelling today.’ A warm blush brought colour to her creamy skin, highlighting the delicate arc of her cheekbones, the deep hollows around her vivid eyes. God, she really was quite lovely. The punch of attraction which followed that thought took him by surprise. Delicate porcelain beauties weren’t normally his type. He liked robust girls with laughs as big as their…personalities. He watched, fascinated, as Miss Kennington raised a hand to sweep a stray lock of hair from her forehead. Her wrist was so tiny he found himself wondering if he could span it with his thumb and forefinger. A man his size would have to be gentle around a woman like this. He found the idea oddly appealing.

Giving himself a shake, Arthur pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at the blank space in the top left corner where the signal icon should have been and then rubbed his forehead in frustration. ‘We’ve been having problems with our internet the past couple of days, I didn’t think…’ Problems was putting it mildly. After months of double-billing them because they’d refused to close the old account in his father’s name without a copy of the certificate of probate, their provider had closed off both accounts without warning and was refusing to reinstate the new one Arthur had set up. Unable to get a decent mobile signal for more than a few minutes at a time had resulted in endless dropped calls leaving Arthur ready to scream as he was forced to renegotiate the endless ‘press one for new accounts, press four if you have lost the will to live’ automated menus that served no purpose he could see other than to thwart attempts to speak to an actual human being. Tristan had headed down to the village pub a couple of hours ago to try and use their pay phone in a last-ditch attempt to get the problem resolved.

Miss Kennington visibly shivered, dragging Arthur away from his reverie. Really, he was being the most terrible host, what must she think of him? ‘Here, let me help you with your coat.’ He tugged her to her feet, an action that took almost no effort as she barely seemed to weigh anything, then tried to help her separate the wet wool from the suit jacket beneath it. The material didn’t yield easily resulting in a somewhat undignified tug of war as he pulled her coat one way whilst Miss Kennington wriggled in the other. Thinking it was some kind of game, Nimrod, Bella and a few of the other dogs who’d stayed at his side rather than wander over to bask before the fireplace tried to join in. ‘Get down, Nimrod! You too, Bertie. Bloody hounds, I’ll stick you all out in the stables if you don’t behave.’

‘I’m fine, it’s fine, I can manage,’ Miss Kennington was muttering, her attempts to avoid the dogs and escape her coat more hindrance than help.

‘Just hold still,’ Arthur found himself snapping with more force than he’d intended. Her cheeks flushed red, but at least she stopped faffing around long enough for him to get the soggy coat free. Holding the dripping coat away from himself, Arthur cast a mock-glare over the panting, prancing dogs who seemed delighted he’d won the game and were waiting to see what excitement lay in store for them next. ‘On your beds, go on!’

With expressions that might have broken a softer heart, the mini pack retreated, all apart from Bella who’d taken up station in front of Miss Kennington, seemingly determined to protect her from the others. ‘You’ve won a friend there,’ Arthur said with a grin. When Miss Kennington didn’t return his smile, a terrible thought occurred to him. ‘Unless you don’t like dogs?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not really used to them, that’s all, and you do have rather a lot…’

Arthur let his eyes roam over the motley furballs splayed out before the fire. ‘I’m not sure how we ended up with quite so many, to be honest.’ Other than the fact everyone around knows we’re a bloody soft touch when it came to anything on four paws. ‘They can be a bit overwhelming en masse, but I promise you they’d never cause you any harm.’

To his relief, Miss Kennington dropped her fingers to caress the top of Bella’s head, and the brindle greyhound responded by pressing closer, her entire body vibrating with delight at the attention. ‘She’s beautiful.’

‘That’s Bella,’ Arthur said, unable to keep the note of affection out of his voice. He adored all their dogs, but as Pippin the little terrier was Tristan’s particular pet, Nimrod and Bella held a special place in Arthur’s heart.

Miss Kennington sank into the chair behind her once more as she lavished more attention on the ecstatic greyhound. ‘Hello, Bella, you’re a gorgeous girl, aren’t you?’ Her long fingers stroking over the dog’s head held him mesmerised. Musician’s fingers, he thought, eyes fixated by the neat little nails unadorned with polish, and he wondered if she played an instrument. To everyone’s surprise—not least Arthur’s own—the compulsory music lessons at school had sparked a brief passion for playing the violin. Though the music master had despaired over his chunky fingers, it hadn’t stopped Arthur from learning, just made it a bit harder to find his way around the strings until he’d got the hang on it. As with his rugby, he’d never pursued it seriously, despite the urging of his tutor. What had been the point when his future had been mapped out for him thanks to a bunch of archaic inheritance laws?

Arthur reached for the length of blue rope hanging beside the door. Within moments Maxwell appeared, summoned from the depths of the castle via the bell pull. ‘You rang, Sir Arthur?’

Trying not to roll his eyes at his butler’s studied formality, Arthur gestured towards Miss Kennington. ‘We have a guest, Maxwell. Can you track down Mrs W and make sure a room is made available for Miss Kennington?’

Maxwell inclined his head. ‘I believe Mrs Walters has already prepared the rose room in anticipation of Miss Kennington’s arrival. It shouldn’t need more than the covers turning down.’

Of course she had. Arthur might have known as much, as their housekeeper was the very model of efficiency.

The butler extended one white gloved hand towards the stairs. ‘If you will allow me to escort you, Miss? Arrangements will be made for your luggage to be brought up shortly.’ He shouldered the backpack when Miss Kennington would’ve reached for it.

Her eyes flickered uncertainly between him and Maxwell, so Arthur gave her a reassuring nod. ‘Go on and get settled. I’ll speak to Betsy and ask her to hold dinner for an hour, so you’ll have plenty of time to have a shower and get yourself warmed up.’

‘Oh, you don’t have to go to any trouble on my account.’ That rosy blush highlighted her cheeks once more.

‘It’s no trouble. I’m sure whatever Betsy has prepared can be held for a bit.’ Arthur raised an eyebrow towards Maxwell.

‘Beef and barley stew, sir,’ the butler provided helpfully.

Arthur clapped his hands together. ‘That’s settled then. I’ll speak to Betsy and track down Mrs W. She’ll pop up and see you shortly, just in case there’s anything you need.’

Miss Kennington hesitated before nodding. ‘Thank you.’

With a shrug of one shoulder, Arthur tucked his hands in his pockets and backed up a few steps to watch her follow Maxwell towards the upper floor. ‘It’s no trouble,’ he repeated, wanting to make it clear. ‘This will be your home for the next couple of months, so I want you to be as comfortable as possible.’

He watched her slender figure trailing up the stairs after the butler, a strange sensation tugging at his chest as though he should be the one going with her. Would she like it here? Would she find her room to her satisfaction? Would she want to stay after she got a chance to look around the castle, or would both the castle and its owner fail to pass muster? As the dogs swarmed around his ankles once more, he found himself willing her to glance back over her shoulder. She reached the top of the staircase, hesitated with her hand on the rail, and yes! The instant their gazes met, Arthur felt something, a little zing like he’d touched a charged particle.