The men shared a look over her head as she turned her attention to her salmon. Something between amusement and indulgence. Too bad she wouldn’t be around when the laws were repealed to be proven right.
She stared with studied innocence at her fork. “Er, where is this mill located that Mr. Boyce operates by the way? Has it been around long?”
“’Bout a mile west of the village on the far side of the orchard,” Ian answered distractedly.
Arriving in the hall, young Mr. Elliot paused at their table. “Good evening, Mistress Marshall. I see you and Lord Keeley have worked through your differences.”
“Ye could say that.”
“I heard you asking about Mr. Boyce,” Elliott went on, the tic in his eyelid jumping. “If you’re curious about the locals, I’d be happy to answer your questions.”
It might have been congenial politeness that prompted the offer, however there was a keen intensity in his gaze to make her wonder if he meant it as a means of flirtation. She had no desire to encourage him, if that’s what it was. “Idle curiosity, nothing more. Though I appreciate the offer.”
With a nod, he lingered as if hoping for an invitation to join them. Soon enough the men’s stony scowls sent him on his way to a place at the long table with the castle staff. Ian’s expression eased after Elliot was gone. “Where are ye from, Miss Marshall? I’m curious what county of our fair country propagates such optimism.”
Aila sighed. She had a feeling she could pepper them relentlessly with questions about Mr. Boyce and gain nothing but vague answers in return. Her best hope had probably been with Elliot. She should have asked him to sit regardless of the young man’s intentions. He’d seemed eager to accommodate her and she might have gained some valuable information.
Instead, she’d opened herself up to an interrogation that would test her ability to fabricate half-truths on the spot. She’d had no idea how wary her countrymen had been of strangers during this time. Then who could blame them? The English had taken everything from them, made fugitives of many of them.
She set her fork aside, unable to enjoy the fish with the spotlight on her, and took a sip of her wine while she weighed her answer. At least this one didn’t require the same creativity as answering the ones about her journey here had. Honesty here wouldn’t hurt.
“I’m originally from Stromness on Mainland in the Orkneys.”
“The Orkneys?” Ian snorted in disbelief. “I have a difficult time picturing ye in a wee fishing village, Miss Marshall.”
So did she, though the town was not so wee any longer. The confines had chafed. That was one of the reasons she’d left. “I come from a long line of sailors.”
Ian refilled his whisky glass from a bottle at the center of the table and lifted it in a silent toast. “How is that ye came to ken James and Robert Adam and find yer way here?”
Aila scoured her mind for an acceptable response but came up empty.
“Let me put a pin in that for the moment.” She decided it would be better to ask the questions than to answer them. Rather than turning the conversation back to Boyce, Aila found her thoughts turning in another direction. “I’m more interested to hear about the new castle. How did ye come to be working here?”
“’Tis no’ I who is in Argyll’s employ.” Ian lifted his hands in protest. “I am merely here to visit my old friend whilst he labors in the duke’s service.”
There was accusation in the words and in the rancorous look he shot Finn. Finn shrugged and continued eating with a mumbled, “Ye ken why.”
Ian grunted a response and pushed his plate of fish away. Neither offered anything further on the subject. Aila could make a hundred guesses why Finn worked here, but beyond reason, she wondered what it cost him to seek employment by the enemy.
Neither man looked as if he were going to compound on the subject, so she turned to Ian. “He must be a good friend for ye to join him here of all places. There’s no’ much to entertain. Inveraray is like Stromness in that regard. Nothing compared to Glenrothes.” The men shared a look of surprise, and Aila silently cursed her slip. What she knew of Brontë’s Tris MacKintosh didn’t automatically apply to this MacKintosh.
It was Finn who asked, “What do ye ken of Glenrothes?”
“Is that no’ where the MacKintosh clan hails from? I’m familiar with the clan name.” She crossed her fingers and hoped the excuse would suffice.
“We did,” Ian allowed with a nod. “In a sense, still do at heart.”
Relieved that her explanation had been accepted, Aila sipped her wine and pushed a bit further, eager to determine if there was a link between the two men in truth. “I imagine ye’ve met the earl then, since he’s the head of the clan?”
“I may have,” Ian prevaricated, his dark gaze penetrating hers.
It hit her then, a mighty wallop upside the head akin to those delivered by her dreaded great aunt, though far more enlightening. “Ye may have? My guess is that ye are the earl.”
“Shite!” Finn looked around the room, now mostly empty as the staff had finished their meal and either returned to their duties or retired, before he turned to scowl at her. “Wheesht, lass! Do ye want to let the whole place ken who he is?”
“I believe we had a conversation about shushing me,LordKeeley.”
“Och, call me what ye like, lass. I’m no’ a wanted man,” Finn growled low. “He is.”
