Page 15 of Duke of Storme
And there, in the tower window that must be part of the west wing, she drew the silhouette of a man. But this was not the stern, practical figure who had lit her fire and left without ceremony, but someone else entirely. Someone who stood at his window watching, waiting – for what or whom, she couldn’t say.
She didn’t know why she did it. The image seemed to flow from her mind, down her arm, and through the charcoal, before spilling onto the parchment without conscious thought, as though her heart was speaking directly through her fingers. But when she finished, her hands smudged with coal dust and her eyes burning from squinting in the firelight, something loosened in her chest.
The ache was still there, but it felt bearable now. Manageable.
Diana closed the sketchbook and pressed it against her chest, feeling the solid weight of possibility it represented. Tomorrow, she would begin to learn everything she could about this place. She would meet the staff properly, explore the grounds, and discover what beauty might be uncovered from where it lay hidden beneath Storme Castle’s forbidding exterior.
And perhaps – though she hardly dared let the thought fully form – she would begin to understand the man who had brought her here and then withdrew so completely. She wished to know the man who lit fires with his own two hands but apparently couldn’t write a simple letter to his bride. The man who stood in tower windows – or at least in her imagination, waiting for something he couldn’t name.
“You don’t know me yet, Finn Hurriton,” she whispered into the rain-dark night beyond her window. “But I intend to know you.”
The fire crackled in response, and for the first time since she stepped foot inside Storme Castle, Diana felt something that might eventually become hope.
CHAPTER 6
“Ye’re an early riser, Your Grace.”
Diana paused in the corridor with her hand trailing along the cold stone wall as she turned toward the unfamiliar voice. Despite the strange bed and the persistent Highland chill that seemed to seep through the ancient stone and straight into the bone, sleep had not eluded her entirely. But, with no lady’s maid in sight this morning, she had dressed herself in a simple morning gown and ventured into the labyrinthine passages of Storme Castle.
“Mrs. Glenwright, I presume?” Diana said, approaching the woman who stood like a sentinel in the corridor, a ring of keys at her waist and a face that suggested she’d seen everything worth seeing in her fifty-odd years.
“Aye, that I am.” The housekeeper’s sharp eyes assessed Diana with the efficiency of a quartermaster cataloging supplies. “Been runnin’ this castle for nearly thirty years now. Longer than most of the staff have been breathin’.”
Diana studied the woman before her – tall and sturdy as Highland granite, with iron-gray hair pulled back so severely it seemed to stretch her features into permanent alertness. Mrs. Glenwright’s hands – work-worn, but steady – spoke of decades spent managing an estate that would challenge even the most accomplished and competent administrator.
“I was hoping you might show me around,” Diana said. “I should like to understand my new home.”
Mrs. Glenwright’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “Yer home, is it? Most folk take longer than one night to claim Storme Castle as their own.”
“Should I not consider it so?”
“Depends,” the housekeeper said, setting off down the corridor with a pace that forced Diana to hurry to keep up. “Ye’re a soft-spoken one, I’ll give ye that. But don’t go turnin’ into one of the ghosts – we’ve got enough of those already.”
The words sent an unexpected chill down Diana’s spine. “Ghosts?”
“Figure of speech, Your Grace,” Mrs. Glenwright replied, though something in her tone suggested otherwise. “This castle’s got more history than most folk can handle. Some choose to fade into the shadows rather than claim their place in the light.”
They walked in relative silence through corridors that seemed designed to dwarf anyone foolish enough to traverse them alone. Diana found herself taking mental notes on the way the morning light filtered in through narrow slits of windows, and the persistent draft that made every doorway feel like a portal to somewhere even colder. She eyed the portraits of long-dead Stormes watching her with expressions ranging from stern disapproval to outright hostility.
“This wing’s yers to do with as ye see fit, Your Grace,” Mrs. Glenwright announced, stopping before a set of heavy oak doors. “His Grace was particular about that. Said ye were to have yer own domain.”
“How thoughtful,” Diana murmured, though the word ‘domain” seemed strange to her ears. She was a twenty-year-old woman who’d never managed anything more complicated than her own correspondence but was now suddenly given dominion over an entire castle wing.
Mrs. Glenwright produced a key from her ring and opened the door to reveal a morning room that might have been beautiful under different circumstances. Tall windows faced east, where Highland moors stretched toward mountains she couldn’t name yet. The furniture was elegant, but partly covered in dust sheets, as though waiting for someone who might never come.
“Been closed off these past years,” Mrs. Glenwright explained, moving to pull dust sheets from chairs and tables with practiced efficiency. used to take her morning tea here. After she passed, well…” She shrugged.
Diana moved to the windows and pressed her palm against the glass. “What was she like? The Duke’s mother?”
For the first time since their meeting, Mrs. Glenwright’s expression softened, though something like pain flickered in her eyes. “Och, Her Grace was gentle, like ye. Sweet-natured, quiet like. But she had a laugh that could warm even these old, cold stones. She was so excited about the bairn comin’…” The housekeeper’s voice caught slightly. “But childbirth was too much for her. We lost her, and the wee little lad she brought into the world? Well, we lost him too, in a manner of speakin’.”
Diana blinked, the unspoken question swimming in her eyes.
“His father never forgave him for it.”
Diana’s breath caught audibly. “He blamed the Duke? For his own mother’s death?”
“Aye. Cruel thing, blamin’ a wee bairn for circumstances beyond anyone’s control. His Grace was sent away to live with Highland relatives before he could even walk properly. The old Duke couldn’t bear the sight of him – said the lad was a reminder of what he’d lost.” Mrs. Glenwright’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Some wounds run deeper than others, and some fathers… well, some should never have sired offspring at all.”
