The dog’s brows twitched.
“Ye could at least attempt to disagree.” She sighed. “Let’s review at the facts, shall we? I have nae idea which Boyce I’m searching for. Nae way of knowing which cottage holds the prize. Auld Donell’s remark about challenges aside, I’ve been sent on a wild goose chase. Nothing more.
What should she do? She could try her luck at the newly built inn? She could duck in, push the button to send her back to her own time and confront Donell over his plate of sausage and black pudding.
Likely send Violet into a tachycardic tailspin at the same time.
Or she could get over it and pretend to actually relish this adventure.
Take what Donell had said about whisky and savor each moment.Just run with it.Aila’s pause was long enough for Rab to stop sniffing about and stare up at her, ears perked, as if waiting for the answer.
The correct answer.
“Fake it until ye make it. Isn’t that what they say?” The dog let out a chuff of agreement.
She shifted her grip on the trunk handles, and with the shepherd once again at her side, carried on using the castle towers as a beacon. While not her ultimate goal or destination, relieving herself of her heavy burden and getting her bearings was a priority.
Eyes followed her as she made her way through the village. Granted, she watched them as well, her anxiety finally subdued enough to turn her focus outward. She wagered it was common enough for a modern individual to picture villagers of the eighteenth century in a particular fashion. That being the case, she hadn’t truly expected the men and women she passed to appear quite so downtrodden. Most seemed more tired than suspicious. A few were haggard, almost sickly. One man bent over between two buildings and vomited as if to verify the notion.
Shite, Donell better not have dropped her in the middle of an epidemic to boot.
She wrinkled her nose and hastened her step.
“An architectural assistant, he said.” She’d read that the first duke had commissioned some architect in England to design his new residence. Other than a few details on the matter and an aesthetic appreciation of old buildings, that was the sum of her architectural knowledge. The only upside was that she knew what the end product would look like and possessed artistic skills enough to sketch it out satisfactorily. Hopefully that would be enough to get through the early design phase if she were here long enough to be expected to work. “I should start at the castle, aye? Talk to the duke? Does that sound like a reasonable start?”
Rab flicked his gaze to her then ahead once more. That was an affirmation, wasn’t it?
It seemed a logical course of action.Och, what if it wasn’t? What if Auld Donell had sent her on a mad chase that landed her in a castle dungeon? Or worse…?
“Fuckery, I tell ye. Pure unadulterated fuckery. That’s what this is.”
“Woot’s fookery, mistress?”
Aila looked down at the grubby-faced lad tagging along in her footsteps, a cap pushed back far enough on his head to reveal a shaggy mop of blond hair. A nearly identical female version of him hovered a few steps behind. Both had wide hazel eyes tinged with too much innocence to be repeating anything that slipped from Aila’s lips.
“It’s a word a lad as young as yerself shouldnae be repeating, that’s what it is.”
“Indeed. Nor is it a word a lady should be using.”
* * *
To her credit, she didn’t stammer or hem and haw. In fact, Aila uttered not a single word as she whirled about at the growling agreement to find another pair of hazel eyes — these not so wide, nor as innocent as the others — narrowed at her from beneath slashing brows. She did manage to catch her toe on the hem of her dress as she turned. If not for a solid retaining wall in the form of a massive German shepherd, she might have found her arse and dignity deep in the mud right along with her shoes.
“Have ye naught to say for yerself?”
Apparently not. Not a sound passed her lips, though her eyes widened of their own accord, with nothing close to innocence either. Her focus expanded from the man’s piercing eyes, taking in his broad forehead marred by the deep furrow, closely cropped sandy hair, razor sharp cheekbones and a chiseled jaw with a stretch of taut skin between them. His severe features were softened by the most kissable lips she’d ever imagined on a man. Or they would be, if they weren’t turned down at the corners and compressed with irritation.
“I — I —” Had she been able to locate her wits, Aila might have summoned some of the sarcasm she was known for. A sharp retort maybe. Perhaps both. In the face of such brooding beauty, it was all she could do to remember how to breathe.
He was a pure bonny male specimen to be sure.
“Ye’ve frightened the lass, Finn. Cease yer glaring.” It wasn’t the man staring down at her who spoke, but another by his side. This one was dark-haired with warmer, if not entirely welcoming, brown eyes. As ruggedly handsome as the first, both were tall, broad, and divinely muscled beneath long wool jackets that fell to the knee and tight knee breeches that hugged their thick thighs. If they had been in kilts, they would have been swoon-worthy.
Neither was the least bit soft or bulgy-eyed.
“I’m no’ frightened,” she found her tongue. “Startled perhaps.”Dumbfounded, definitely.“To be honest, I’d always thought the telly exaggerated the — ” She rocked her head from the first man to the second but managed to bite her tongue before the rest slipped out.
Exaggerated the braw…nay,raw,brooding masculinity of the average historic Scotsman.The overall manliness of Brontë’s century-old beau hinted that time and genetics watered down the species. Add to that another century or more….
