Lucy ducked back inside and out of sight.
Uncle Tasgall leaned in with the calm authority of a firm papa. “Och, lass. Do listen to Nettie. Hold back a bit of yer regard.”
That soft, steady guidance kept her from rambling in the presence of the most handsome, kindest, most fascinating gentleman who would ever set foot inside The Spotted Elk. Not that she could have named even five who’d come close in her twenty-four years living here. “Go, go,” Lucy whispered.
The loyal, loving pair scrambled farther out of sight.
Lucy ducked outside.
In abject confusion, Mr. Smith stared up at the sky like she’d disappeared into thin air.
“It is cold out there, Mr. Smith,” Lucy cajoled. “Before you continue on, come enjoy some gingerbread and warm mulled cider—on The Spotted Elk.”
“You’ve made your annual batch?”
Unlike Lucy’s company,thatmanaged to snag the affable gent’s attention. “Just today, Mr. Smith.” It definitely didn’t bode well that he was more enthused about Lucy’s baking than her company.
His smile grew even wider. “What a splendid offer, Miss LeBeau,” he said, rubbing his leather gloves together. “How could I possibly resist,”—Lucy’s body arched forward—“your gingerbread?”
Deflated, Lucy sank back on her feet.
Uncle Tasgall grunted. “Want to ken what’snahsplendid? Giving away free refreshments, lass. At that, to a gent only staying for the biscuits.”
Returning the bonny gentleman’s jaunty wave, Lucy ignored her beloved uncle, and wrestled with the stubborn window. She did ken the big, lovable, loyal Scot was right. Well, at least regarding the free refreshments.
“Don’t listen to him, lass,” Aunt Nettie soothed as Lucy rushed to open the door for Mr. Smith. “We can afford a drink if it will bring the lad up to scratch.”
Several hours later
As fate would have it, a major storm did not sweep over the borderlands. Which meant the tables remained sparse and the patrons few.
Lucy should care far more than she did.
Much more.
Instead, she continued scrubbing the same portion of the taproom counter. The one that offered the best vantage of Mr. Smith seated at his table with a journal open.
For his part, Mr. Smith remained oblivious. He also had a more serious aura about him than usual.
“Whit ye waiting for, lass? Been here for four hours now. We have refilled his drink three times. Gave him a meal and hardly said a word,” Nettie whispered, washing the same exact spot of the counter next to Lucy’s.
From her other side came Uncle Tasgall’s familiar opinion. “Och. Ah for one dinnae want ye with a peacock who cannae be bothered to see ye, Lucy-lass.”
“What reason does he have to see me?” Mr. Smith may be a Scot and all, but he was the London sort. “He’s used to fine, fancy, golden-haired, delicate, slender English misses and not—” Lucy gestured to herself. A woman with full, dimpled cheeks, better suited to a wee lass, and ink-black curls that were no more likely to be tamed than a fiery Scottish lass, and a buxom form befitting any common serving girl. “Some Scottish lass whose greatest skill is baking and greatest want is to see the world.”
“My lass is a bonny thing.” Uncle Tasgall scowled. “And if the fellow doesn’t have a brain to see that, then why would ye want him in the first place, Lucy-lass?”
Forsomany reasons. He was kind and…and…
Thwack.
“Ouch!” Uncle Tasgall rubbed at his big backside where Nettie just applied her rolled up cloth.
“Dinnae pay this ole balach beag any heed, lass,” the devoted wife, and even more devoted aunt and godmother, soothed. “Ye ken yer own hear—”
The door exploded open; wind gusted snow inside, and a tall, spindly fellow with a shock of orange hair came in with his usual unceremonial entrance.
“Close the door, will ye, Joseph?” Nettie called to the stable-keeper.
