And the woods were lovely. They were deep and mysterious, calling to Cassidy in an unfamiliar voice, the distant echo of that compulsion within herself that she’d never learned how to follow.
The urge to open the carriage door, leap out onto the moist green earth, and fling herself among those trees was almost irresistible. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to listen to the voice of the woods, concentrated instead on the clop of the horses’ hooves and the creak of the carriage and Quentin’s tuneless whistle.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw Greyburn itself.
She’d been given no description of the estate beforehand, nothing on which to base her imaginings. It would have to be magnificent, grand, imposing like Braden himself. It must be worthy of his love.
It was all those things, and more. ” ‘The splendor falls on castle walls,’ ” Cassidy whispered. Greyburn wasn’t a castle, not really, though there was a kind of ruined tower off to one side, and the main house itself, standing in the midst of a great sloping lawn and flanked by tall, stately trees, had an ancient look of stone and majesty. Chimneys and spires rose from a jumble of straight and sloping roofs at irregular intervals, and high windows gazed out from every wall like watchful eyes. It was big enough to satisfy anyone’s idea of a palace fit for a mighty lord.
“Its a rather odd pile, I admit,” Quentin said, leaning forward to follow her gaze. “Every earl of Greyburn has left his mark on it, but the original building was Elizabethan. My grandfather had a taste for the medieval, but he chose to add rather than alter. God forbid the sacrilege of symmetry. Braden has done relatively little…” He paused and threw her an amused glance. “But I don’t suppose that matters to you.”
“Its wonderful,” she said.
“This house and these lands are filled with legends. Most of them date back to the age of the Border Reivers, families of Scotland and England who fought over these lands and spent much of their time raiding each other.”
He widened his eyes. “They say a ghost of one of those warriors still haunts the estate—Matthias, one of the first guardians of Greyburn. Perhaps you’ll meet him one day.”
A guardian ghost seemed just right for a place like this. “I hope I do,” Cassidy said. “I want to know everything about Greyburn.”
“Braden ought to appreciate your enthusiasm. I should warn you that you won’t find many modern conveniences at Greyburn. My family prefers historical tradition to vulgar progress.”
She couldn’t believe that Greyburn lacked anything to make it perfect. When the carriage rattled to a halt on the curving drive in front of the steps leading to the wide from doors, she could barely wait to be helped down by the footman. She tripped over her skirts as her foot touched the ground, but it was a familiar hand that steadied her.
Braden released her arm as soon as she had her balance. His head was lifted and turned toward the great house, a kind of contentment in his face.
This was what it was like to come home. Home was more than a place; it was a way of feeling. It meant you belonged.
She wanted to belong here. She wanted Braden to turn toward her with that same aspect of quiet joy.
But he scarcely seemed to notice her. Quentin and Rowena and Isabelle had come to stand beside them, waiting on his lead. Assembled just below the steps were two neat double rows of men and women dressed in black and white: servants, far more than there’d been at the house in London, standing at attention.
One of the men came down the steps to greet Braden, bowing with impeccable dignity. Cassidy recognized Aynsley, who must have arrived at Greyburn ahead of them.
“Welcome home. Lord Greyburn,” he said.
Braden walked up to the stairs, pausing before each servant with a brief word. Heads bobbed and curious eyes flickered toward Cassidy. She smiled at one maid in a smudged white apron, but the girl gave a soundless gasp and looked quickly away.