Plotting.
Every instinct screamed that I had to have her—her scent, her warmth, her breathless little gasp when the cold water touched her skin. The beast inside me prowled in fevered circles, whispering that she was already ours.
I swallowed hard.
It didn’t matter what line I crossed or what dignity I surrendered.
I would have her.
No matter the cost.
Chapter 10
Euphemia
I was scraping up the last of my porridge when Flora came into the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She glanced around at all of us—counting heads the way mothers did—then gave me a look far too cheery for this hour.
“The Laird wants tae see ye.”
“Me?”
My spoon froze mid-air.
Why, in God’s good name, did he have to ruin my morning?
“Aye,” she said, reaching for the kettle.“He’s in the dining room huvin’his breakfast.”
Of course he was.
Probably sat there polishing his silverware and judging’the very air for being Scottish.
“Am surprised ye didnae need to spoon-feed him,” I muttered, standing up.
Flora snorted.“He wants to discuss the progress. Take yer list. And mayhap a silver spoon in case ye need to feed him.”
The whole table erupted.
I stepped out into the hall, shaking my head as the laughter faded behind me. The manor was waking up—cold drafts creeping along the stone floor, the faint scent of peat smoke drifting from the kitchen hearth. Light filtered through the tall windows, thin and pale as winter milk.
I stopped at the old display cabinet—dusty brass handles, a cracked pane—and pulled the drawer open. My list lay folded inside, pages softened from being handled too often. I slipped it under my arm.
“Silver spoon,” I muttered as I straightened.
I’d sooner stick it up his—
No.
Best not finish that thought.
He was paying me wages we desperately needed.
I drew a steadying breath, tugged my cap straight, and set my shoulders.
Let the Sassunach Laird complain.
Let him wrinkle his delicate nose and wave his soft hands about.
I’d scrubbed floors since dawn.
