But awareness.
I swallowed and kept my eyes down.
Boot leather creaked.
Oh, for God’s sake—of course he’d appear now. The Sassunach Laird, with his airs and graces, come to inspect what he knew nothing about.
I leaned back on my heels, straightened my spine, and prepared myself.
I didn’t turn.
But I felt him.
Like a cold draft.
Like a storm cloud pressed too close.
His breathing hitched.
I glanced over my shoulder. His black leather boots gleamed with polish. He wore dark brown breeches, a matching waistcoat, and a crisp white shirt.
But it was his expression that made my breath catch.
He looked furious—for a heartbeat—nostrils flared, eyes wide, knuckles white from gripping the doorframe.
Then his eyes shifted.
Blue to amber.
Bright.
Burning.
A trick of the light?
Or—
I gasped just as he smothered a sound. His hand snapped up to cover his nose.
My jaw tightened.
What now? Did he think hard work carried a stench?
Fine. Let him. He could shove that opinion right up his polished London backside.
I dipped my brush back into the bucket with a hard splash and kept scrubbing.
Let the lord of the manor choke on his own superiority.
I had work to do.
The muffled sounds stopped.
A gurgling noise followed… then a low, rumbling growl.
My hand froze mid-scrub.
A growl I recognised.
