They reached the first floor and the small vestibule that branched off trice. The left led to the main part of the castle, the longest one ahead to servants’ hall with an oft unused passage to the bailey on the right. The lass slowed her steps and the space between them narrowed until the enthralling scent she wore reached his nose again. Warm and beguiling with an undeniable lure akin to the pull of Pandora’s box to discover the mysteries she held.
Finn took a step back with a shake of his head. “’Tis the passage ahead.”
He caught her profile as she cast a glance over her shoulder with a stiff nod. Still she hesitated. “This place is even worse without a hint of daylight.”
“In what way?”
“Creepier, don’t ye think?” There was an almost childlike quality to her voice.
“Are ye afraid of the dark, Mistress Marshall?”
“Of course no’.” The words bore the earmarks of a blatant lie. “It’s just that all this statuary that lines each hallway…it lends an element of the macabre to the place. Coming upon them like sarcophagi in an ancient Egyptian tomb or the like.” The timbre of her tone fell to a murmur. “I feel like Indiana Jones and no’ in a good way.”
“Who’s—”
“How do ye people get on without proper lighting?”
“We people?” A touch of humor caught him. “Do ye no’ count yerself among us, lass? Perhaps ye truly are one of the fey folk then? My Effie thinks ye have the look about ye.”
“That’s sweet of her.” Her soft tone steadied as she stepped with clear hesitation into the dim hallway. “But I dinnae believe in fairy tales.”
“I thought ye claimed to be a true Scottish lass.” She turned her head far enough that he could make out her pursed lips. The sour expression amused him further. “As a race of people, ’tis our duty to believe.”
“Well, I dinnae. I believe rather firmly in reality.” Her voice lowered to a mumble he was hard put to make out. “And the bloody blessing of modern utilities.”
He had no idea to what she referred. “For such a bonny lass ye’ve a prickly, puzzling tongue that vexes most readily.”
Stopping in her tracks, she turned with raised brows and lips still puckered. The tart look did nothing to diminish her natural beauty. “Simultaneously complimentary and insulting. Ye have a gift with words, Mr. Keeley. My friend Violet said much the same recently, though in a far nicer fashion. I told her that we work to our strengths.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m good at it.” One fine brow fell though the other remained lifted at the arch response, and Finn had the feeling the lass was toying with him. Neither flattered nor insulted but pleased by his remark. She turned and continued down the passage. “At any rate, it’s nice to ken I’m no’ the only one who vexes, as ye put it.”
Whether she intended it or not, the admission gratified him. It was rather nice to know that he unsettled her as much as she did him. Not that the admission would do him any service in the end. Thankfully, there was a literal light at the end of the tunnel where he could bid farewell to his troubles, as they were, and send them on their way.
Rather than hurry to carry him onward, his steps lagged…then stopped short of where the passage opened to the servants’ hall.
The lass paused her step and frowned over her shoulder. “What are ye doing?”
Good bloody question.
He set the trunk at his feet marveling at himself. Truth, he had no idea what he was about, only that he couldn’t let her go without touching her one time. She flounced back with a huff, reaching for the trunk. Reflexively, he caught her hand in his. The electric spark had little to do with the cold, dry weather and everything to do with the arousal that had plagued him from the moment he’d first seen her. Acknowledged or not. The spark sizzled. The fine hairs on his arms stood at attention.
It wasn’t enough. Turning her hand, he placed a kiss on the inside of her wrist. Her soft, ivory skin warm against his lips. Her pulse leapt before she yanked her hand away. She rubbed the spot his mouth touched, a fierce scowl marring her smooth brow.
As if she could erase the impact of the simple gesture. As if he could forget the taste of her.
Bugger it, he was going barmy.
“Why would ye do that?” There was accusation in the rough whisper, as if he’d smacked her upside the head rather than kiss her hand. “Why? I was going to leave without a fuss. I was managing it. Now…”
Managing what? “Now…?” he prompted.
“Now ye’re making me think I’m capable of some seriously questionable moral fluctuations.”
She sounded cross with him, her blue eyes flaring with irritation disproportional to the deed in question. Finn had no idea what she meant any more than he comprehended what had set her off so. The act was a common enough practice despite her reaction.
And his. The urge to do it again — and more — seized him. To carry her into the shadows between the statuary and do much more. Finn shoved the burgeoning desire aside. There was much more to Aila Marshall than met the eye. A spot of joy. A complication he might briefly enjoy but did not need in his life. With that reminder, he bowed with a flourish of his hand for her to carry on.
