“Lucy,” he murmured, extending his arm a third time.
“I will join you, Arran.”
Alas, the minx remained willful. “Yes,” he said dryly. “I believe we’ve ascertained th—”
“But before I do.” She tipped her chin at that pugnacious angle that left him with two choices: toss her over his shoulder and carry her to dinner, or submit to whatever demand followed. “I would like to see Nettie and Tasgall myself.”
Well, St. Nicholas be damned. Of all the requests she might make, this was the one she chose.
Miss Lucy LeBeau would keep the countess waiting until she ensured her people were well cared for.
And it was damned near impossible not to admire the chit’s gumption and loyalty.
Chapter 7
Between the ring of knives being sharpened, the clang of metal pans, and the heat that was pouring from the hearth, this was an all too familiar setting for Lucy.
The aromatic hints of parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme hung just the same in this air as that of The Spotted Elk.
That was with the very noticeable distinction being the grandiose space, quality of utensils and cookery, and the dozens of staff effortlessly threading between each other while they brought the evening’s meal to creation.
Given her ownership of The Spotted Elk and her role preparing meals, this space should make her feel more at home than any second prior in this castle built for countesses who commanded people’s movements.
It should.
And perhaps it would, if Lucy didn’t feel Mr. McQuoid’s—Arran’s—penetrating eyes on her the whole while.
The swell of servants’ calls and the din of mundane kitchen sounds offered cover to the no doubt hanging-offense discussion between her and her aunt and uncle.
“Gor, lass. Ye look bonnier than a bell in spring,” Nettie cooed like the proud mama she’d become after Lucy’s mum passed fifteen years earlier. “Like Mary, Queen of Scots, herself.”
“Aye,” she whispered furiously. “The only exception is I don’t possess any of the lady’s charm and grace.”
“Och, just listen to yourself.” Nettie pinched her none too lightly. “There isn’t a more charming, graceful, bonnier lass. Isn’t that right, Tasgall?”
“Isnae another,” he voiced, equally proud. “Not in all of Scotland or England, or the—”
“And none of that matters in the least,” Lucy cut in, moving closer to them. “They believe I’m Mr. Smith’s betrothed.”
Tasgall made an impatient noise. “Nay. They called ye his sweetheart.”
Nettie nodded. “Your uncle is right, Lucy, they—”
Groaning, Lucy slapped her hands over her face. “Well, now one of them said I was his betrothed and now they all do.”
All with the exception being the hard-staring Arran McQuoid. Between the guard outside her door and the way he clung to Lucy’s side, he appeared the only family member of logic in this entire household.
Her nape tingled.
“Is he still staring?” she whispered, but she already knew.
She’d not suspected anything different. The enigmatic stranger had his piercing gaze on her. She felt his gaze the way she would a branding touch.
Nettie answered with a smile. “He hasna taken his eyes off ye, lass.”
Compelled; his gaze called to her; beckoned. She slipped a glance over her shoulder.
His brownish-black lashes swept low like he incisively plucked out her every secret—lie? It was all mixed up.
