“Why did you, by the way?” He shoots me a cocky grin but I’m about to disappoint him.
“Because of the peacock.” I point my thumb over my shoulder at the magnificent but bad-tempered bird guarding the other side of the bridge. “I wanted to cross the bridge, but the dang thing wouldn’t let me.” Actually, I wanted to take a photo of him first, but he seemed to take extreme offence, fluffing his feathers threateningly. Yes, I’m supposed to be looking for Alexander, but I thought I’d take the opportunity to use this bridge that tourists are always hanging around. It is a very pretty bridge, very Instagram-able, with its weeping willow and stream, but I’m not about to explain that to him. Griffin I mean, not the peacock.
“Oh, so you did want me for my body?”
“Well, yeah. I could’ve pushed you into the water as a decoy.”
“Holly, Holly, Holly.” He shakes his head though doesn’t give up on his grin. “I would’ve only pulled you in with me. Who do you think would’ve looked best with a wet T-shirt?”
“Urgh, you should live under a bridge, troll boy,” I say, swiping him across the chest with the back of my hand. I start a little as he catches it.
“When are you going to take me seriously?” he murmurs, pressing it flat against his chest. One hand resting on my wrist, he begins to stoke the back of my hand. “We could be good together, you and me. I think I told you once before, I’m really good company. I’d keep you warm on these cold Scottish nights.”
“It’s summer,” I retort, sliding my hand away.
“Every time you reject me, it’s winter in my heart.” My expression. Barf! Even when he does that cute nose scrunch of his. “You can’t blame a man for trying,” he says, pushing up from the wall.
“And you are that.” Very trying. He’s also good looking, solvent, and in his own strange way, I’m sure he’s fun. But I’m not interested.
Griffin shrugs and makes as though to turn.
“Wait, aren’t you going to help me?”
His brow creases as he glances past me. “I’m not really into angry birds,” he says as his gaze catches mine. “Unless they’re the kind interested in a little revenge fucking.”
“Seriously?”
He begins to walk backwards as he lifts his hand in a mockery of an apology.
“You’re on your own, love. That one’s a complete arsehole. I think they must feed him live wasps or something. I heard he blocked a tourist bus from coming up the drive last week, then pecked the paint off a Mercedes in the car park.”
“And you’re just gonna leave me with him?” How on earth did I think he had an appealing boyish kind of charm? He’s more like the kid who’d peel the legs off a spider before flicking them at you.
“I sort of like my peacock where it is,” he says, cupping his junk.
Urgh!
Oh, well. Too bad Alexander’s nowhere to be found.
I practically skip along some of the castle’s gloomiest corridors, my little bag of snacks swinging from my hand. So I didn’t best the peacock, but I did snap some awesome pictures. I plan to get to my room as fast as I can, then hang out of the window for a signal so I can post them to Instagram. Hopefully, I can do this without bumping into anyone and I mean anyone.
As I scoot under an arch and turn a corner, I discover things are not going my way.
“Holly!” Archie calls from the bottom of the grand staircase, sending me a manic wave. “We’ve been to the cinema with Uncle Sandy.”
“Lucky,” I reply, slowing my roll, my little bag hitting my thigh with a rustle. Slow, slow, slow, stop, go my footsteps, my eyes glued to Uncle Sandy, though I stop a decent distance from him.
And hot uncle alert.
His dark sweater looks soft. It’s probably cashmere. And his dark jeans fitted to his long legs perfectly, some kind of stylish suede sneaker completing the ensemble. Killer kilt, dapper suit, or weekend wear, it seems Alexander Dalforth looks delicious in whatever he wears.
And more delicious still, naked.
“Hello, Holland,” he murmurs, a sly smile playing around his lips.
Those eyes are the colour of oceans. I could totally get lost in them.
He hasn’t shaved.
The realisation makes a prickly awareness wash over me. No longer the fair gentleman or the Scottish duke, the fair rasp of his beard makes him look more like a Viking than ever before. But for his lips. His lips, wide, lush, and sensual as always. But there’s something about the frame of his beard that makes me think of plunder.
“That’s not her name,” Archie scoffs, pulling on his uncle’s hand. “That’s a place.”
“Is it?” he glances down at the kid, who nods in response.
“Have you visited?” Archie asks.
Alexander’s gaze lifts, the glance he sends me is incendiary. “Not as often as I’d like.”
Ho-boy. We need to have that talk, more than ever now as I resist the urge to pull on the collar of my shirt.
Is it hot in here, or is it just him?
“Why have you gone red?” Scrunching his nose, the little boy tilts his head. But he doesn’t wait for an answer before rushing on to his next question. “What have you got in the bag?”
“Huh?” I glance belatedly down at the thing dangling from my wrist. “Snacks. For later.” For dinner, not that I’ll tell.
“We had popcorn in the cinema,” he says, beginning to jump up and down. “And an ice cream. And a big bag of pick and mix sweeties.”
“Your mom is going to be so pleased,” I say, my gaze flicking back to Alexander, though not for long. Yep, that’s just what Isla needs; her kids high on a sugar.
“We weren’t allowed cola because Uncle Sandy says it rots your teeth.”
“Oh, so you do have some limits, then?” I make the mistake of taking a couple of steps closer, which I’ll blame on the magnet that is his chest. I’ve never touched his sweater-covered chest before. I’m not going to either, I have to remind myself as his gaze falls over me again.
“Some. You know how it goes. One person’s depravity is another’s creativity.”
A throb of temptation flickers to life between my legs. Before I can make my rebuff, or run away, Archie bounces over to me like he’s on an invisible pogo stick.
“What kind of snacks?” he demands, his eyes glued to the bag dangling from my wrists.
“No more snacks for you,” his uncle decrees authoritatively, and I almost ask if he means the kid or me. If I’m going to be bossed about, dominated, I like it to be—
Nope. Scratch that thought. Shove it under the bed with the headless man.
“It’s, I erm. It’s just some fruit and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” Plus some pistachios and a slice of moist and boozy Dundee cake, and a couple of shortbread cookie tails. What? I didn’t know how long I’ll have to hide up there!
Archie’s expression twists, and he seems to think better of investigating the bag, hopping right on by me. I turn to follow his progress, my stomach swooping as I watch him come to a stop between the row of black marble pedestals, each bearing a piece of statuary. You know the one at the foot of the stairs? Worse still, the little snitch assumes the position of the missing statue, cocking his hip and pretending to hold a cup in his hand. How that didn’t snap off rather than his penis, I’ll never understand, protruding as it does.