He gave his head a firm shake.
“Failin’ means you’re playin’,” she muttered that old familiar Scottish phrase.
His lips gave another twitch. “And just what it is you are trying to d—?”
The wily Scot shrieked.
As she wheeled to face Arran, she lost hold of the object in her hand.
It whipped across the kitchen with the velocity of a bullet.
Albeit a, fortunately, soft missile.
Cool, damp dough slapped him square in the face.
Alternately shocked and amused, Arran peeled the dough from his forehead and eyes first to reveal Lucy, her face endearingly dusted with flour. Her eyes bigger than the cups out for measuring.
He made to speak and then recalled he still wore the rest of whatever she’d been making.
The troublesome minx found her voice. “Jingles and Christmas,” she whispered.
He’d gleaned a lot about the young woman’s habits in a very short span. As such, he took her faint exclamation as the self-speak it was.
“I do believe the phrase is jingo and crivvens,” he drawled.
That jolted Lucy from her state of shock. The Scottish minx gave her abundant tresses a shake.
“Aye.” Snatching a towel from the worktable she’d made for herself, she hastened over. “But I first heard it around one Christmastide season when I was a wee lass. I loved all things Christmas, and got it all mixed up.”
While she spoke, she used that cloth to dust flour from the collar of his shirt.
“…my da and mum, and everyone else around, came to adopt the phrase as well.”
Bemused, Arran found himself riveted.
Odd that what annoyed him in polite society misses had been their senseless chattering. From Lucy, it felt somehow different. Because it was different.
Because she was going on about the Christmastide season, which few within the peerage, let alone outside it, looked forward to with the joy McQuoids did.
“There you go,” Lucy said cheerfully, letting up her efforts.
She took a step back and looked at him. A frown formed on her heart-shaped lips.
His gut tightened.
A becoming blush splashed across her cheeks.
She opened her mouth to speak and stopped.
His gut tightened. “What is it?” he said stiffly.
She’d gathered his interest.
Interest?
Bloody hell, man! What is wrong with you?
No, it was his focus. He was focused on her.
