“Och, lass. Which is it? Am I an arse, a bastard or…what was it? Twa—”
“All three!” She covered his mouth with her hand before he could repeat the insult. His eyes met hers. No anger, no derision, no….
Aila blinked as she saw the crow’s feet winging out from the corners of his eyes and recognized the light in those hazel depths. Humor. Unabashed amusement. His lips moved against her palm and she jerked her hand away lest she miss it.
A smile. Her stomach flipped as his jaw unclenched, the hard planes of his cheeks softened into long lines. Laugh lines appeared at the corners of his eyes, then a flash of even white teeth. He chuckled. The rusty bark evolving into laughter. Boyish, young and carefree. So wonderfully handsome she wished she could whip out her phone and immortalize the moment. Make it hers to keep forever.
What had he done to her?
Aila pushed by him, whirling back on one heel when she realized she’d left the trunk behind.
“Wait, lass.” The chuckle still lingering on his lips, he caught her arm again before she could lay a finger on it. “Dinnae go. Consider my offer. My children are in need of a proper nursemaid.”
“I’m hardly the person to fill the position, then.” She yanked her arm away with a scowl. Gah, she didn’t even recognize herself. “Let their mother look after them. I willnae be the one to do it.”
Her flippant remark drove the last bit of humor away, leaving his expression blank. For the first time without a hint of any sort of emotion. “They dinnae have one.”
“Everyone has…” Aila blinked, mind stalled in confusion. “What do ye…? Oh.”
A couple of centuries from now her assumption would be divorce, but given the time period, she doubted a voluntary separation had summoned the look on his face. Finn stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest, the impact of his withdrawal both physical and mental. Shame over her ignorant retort suffused her, and she laid a hand on his forearm. “My apologies. I dinnae think before speaking. I’m so sorry for yer loss.”
He shrugged away from her touch. “’Tis clear ye dinnae want the position. Off wi’ ye then.”
“Finn, I…. How long has it been?”
“Long enough.” Bending, he snatched up the trunk and thrust it at her. “Be on yer way.”
She took it and spun about with a huff. “Fine then!”
“Oof!” Her impact with the solid wall that was Ian MacKintosh’s chest jammed the edge of the trunk into her ribs hard enough to steal her breath. Steadying her, he looked from her, to Finn, and down at the trunk.
“I feel yer baggage is somehow becoming a fixture in our lives, Mistress Marshall.”
Their lives? Ha! She carried far more baggage around with her wherever she went.
“Please, allow me.” Ian clucked his tongue and relieved her of her burden. “Did yer room no’ suit, Miss Marshall? Or is it perhaps the realization of who yer position as assistant has ye reporting to that has sent ye fleeing?”
“The room is fine, thank ye.”
The pointed omission in her answer summoned a ghost of a smile to Ian’s lips while Finn’s teeth ground audibly. The tension snapped when Finn’s children ran into the hallway and threw their arms around him. That now infamous Furrow of Fury fell away as he greeted their riotous chatter with that same affection she’d noted earlier. As it had then, her heart contracted at the tender sight.
A warm weight pressed against Aila’s thigh and she looked down at Rab. He plopped down on her foot and leaned against her. Tail thumping, ears upright, and brown eyes fairly dancing. If that were a thing with dogs. She scratched his ear unable to refrain. “Having a good time, are ye?” He responded with one of his unusual gurgling, almost Wookie-like growls. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Still talking to yerself, hmm?”
Aila ignored the twinkle in Ian’s eyes and directed her attention to the woman behind him and the toddler in her arms. The petite blonde wore a maid’s uniform and a harried expression. The child, though clad in a long dress-like garment and bearing a headful of long dark curls, was obviously a lad and a wee mini-me of his father. “He looks just like ye. What’s his name?”
“Fergus.” Ian ran a hand over his son’s head and dropped a kiss on his forehead. “Fergus Colin MacKintosh. He offers ye his most abject apology, lass.”
“For what?”
“Seems he, Niall, and Effie have run yer dog ragged this day. There is nae a square inch of the bailey they’ve no’ circled and explored.”
“Is that so?”
“Ask him yerself.” A teasing tone lightened his brogue. “Ye do converse wi’ him, aye?”
“I never said he answered,” she retorted as she stroked Rab’s head.
