Half the paintings.Though he had few fond remembrances of his sire, the portrait galleries he had cultivated at Marchmont had been tremendous.
He stared down at the grimy child before him. “Precisely who are you?”
The lad, who could be no more than eight or nine years of age, squinted. “Olly’s the name.”
“Well, Olly,” he said grimly, “I believe you and I have a great deal to chat about.”
Nothing about this trip to his ancestral home was turning out as he had thought it would. But then again, nothing about his marriage to Catriona was either.
Chapter Sixteen
To say Catrionahad settled into her apartment at Marchmont would have been a prevarication of the first order. There was no settling to be done. The house and grounds were nothing short of a disaster. She and the servants who had traveled with them from London had taken an inventory while Alessandro went to the village in search of more servants.
A quick tour of the interior had revealed a fire had ravaged one of the wings and yet no attempt to repair the damages had been made. Furniture was in a state of disarray, some bearing no dust covers, chairs haphazardly stacked in the gallery, bedchambers laden with dust, the slate roof leaking, plasterwork ruined. The walls of the gallery were distressingly bare, having been relieved of their treasures by Alessandro’s scheming steward.
A man who, if the dirty little scamp inhabiting the home was to be believed, had fled three days ago with his mistress and as much loot as he could carry, fearing the impending arrival of his master. Leaving behind the scamp, who was his ward.
“What a dreadful rotter, abandoning an innocent child whose wellbeing had been entrusted to him, stealing from a man who trusted him,” Catriona muttered to herself as she stood on a chair and hung a freshly aired set of window dressings.
“Who is a dreadful rotter?”
The sudden voice of her husband at her back gave Catriona such a start, she jumped, lost her balance, and fell from her tenuous perch on the chair. Backwards she went, until a pair of strong arms enfolded her, dragging her into his hard chest before she could land.
She clutched at his hands where they rested upon her waist, delighted to find them bare. “Oh, Alessandro,” she said, breathless. “You gave me a fright.”
He buried his face in her hair, inhaling, still holding her. “Apologies,querida. Why are you doing a maid’s labor, toppling from chairs?”
“I am helping where needed,” she said simply.
Was it wrong of her to take comfort in the warm presence of him at her back? To revel in the way he seemed to take joy in breathing in her scent?
“You are the mistress of this house,” he returned, pressing a kiss to her crown. “It is not your duty to be climbing upon furniture and hanging window dressings.”
She eyed her handiwork, trying not to think too much of his small show of affection. Likely, he did not even realize what he was doing. “I do not mind. The house is in dreadful need of as many spare hands as it can get. All the better if some of them shall be mine.”
“I have hired a gaggle of servants to sweep in and help to repair the worst of it.” He sighed into her hair, ruffling the tendrils which had come loose from her chignon in her efforts. “And not a moment too soon, it would seem. I am afraid to leave your side for fear when I return, you shall be playing the part of chimney sweep.”
For a moment, she could almost believe they were an ordinary husband and wife, melting into each other after an arduous day of travel. “I dare say I would not fit, or I would try,” she teased, spinning about in his arms to face him.
Her palms lay flat against his chest, her right hand over the steady thumps of his heart. A frisson of awareness seared a path straight through her, in spite of her weariness and in spite of the unusual circumstances in which they now found themselves mired.
“I have no doubt you would.” His countenance was serious, his gaze penetrating. “I am sorry to have brought you here. If I had possessed an inkling of just how treacherous that lying worm was…”
His words trailed off.
“What would you have done, Alessandro?” she asked. “Returned from Spain?”
“Cristo.” His arms were still draped loosely around her waist, holding her to him. “I do not know.”
“I am amazed your sister and step-mother did not visit here whilst you were gone and discover the depth of your steward’s deceptions,” she said.
He shook his head. “My sister suffered an accident here in her youth, falling from the bannister. It is the reason for her limp, and it is also the reason why she did not wish to visit. The memories were too painful. Bramwell knew it, and he knew he could go unchecked by me, thebastardo.”
“What will you do now?” That was the more pressing question, as far as she was concerned. They had only just skimmed the surface of the damage which had been done at Marchmont over the past few years of Alessandro’s absence.
“Fix it, as I must. I am not a man who takes his duties lightly, Catriona.” He shocked her then by caressing her cheek so tenderly, her heart gave a pang. “The eastern wing will need rebuilding. I must comb over what ledgers I can find, speak with my tenants, the farmers. There is much to be done.”
“Yes, there is,” she agreed, her mind instantly flitting to her own obligations as the mistress of the household. “Thank heavens we have the best of the London staff with us. The beds have been treated to fresh linen. Every surface is being scoured and wiped clean as I suspect has not been done for some years.”
