Lucy always wished to be seen.
Not in the same way her loving family had and did. Nay, she’d longed to be seen by someone, not just as the lass who fetched drinks and wiped tables, but as a living, breathing woman worthy of attention.
She’d thought Mr. Smith had.
She’d been wrong.
Her heart hammering, Lucy remained as trapped as the children in that novelty globe of long ago.
Never had Campbell Smith looked at her the way Arran McQuoid now did. And this look wasn’t the guarded, cynical sort like when she’d arrived.
This? Why, it was like she were the only woman in the world, and he’d become lost in her. The heat of his focus, the intensity of his stare, the very sight of him, stole the very air from her lungs.
No one. Not a single man, not villager, gentleman, or rover on his journey through the hills of Scotland on his way to England ever looked at her the way Arran did now.
And for a lifetime of being invisible, it was heady and magical to actually be seen.
Lucy took his right hand in her left and laid them so they rested upon one another. His long, powerful digits dwarfed hers.
“Ye’ve got one of yer own,” she said softly.
Regret twisted his features, gone so fast it could have been a flicker of the flames from the fire’s glow. “With an exception being I wasn’t born with mine.”
Her heart beat faster. She waited, not pushing him on his scar. Knowing intuitively if she did, he’d stop.
Ultimately, it mattered not either way. He went silent, nurturing his drink, discouraging any probing on his scar. And then…neatly steering the focus back on Lucy. “You mentioned your father.”
“Aye, there’s never been a better mon than Seoc LeBeau. Never had any sons, and only me for a bairn, but it mattered not to him. Treated me with all the pride and love had I been Saint Margaret reborn.”
“Our fathers are alike in that regard,” he shared, cracking open a part of this beautiful family and letting her in. “I recall each of my younger siblings’ births, and he greeted their arrival to the world with the same elation and pride I expect most fathers only bestow upon their first-born son and heir.” Arran lifted his glass. “To good fathers who love all their bairns,” he quietly toasted.
Lucy lifted her mug. “To good das.”
They touched glasses and took a drink.
When they finished, Lucy made a show of studying her mug. “Your family is one of the great ones,” she said, speaking so carefully her clearer English tones slipped in.
A shadow passed over his eyes. “They’re good.” His voice came rough.
“And ye are very clearly a good brother and cousin.”
Arran’s entire body jerked, his corded muscles straining the fabric of his shirt, drawing her notice and heating her inside. “Onwhat do you base that?” he asked, his gaze and voice turning as harsh as they’d been before they’d fallen into easy conversation here in the kitchens.
Alas, when a gentleman rolled up his sleeves and joined a lass in baking, a lass learned enough to know there was a soft side to the man—a soft side he was determined she not see.
“Ye mentioned leading a merry charge upon Mr. Smith’s chambers. I expect most English gentlemen don’t join in frolicsome antics with their younger siblings and cousins?”
With an ease that could’ve seen him a spot at The Spotted Elk, Arran reached for the pitcher. “Most do not,” he confirmed, taking it upon himself to refill her drink.
“Yet ye do.” She studied him carefully.
It was the only way she noted Arran’s faint, split-second pause mid-pour before he resumed. “I did.” His eyes grew hooded.
Her pulse pounded harder. “Did?”
Arran lifted a single broad shoulder. “They’re older, Lucy. English ladies and lads aren’t allowed to continue their hoydenish antics.” He set the carafe down with a decisiveness meant to end her inquiry.
Chapter 10
