“Who is Mr. Boyce?” she asked Ian as he sat to her right.
“He’s the local miller, I believe.”
“Miller?”
“Aye.”
It wasn’t clarification she was asking about, but rather for the definition of what a miller was. She wracked her brain. Boyce and the cook reentered the room sans the bag over his shoulder this time and she fought the urge to slap a palm to her forehead. Oh, themiller! As in the one who mills the wheat or barley into flour. And Violet thought her a clever lass.
Aye, maybe when she was in her element. Not a fish out of water.
She eyed Boyce as he chatted with the staff, rejecting their pleas to join them at the table. He looked worn out, even sickly as some she’d seen in the village earlier. Heavy bags of skin drooped under his eyes. The rest of his wan face appeared to sag as well. As if he’d once been much heavier and was now deflated.
“Mr. Boyce looks as though he’s ill. I noticed in the village, too, more of the same. Nothing viral, I hope.”
“Viral?” Ian asked. “My apologies, lass. I’m unfamiliar wi’ the term.”
Finn’s expression, too, turned from frustration to inquisitiveness and Aila bit her tongue at the rookie move. Hadn’t she learned enough from Brontë’s mistakes to watch her tongue? When were viruses discovered? She had no idea. She shouldn’t have even asked. Her fully inoculated self was unlikely to pick up the flu or chicken pox. “Catching?” she opted. “Does one get sick from being around them?”
“It disnae seem to be so. ’Tis a general malaise some have been inflicted wi’ in the village,” Ian told her. “Some trouble wi’ the bowels, nausea, vom—”
“Nothing that needs be discussed over a dinner table or with a lady,” Finn cut in, then turned his scowl from Ian to her. “Fret no’, lass. Nae one within the castle walls has been afflicted. Ye’ll be safe enough here. Until ye leave, that is.”
Ian looked between them. “My friend hisnae truly frightened ye off, has he, Miss Marshall?”
“Please, call me Aila.”
“A bonny name for a bonny lass.”
Since he offered the compliment without a shred of flirtation, she inclined her head in thanks. “To answer yer question, nay. Mr. Keeley disnae frighten me one whit.”
Liar, she silently admonished as Finn lifted a brow accusing her of the same. Not that the feelings he engendered were the same fright as a horror film might rouse or that shock Ian had given her when he’d suddenly appeared out of the dark in the passage. It would be more accurate to say that he unsettled her and left her squirming. She felt his scrutiny as if she were lying naked on a beach in the French Riviera and his eyes were the hot summer sun toasting her. Roasting her. Heating her.
Ha, she would have liked to call that look smoldering. In truth it was more baleful than anything. There should be nothing seductive about it, yet given the choice between a tall drink of water in an icy glass and the one seated on the other side of the table, she knew which one she longed for.
A heaping tray of food cut like a knife between them to land with athudon the table. “Here ye are, my lor…er, Mr. Keeley. Mr. MacKintosh.” A kitchen maid emptied the tray of plates, bowls and utensils along with a bottle of whisky, platters of smoked salmon and mashed neeps, and a kettle full of what smelled like Cullen skink, a fish chowder, out onto the table. “I’ll have to fetch another setting. I wisnae aware Miss Marshall would be joining ye here rather than sitting at the long table.”
“Thank ye, Elspeth.” Aila blinked as Finn employed the most kindly tone she had yet to hear from him. “Fetch a plate for Mistress Marshall if ye please.”
The maid bobbed a curtsey. “Aye, my lo— er, sir.”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard someone address ye as ‘my lord,’” Aila commented after Elspeth returned with the extra dishes and disappeared once more. The men had already tucked into their meal with hearty appetites while she sipped her soup. “What are ye the lord of?”
From primary school history and her book, she knew the term “laird” had been banned following the Scots’ loss in the battle of Culloden in an attempt to upend the clan system. Bearing weapons and wearing kilts had also been outlawed, which explained why neither man nor anyone in the village wore one.
Titles and lands were stripped from noblemen who’d fought against the English for their “treason.” Her heart ached for Finn and Ian, as well. Their clothing bore the same stamp of quality as her own in comparison to the locals. With their air of command and the respect they were offered by the castle staff, clearly both were born to the upper classes.
“Iwasthe Lord of Rossmore, laird of clan Keeley, prior to our defeat on the Drummoise moor,” Finn confessed after a pointed silence. “King George has since prohibited use of the title.”
Beneath the bitter infliction of Finn’s brogue there was a poignant underpinning of remorse she couldn’t help but sympathize with. “Dinnae fash, it will no’ last forever.”
Ian snorted around a spoonful of soup. “Ye speak wi’ more confidence than anyone I know. Can ye see the future now, lass?”
Despite his jesting tone, she hesitated to respond with the truth even to tease. She had no idea how badly it might go for her if they took her seriously. “It’s logic, no’ clairvoyance.”
“Logic?” Finn lifted a brow. “Explain.”
“It’s only that the monarchy will no’ be wanting to drive a wedge further between our two countries when it is their goal to unite Scotland and England under one rule,” Aila explained. “They deliver their punishment to make their point. Aye, they’ll make certain we feel the pinch, but in the end, they’ll need to let our customs and culture stand if they dinnae want a continued rebellion.”
