“As one does?”
“As one does,” the other man who stood in silence until then repeated in a more agreeable tone. “Aye, we’ve all been known to mutter a curse or two under our breath when things go awry. Pax, Finn, ’tis clear the lass is nae Sassenach despite wearing the latest London fashion. Have ye nae tolerance for yer fellow countryman?”
Aila breathed a sigh of relief at gaining her first ally in this place and cast him a slight smile. Her ire at being over-dressed she’d save for Donell when she saw him next.
“Nae Sassenach?” Finn didn’t allow his suspicion to slip. “She sounds like one to me.”
“Ibegyer pardon?” Indignation flared hot at the insult, as it certainly was one. True, her brogue wasn’t as thick as the two men’s or the children from what little she’d heard, but she was a born Scotswoman. “I’m as much a Scot as ye.”
“Are ye now?” Finn’s gaze pierced hers a moment longer before he turned away with a noncommittal grunt. “Come along, Niall,” he said to the boy and held out his hand to the girl who was tentatively stroking Rab’s ear. “Effie, come.”
The shepherd let out a low whine as the trio walked away. “Some protector ye are,” Aila muttered under her breath.
“No’ talking to the dog, eh?”
She winced and peered up at the lingering Scot. “’Tis a habit, nothing more.”
He nodded. “Dinnae fret about my judgment, lass. I talk to the air more than I ought.” A shadow of something resembling sorrow darkened his eyes before they cleared once more. “Ye maun forgive my friend. Finn is merely an angry man, as are we all these days.”
These days? What days werethese? Aila offered a vague hum in response and shifted her arms. His gaze immediately fell to the trunk.
“Och, allow me, lass. Yer pardon. A true gentleman would have relieved ye of yer burden long ago.”
“I can carry it myself.”
“Aye, for certs, but allow me. I insist.” He took the trunk from her and tucked it under one arm as if it weighed no more than a shopping bag. “I should introduce myself as well. Ian MacKintosh.”
“Aila Marshall.”
He managed a slight bow despite his burden. “A pleasure, Mistress Marshall. Tell me, how did a lady such as yerself, trunk and all, come to be in bonny Inveraray?”
“My ride…er, left me some ways back rather than taking me straight to the castle.”
“The castle?” A hint of disgust curled his lip.
“Aye, I’m the duke’s new architectural assistant.”
His jaw sagged before a ghost of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Och, are ye now?”
Chapter 5
“Assistant?”
“Aye, the architectural assistant, sir.” As if repeating herself would make the bit of fiction more believable. Her education and work experience were in theatrical makeup. She’d spent enough time on stage in school to project confidence she’d didn’t feel.
“You will address me as Mr. Derne.” Haughty grey eyes sunken into a withered, skeletal face raked over her once more. “I’ve never conceived of a female capable of the position. Moreover, have no recollection of requesting one. Have you a letter of introduction?”
Tall and gaunt, the old man with the starchy black suit and imperious gaze had all the stereotypical earmarks of aristocracy. It had come as a surprise to Aila that he wasn’t, in fact, the duke she sought. Or any form of peerage. The duke, she’d learned, wasn’t even in Inveraray and this man was nothing more than the duke’s steward. The power, it seemed, had gone to Derne’s head.
As it had Donell’s. First the outlandish clothing, now this. Putting her in such an indefensible position. Working her way through the castle’s chain of command, it had been evident that her adopted persona was not only unexpected but implausible. A quick rummage through the trunk had produced no letters of introduction or anything else to support her aim. She’d be out on her arse before the sun set. A blight on the old man’s head.
“Mr. Derne, sir?” The thin voice of a bespectacled young man seated at the desk in the corner broke the awkward silence. He lifted a thick sheet of parchment from a pile on the disorganized surface and held it aloft between two fingers as if the thing might poison him. His voice trembled as the steward pinned him with that uncomfortable stare. “I do have a letter here from the Misters Adam indicating that they would send someone to aid in Lord Keeley’s efforts.”
In two long strides, Derne crossed the room and snatched the letter from the unfortunate man. He gave the contents the same scathing review he had her with a grimace. “It says here that an Ailan Marshall would be sent. Not a female.”
“Aila, not Ailan,” she corrected, sending up a prayer of thanks for the letter.
With a trembling finger, his subordinate pointed to the page. “I believe that’s a flourish at the end of the name rather than anN. You can see it employed here.” His finger lowered. “And again there.”
