Taylor shifted a bit in her sleep, pulling Memphis back to the now, and he glanced out the window to see they were at the Killicrankie roundabout, which exited to the grounds of the estate.
He roused Taylor from her slumber. She came awake immediately, eyes wide and distant.
“Nightmare?” he asked.
She cleared her throat and whispered, “Yes.” Honest and simple, which made him feel more connected to her than before. If she wouldn’t let him in, he didn’t have a chance; by admitting her fears, showing him her weakness, she was opening the door a bit.
She yawned and her jaw cracked. She opened her ever-present notebook to a fresh page.
Where are we?
“Almost there. We’ve just taken the roundabout into Dulsie.”
She looked around and smiled, and he could tell she was charmed. The farmland turned into rolling hills of heather, then a sudden forest, huge fir trees placed so closely together that getting a hand between the trunks would be a challenge. When things spread out a bit, larches, transplanted sequoias, oak, birch and aspen abounded.
The road twisted into the woods for thirteen miles before it opened into a glen, tucked into the base of the mountains, with a small loch that fed the burns throughout the estate. The entry was stone, forty feet high, a massive archway with steel gates that could be closed against entrants.
A chicken, flushed from the heather on the side of the road, burst across the drive. Taylor giggled. Memphis did his best not to cringe at the sound; it wasn’t the open, carefree laugh he was used to hearing from her.
It’s huge. I’ve never seen such a big chicken.
“They’re Buff Orpingtons. Free-range, at that. Heavenly eating.”
The car drove on, the span of three more heartbeats. He watched her face as the house came into view, almost laughed aloud at the surprise he saw there. She turned to him, eyes shining in delight, and he simply placed his arm around her shoulder and squeezed.
“Welcome home,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Taylor knew her jaw was on the floor, but she couldn’t help herself. Memphis had assured her that the house in Scotland was “a cobwebby old thing.” Impossible to heat. That’s what she’d quoted Sam, too, thinking he was telling at least part of the truth. He’d always downplayed his status in the aristocracy, and she’d felt a connection to him because of that—the desire to make it on your own, to alter your past, to force your parents’ aspirations away and lead your own life, free of the encumbrances that came with wealth.
What a lying sack of shit he was. Freaking viscount.
The “house” was a full-fledged castle, right out of her wildest imagination. Complete with towers and turrets and crenellations, and what used to be a moat, now filled with grass and gravel. There was even a portcullis, topped with leering gargoyles. It was almost as if Memphis had a checklist and was mining about in her head, looking for all the things she dreamed about as a girl, then making sure they were incorporated into his home. The exterior was whitewashed stucco instead of stone, with dark brown timbers and a gray slate roof that gave it the look of a Tudor mansion mated with a French château. It was monstrous.
Just how big is this place?
He scuffed his foot in the gravel of the forecourt like a little boy, obviously uncomfortable. She knew the British didn’t approach things like size and luxury the way Americans did.
“Well, you know, Dulsie Castle is no bigger than most country houses of this period. We’ve added on this century, a public tearoom and expanded banquet hall, so it can be used for tours and weddings and such. And the grounds are extensive. There’s a great deal of sport round here, history, that lot. People come caravanning, or stay in the village below.”
Come on. Spill.
He ducked his head, she didn’t know if it was shame or sheer pleasure in surprising her. “It’s not that large, truly. We only have seventeen bedrooms.”
She did some mental calculating based on her own parents’ home, with its six bedrooms and eight baths, and came up with something in the range of about 50,000 square feet. She tried to be nonchalant.
I can see why it would be hard to heat.
He barked out a laugh and she felt absurdly pleased for amusing him.
“I wasn’t kidding, you know. It is hard to heat, and the taxes truly are crippling. That’s why we offset with public tours. But they only get into the first two floors, and access to the attics on Samhain for ghost stories, and we close from the fifteenth of November until the Ides of March. The top floors are all private quarters, and the grounds are segmented as well. Plenty of privacy. And plenty of places to lounge about, if you choose. Or, if you’re feeling up to it, you can get your hands dirty. This is a working estate—you saw the chickens. We also have sheep, Highland cattle, gardens and a deer park. Whatever my princess wants, my princess shall have.”
She rolled her eyes, but inside couldn’t help but feel excited. In addition to the crazy-fabulous castle, she was surrounded by natural beauty, and itched to start exploring.
They exited the Range Rover, Jacques holding the door and bestowing another happy smile, and she could smell the unique scents that went along with a mountain farm. Clean, cool air and sparkling water, fallen leaves, manure and hay, the vanilla and chocolate scents of the evergreen trees, the softly aromatic heather. Cinnamon and yeast and garlic, too. Her stomach growled unceremoniously.
Memphis could smell it as well. She watched his nose twitching.
“Cook’s gone and outdone herself now, that smells like venison stew. And there will be apple frushie for pudding.” He looked like an eight-year-old boy who’d just found out he gets to eat with the adults for the first time.
She wondered briefly if he’d brought other women here, to charm and shock with his largesse, but decided against it. Memphis may be a cad, but she couldn’t imagine him dragging just anyone home. She got the distinct impression that this display was uniquely for her benefit.
“Let me show you round, get you settled. You can freshen up and rest before we eat.”
She craned her neck to look up at the tower above the keep, framed in dark storm clouds, the sky coated in amber from the sun setting early this far north, all the while cursing herself. This was Memphis’s plan all along, letting her see just what she might have a chance to be a part of. And like Elizabeth Bennet, upon seeing Mr. Darcy’s Pemberley for the first time and realizing what she passed up, she felt momentarily foolish.
She heard Sam’s disgusted snort in her ear, like she was sitting on the good angel side of things, and nearly laughed aloud. Even from four thousand miles away, her best friend had sway. Taylor could just hear her now: This isn’t your life. This isn’t your world. This is just an escape. You don’t belong here. You’d do best to remember that.
Practical Sam. Who’d been in love with the same man since she was fifteen.
Memphis was standing at the top of the stairs, waiting for her. She mentally shoved Sam off her shoulder, tossed him a smile, blushing slightly because she knew he’d been watching the awed thoughts scroll across her face. It took a lot to surprise her, and she was quite surprised.
The inside of the castle was as opulent and impressive as she could expect, all done up for Christmas: fresh wreaths and trees and garlands everywhere, with centuries-old furniture, weapons, decor, impossibly thick stone walls and wide stairwells lined with elegant polished wood balustrades. Chandeliers and antlers and rugs and priceless oils; oversize family portraits showed the ancestral facial structure that was clearly stamped on Memphis’s features, an echo of his past. He belonged here. It was actually the first time she’d ever seen him so very much at home.