That halted him and made him glare back up at her. “Ye belittled my chieftain for sending me to find out more about yerself, aye?”
“Aye.”
“And yet ye do the verra same thing by trying to draw out more information about Thursa Castle from me.”
“It is not the same thing.” Well, maybe it was, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “I was inquiring after the welfare of the child—not prying into any personal secrets about Chieftain Sinclair.”
Jasper puffed up and folded his arms across his chest. “Ye dinna consider the man’s only child one of his personal secrets?”
She shooed him onward. “Just go on wi’ ye, aye? I refuse to stand in this stairwell and argue about it.”
He snorted a growling huff, then continued downward. His plodding stomp jarred her last raw nerve. By the time they reached the landing he sought, she was ready to strangle him.
He yanked open the door, then stepped aside. “Straight down that hall. The door there on the end.”
She stood in the doorway, eyeing the dimly lit corridor. “And what exactly waits on the other side of that door?”
“Himself.”
She clenched her teeth tighter, determined not to give the man the satisfaction of getting under her skin. “What room is it, I mean? I dinna want to walk in on the man whilst he is taking a shite, now do I?”
That won her a lopsided grin and a low chuckle. The war chief gave her a smug look that riled her even more. “He doesna make a habit of shitting in his library, mistress. Ye should be quite safe, I assure ye.”
“Ye are an arse, Jasper. A complete arse, ye ken?”
“Thank ye for noticing, mistress.” After a polite nod, he turned and descended the remaining stairs, leaving her standing in the doorway.
She stared at the door at the end of the hall. “Nothing to do but do it.” She charged ahead and knocked.
The fast thumping of a brisk pace across wooden floors sounded on the other side, then the door flew open, revealing Chieftain Sinclair’s narrow-eyed scowl. Within a moment, his sternness softened some, but not much. “Aye, Mistress Lorna?”
Bloody hell. She wanted to retreat but refused to let him win. “Ye and I need to have a word.”
“Do we now?” He swung the door open wider and waved her inside. “And what word might that be?”
Her steps slowed as the lavishness of the man’s library hit her. The plushness of the rugs. Cushioned chairs and couches scattered throughout the area. An impressively large mahogany desk beside the window. The faintest scent of pipe tobacco and whisky wafted through the air. A man’s room that vibrated with testosterone and alpha maleness.
She almost forgot what she came to say. Then she caught a glimpse of Jasper as he passed outside the window, trudging through the snow in the courtyard. She turned and faced the Sinclair. “Dinna be sending yer man to interrogate and intimidate Frances and Hesther. If ye want to know something about me, ye can bloody well ask me yerself.”
One of his blond brows, the one split by a faded scar, twitched upward. A combination of disbelief and amusement flashed in his eyes. “My war chief is not a cruel man with children. He would never mistreat weak ones such as those two.” He moved closer, his gait as smooth and deadly as a predatory cat’s. “What did he do? Describe this crime of which ye accuse him.”
“His size and presence are enough to strike fear into those wee ones. Neither he nor any other man has any business on Bella’s floor.” She retreated a step and then another, wishing Gracie was with her. Gracie could argue with a wall and make it believe it was the floor. “And I dinna appreciate being spied upon.” She backed into the window ledge and bumped to a halt. “It is a cowardly act.”
The chieftain’s mouth twitched, making his closely trimmed beard shimmer in the room’s soft lighting. It reminded her of golden fur. She ran her thumbs across her fingertips, imagining the feel of those short bristles. This man made it difficult to concentrate and stay firmly on topic. He was so…everything.
“Well?” she said, shaking herself free of the trance.
He stood within inches of her, cutting off any means of escape. His nostrils flared as he leaned forward and sniffed. “Ye smell nice. Like a field of heather just bloomed.”
She stanched the urge to sniff herself, knowing her deodorant and body spray had to be on their last legs. “What has that got to do with anything I just said?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. But ye did say I should speak directly to ye about matters concerning yerself, did ye not?”
“I meant if ye had questions.” A hint of mirth danced in his eyes, making her flush hot with anger. “Ye ken verra well what I meant.”
Chieftain Sinclair took a step back and propped his impressive arse on the lip of his desk. “Aye, mistress. I do ken what ye meant, but I also know if I ask ye the same questions as before, the answers ye give will be just as strange and incomplete. Surely, ye must realize the story ye told was difficult to believe. Ye arrived here with naught to yer name but the clothes on yer back. Two waifs that ye claim to have just met love ye as though ye are their mother, and the lady who brought ye here would rather spit in yer face than say yer name.” He gave a theatrical bow. “But I will try it yer way, since ye feel so strongly about it. Where are ye from, Mistress Lorna? The truth this time, if ye please.”
She knew her tale was impossible to swallow. She was the one bloody well living it. “I am from Thurso,” she said, then remembered what the coachman had said. “Or at least I was…at another time.”
