Was it possible . . .
Whirling, Leah took to the stairs, spiraling up a floor, and into the hallway with the family bedchambers.
Fox’s door stood ajar. Had it been like that before?
He slept in the principal bedchamber. The same room that lairds of old would have occupied.
Leah had never been in Fox’s bedroom. He had told her to leave it be, as its current furnishings suited him. The maids cleaned it. William saw to Fox’s other needs, when necessary, and Fox wasn’t the sort of man to rely on a valet.
Fox certainly hadn’tinvitedLeah into his room.
Hesitantly, she pushed the door fully open and peered inside.
There was no immediate sign of Madeline.
An enormous poster bed sat to the right, the red velvet bed curtains loosely pulled back. Two overstuffed chairs flanked the fireplace and a small writing desk sat underneath the window. A ponderous chest of drawers that had likely seen the reign of Elizabeth I stood immediately opposite the door. White filigreed plaster adorned the ceiling. Light streamed through the one large window, illuminating the dark wood paneling—another remnant of the castle’s early days.
In short, the entire bedchamber felt like an homage to the first lairds who ruled here—dark, masculine, and brooding.
Though, Leah supposed, that description fit the current laird, too.
Overall, the space was relatively tidy. Fox didn’t like servants moving his things around, and so they tread lightly here. A jacket hung over the back of one chair. Two shirts draped across another. Shaving soap, a cup, and a razor rested on the marble-topped shaving stand, soap foam clinging to the cup’s edge.
Leah took a few hesitant steps into the room. The scent of sandalwood lingered and mixed with under-notes of leather and man. She sucked in a deliberate lungful of it.
Taking another step, she ran a finger along the edge of the shaving stand, imagining Fox standing here each morning, scraping the razor up his cheek.
How unbearably private it felt.
Intimate and forbidden.
Gracious, Leah, at least pretend to look for Madeline, the sensible part of her urged.
The non-sensible part stepped over to the chairs and grasped one of Fox’s shirts, lifting it to her nose.
Man and sandalwood and leather.
She closed her eyes, clutching the soft linen to her face.
Had the woman in the letters cared for Fox in this way? Unlike Leah, had she been privy to his personal space, tending to his things?
Leah’s eyes darted to the large bed, heart a pulse in her throat. How easy to imagine him sleeping there. Was he a sprawling sleeper, as Ethan had been as a child—limbs akimbo, head lolled with abandon? Or was he like Malcolm, tight and curling into himself, as if protecting something even in slumber?
And how cruel to be so close—night after night—and still know so little.
Unable to help it, she wandered over to the writing desk—an inkwell, two quill pens, and three folded letters. Not much, in short. Two of the letters were addressed to Lord Hadley, while the other . . .
She squinted.
Was that . . . ? Was it addressed to the Archbishop of Canterbury?
Leah frowned.
Why on earth was Fox corresponding with the Archbishop of Canterbury? After Queen Victoria, the Archbishop was the head of the Church of England. How strange that her husband would have dealings with such an august person.
As far as she knew, he had left for India an impoverished soldier and returned a wealthy nabob with lofty connections.
Whathadhappened to Fox in India?!
