Trondelaine Castle

April Lynn Kihlstrom

This title was previously published by Avalon Books; this version
has been reproduced from the Avalon book archive files.

As the bus bounced and jolted its way along, Wendy
was beginning to doubt the wisdom of this trip. The
tour had sounded good: visit seven castles in one
weekend for one low price. But now she wondered if it
was worth it. If the bus and guide were any indication,
the tour would definitely be low budget. She sighed and
sent up a silent prayer that all the inns would have hot
water.

What worried Wendy most, however, was Kevin’s
irritation at her determination to take the tour. Bored
by castles, he couldn’t understand that she might find
them more interesting than a weekend with him. Well,
that worried her, too, frankly. If she really loved Kevin
Lisle, wouldn’t she have stayed in London?

With another sigh, Wendy leaned back and closed her eyes. But only for a moment. England was still so
new to her that she was reluctant to miss any of the
countryside. The late Friday afternoon sky was cloudy
and Wendy hoped it wouldn’t rain. At least not until
after midnight on Sunday when she would be back in
London.

The guide was standing now and began to speak.
That must mean they were near the first castle. She
looked at the list on her lap. Pellen’s castle, called
Trondelaine, was first. That was what the guide was
saying. “…Trondelaine. First built, heaven knows
when. There are still some old ruins on the estate,
presumably from the original Trondelaine. No one is to
go near those ruins! Is that absolutely clear? Now, the
castle we will see was built in the sixteenth century;
repaired and added onto since. It is at least the third
castle to stand on that spot. The current owner is Lord
Richard Pellen, nineteenth Earl of Loftsbury. Unlike
some of the families of castles we will see, his family still
has money left. So we are lucky to be allowed to see the
castle at all. He doesn’t need the money.”

“Then why’s he letting us see it?” someone called out.

Amid laughter, the guide shrugged. “Don’t know.
He’s a bit of an eccentric. Nice one minute, snappy the
next. So don’t plague him with questions. Ask me.”

His speech concluded, the guide sat down. Wendy
yawned. She glanced around at the others on the bus.
Every seat was full. Judging by the accents she had
overheard, they were mostly British, with a few
Americans. But accents could be deceptive. Her own
was American, but she was half British by birth. And,
at that moment, if asked to which nationality she
belonged, Wendy could not have answered.

She avoided looking at the young man who sat next to her. Twice, already, he had tried to start a conversation, but she was definitely not interested. She
thought again of Kevin. How she wished he were sitting
beside her, instead of this stranger. If he loved her, as he
said he did, why hadn’t he been willing to come along
on this tour when he knew it mattered so much to her?
She sighed once more.

“Something wrong?” the now familiar voice asked
her.

She turned to face the young man. “No,” she said
coolly.

He laughed, not unpleasantly. “Not to worry. I
know you want to be left to yourself.” Then he went
back to his reading.