I’d faced soldiers.
I’d survived loss colder than any Highland morning.
If he thought he could intimidate me with breakfast and a list, he’d be sorely disappointed.
I paused outside the door and tried—honestly tried—to muster a pleasant smile.
Nothing.
My face refused.
Fine. He’d get whatever expression God had stuck on me this morning.
I straightened my cap and apron, knocked once, and waited.
“Come in,” the toff’s voice drifted through—smooth as butter and twice as smug.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
Whatever greeting I’d rehearsed on the way here vanished on the spot.
He was smiling.
At me.
“Euphemia,” he said, warm as summer sunlight—too warm.“Come in and close the door. There’s a dreadful draft.”
I shut the door behind me, and the heat from the fire wrapped around my chilled bones.
Of course, his dining room was warm and comfortable. Why wouldn’t it be?
“Please, sit,” he said, placing a teacup in front of the chair beside him.“Milk and sugar if you’d like.”
I approached carefully, half-waiting for the inevitable moment his hand would shoot up to cover his nose again.
But… nothing.
No grimace.
No insult.
No theatrics.
Maybe that freezing dip in the loch had done its job after all.
“Thanks,” I murmured, sliding into the chair.
Still—unease twisted in my belly.
His eyes were different today.
Focused. Too focused.
As though he’d been waiting for me.
And that smile…
No Sassunach smiled like that without wanting something.
