His perpetually ruddy cheeks blared brighter. “Whit was that—?”
“Cannae be reminding the lass she nearly killed the lad,” Nettie said, glaring up at her big husband.
Lucy covered her face a second time and shook her head as the pair quarreled.
“Lucy?” Arran called, a question in his voice.
Did he wonder at Lucy’s delay?
Her reaction to her troublesome kin?
It really could be anything.
“Go, lass,” Nettie urged on a hushed whisper, that furtiveness belied by the slight shove she gave Lucy in Arran’s direction. “We’ll see to the inn. Ye stay the eve, and when he wakes up, ye can have yer proper goodbye and all the confusion will be sorted out.”
When left with a choice between staying to argue the point with Nettie and Tasgall, Lucy chose the unlikeliest of options.
A short while later, arm in arm, Lucy let Arran escort her from the grand kitchens. A sharp flutter caught in her chest. She’d never touched a fellow so. And this strapping gentleman, with his bonnie face and body built like a stag, didn’t have the form of the fancy fellows who’d passed through the doors of The Spotted Elk. His biceps were forged like Sheffield steel. All things she had no place noticing.
It was only that she’d never touched a man so. That alone accounted for her awareness of the broody McQuoid.
He cracked open the silence. “Never tell me,” he drawled, “they were attempting to bring you back.”
“If luck favored me,” Lucy muttered.
Arran stiffened; his already Highland-hard muscles bunched under her fingers and rippled the fabric of his fancy black wool jacket.
She’d offended him. A fine English nobleman such as himself wasn’t accustomed to being insulted—albeit unintentionally on Lucy’s part.
Tossing his head back, Arran did in fact roar…with rich, rough amusement that rippled through the hall, and through Lucy herself.
When his unexpected humor did fade, they reached the dining room. Unnerved, eager to separate herself from her all-powerful partner, Lucy took a step to go.
Or she tried to.
He stayed her in the doorway.
The mundane sounds of conversing and quarreling family members melted into an inaudible hum in the background.
Arran McQuoid’s touch. His glittering gaze. The storm-crafted aura Mr. Arran McQuoid wore like a cloak about his brawny Scot’s shoulders left her immobile. The man froze time itself.
Neither of them moved.
Theyeachseemed trapped in a moment of which there existed no way out.
Arran slipped a warrior’s unwavering gaze over her face.
Her breath caught…not with fear.
…That isnae the look of a lad wary of ye, lass… he’s takin’ yer measure, but ye’ve definitely turned his head… Hasn’t taken his eyes off ye, lass…
Arran leaned closer, his breath warm as melted chocolate, sweet, unnervingly so, spilling across her lips.
Lucy’s every nerve ending leapt to life.
Mr. Smith had never stirred such heat in her. He’d never sent her thoughts scattering; scattering like the fallen autumn leaves upon the first winter’s gale. Why then should this brooding stranger who oozed danger do so?
“I find myself…” He moved eyes dark as polished walnut over her face, a lingering stare steeped in danger upon Lucy’s every feature. “Curious as to why your servants would need to encourage you to remain with your beloved.”
