“Sit,” I snapped, dragging my chair in and fixing my eyes on the man. Authority. Control. Anything to steady myself.“Callum, is it?”
“Aye, and this is ma niece, Euphemia,” he said as the chair beneath his bulk protested under his weight.
Euphemia.
The voice purred her name like velvet sliding over steel.
A violent cough tore out of me. I grabbed the teapot, my hand trembling, and poured a slosh of tea. No sugar. No milk. I did not care. I swallowed it in one go, the leaves scraping my throat.
Pitiful, but necessary.
I shoved the teapot toward them with a jerky wave.
“Ah,” Callum chuckled.“I wouldnae mind a spot o’tea. Dae ye want a cup, lass?”
I refused to look at her.
Could not, for the life of me.
Not without that crawling, coiling thing beneath my sternum flaring again.
“Graham said you are a robust worker,” I said sharply, directing the comment somewhere near the uncle’s chaotic beard.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw it—her hand slipping out from beneath her shawl, snatching a slice of toasted bread from the tray.
It vanished into the folds of fabric like a creature hiding treasure.
A warm glow spread across my chest.
I rubbed a hand over my eyes, squeezing my temples, then ground my teeth together.
It did nothing.
The heat only increased.
And God help me… I was pleased.
Pleased that she ate from my table.
What in God’s name was wrong with me?
Chapter 6
Euphemia
The more I tried to savour the tea, the quicker it disappeared. It was thin and weak, but it took the chill out of my bones and thawed my fingers. The lord was ignoring me, which suited me fine, because I was too busy eyeing the butter. My mouth watered. I could not remember the last time I’d had tea, never mind butter.
They were still talking when he pushed the butter toward me. I glanced up cautiously, but he wasn’t even looking at me—still staring at my uncle. Rude, but I was starving.
I smeared a thick layer of butter across the bread, closed my eyes for a heartbeat, and ate while I assessed the enemy.
His hair was long, though not as long as our men kept theirs. His was trimmed in the fashionable Sassunnach manner—dark waves framed neatly around his face, curling just over his collar and waistcoat.
Hmph.
Fancy Sassunnach clothing.
He would not last one winter here.
