What secrets did the lady think to uncover downhere?
The possibility she intended to slip out the servant’s entrance was quashed by a thundering clang.
If she was a thief, she was a rotten one. And if she was a spy, well, she was even worse at that.
“You jobby,” the curious Scot chastened herself. “Wheest, will you.”
Telling herself to shut up?
Despite his misgivings, Arran found a reluctant grin tugging the corners of his lips. Ah, so she wasn’t completely unaware of her subpar subterfuge skills.
His smile faded.
Bad as she was at slipping about and letting herself into parts of this household, she had no place being, the fact remained that Lucy LeBeau was here while the entire household slept, and seemingly for a reason.
Creeping closer, Arran rested his back against the right entrance to the kitchen and waited.
“…There you are…didn’t think you’d be here,” she exclaimed triumphant.
Arran stiffened. He strained his ears to pick up on the answering reply—that didn’t come.
What did come was the clang of pans and plates.
All the while, Miss LeBeau narrated for what would appear to be… herself.
No.
Arran blinked slowly.
He stood corrected.
The young woman also…sang.
“…Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne?”
Slightly discordantly but with a zeal that leant a refreshing quality to her dulcet tones.
“For auld lang syne, my jo,
for auld lang syne,…”
His lashes dipped low.
“…we’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne…”
His breathing grew slower.
Miss LeBeau also possessed a deep, husky contralto that gave her natural brogue a home, and invited thoughts of the minx…in a bedroom.
A realization he’d have felt a great deal of guilt about if he believed with absolute certainty she was, in fact, Campbell’s betrothed.
“…And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup…blast!”
As quick as she’d cast her seductive spell was as fast as she broke it with a curse, followed by a sigh.
