Funds Chrissi desperately needed.
Unfortunately, Lord Farnell would certainly be informed of her foolish tumble and would justifiably question her ability to head an excavation safely.
Hopefully, she would be given the chance to bathe and right her appearance before facing his lordship herself—time to compose an argument that would convince the gentleman that despite her gender and uncharacteristic clumsiness, she was competent in her expertise. Anything to prevent her dismissal.
She flexed her fingers in her gloves, fighting the encroaching chill. Even in May, Highland mud was hardly warm, and the sun did little to battle the ever-blowing cold wind.
Ten minutes later, Chrissi heard the rumble of male voices.
Ah. Rescue and humiliation had arrived.
Three male heads, hats pulled low, bobbed down the path, Fiona’s excited chatter leading them forward.
Reaching her, Fiona and two of the men—farmhands, Chrissi intuited, by the roughness of their clothing and the rope held between them—paused to look down the embankment. All three wore matching expressions of concern and, truth be told, suppressed hilarity.
Chrissi added “laughing stock” to the list of items she would need to address with Lord Farnell.
“Do we have enough rope to fetch her up, do ye ken?” the third unseen man asked.
“Aye, my lord,” one of the men said over his shoulder as they began uncoiling the rope.
My lord?
Chrissi snagged onto the honorific immediately.
Please no!
Lord Farnell had come himself.
She could not imagine a more unbecoming scenario in which to meet her employer for the first time.
How much worse could her day become?
Truly...she should have known better than to ask the question, even rhetorically.
The third man peered over the edge—Lord Farnell, she gathered, due to the expensive superfine of his tailored coat and the sheen of his beaver top hat.
A jolt sizzled down her spine as she met his brown eyes.
It appeared that her day could indeed become much,muchworse.
Blinking in shock, she stared up at the familiar face of Alistair Maclagan.
The only man she had ever loved.
There were likely worse ways to encounter your former betrothed after a separation of nine years.
However, at the moment, Chrissi struggled to think of one.
Belatedly, she remembered that Lord Farnell had been a distant relative of Alistair’s. What tragedies had occurred to permit Alistair to inherit the Scottish title of Lord of Parliament?
Had she known Alistair was Lord Farnell, she would never have come. But then, ifhehad known she was Mrs. Stephen Newton, he would never have hired her, of that Chrissi was certain.
Once, Alistair Maclagan had been her . . . everything.
The sum of every poetic cliche.
The other half of her soul. The air that breathed life into her lungs. The man she could not wait to take as husband.
