“Lord Doom and Gloom.” She offered a near smile — the first he’d seen from her — and a shrug. “Did I mention the names aren’t terribly original?” Strolling past him, she pointed at each statue as she went. “Here is the Dread Pirate Roberts, the Earl of Misery Upon Misery, Sir Clinksalot and nay, he’s nae relation to Clanksalot.” Her dog sniffed behind the armored figure, most likely intent on a mouse. Aila pulled him out and waved him down the hall as they continued. “That’s Baron Von Snarly there with the pointy beard and lopsided mustache, and this is the Bishop of Morose-shire. As ye can see, for the most part the children believe them to be a dour lot. I dinnae disagree with the assessment. The rest go along those same lines, except for this fine fellow.” She stopped to pat one on the shoulder with a twist of her lips. “Behold the King of Ridiculousness.”
That one was royally absurd, he had to agree. A sixteenth century soldier with an extravagant neck ruff that winged out over an armor chest plate. He wore a short cape that covered one arm. His ballooned trousers were short enough to show off his garters while a detailed, and impressively large, codpiece jutted from the folds.
“His Majesty has a finely turned leg.”
Her lips compressed. “That’s what stands out to ye? Literally stands out?”
A chuckle bubbled up in him and he let it go. Next thing he knew, a husky giggle joined his. By God, if Aila was bonny at any other time, she was dazzling in good humor. Her smile brought a weakness to his knees and a clench to his heart.
If he hadn’t acknowledged it before, in that moment, Finn knew he was in serious trouble.
Chapter 15
“Now scoop up a handful,” Boyce instructed the children, who obediently filled their hands with the flour that came out of the edges of the two grinding stones. “This is called the grist.”
“It’s warm,” Effie observed as she rubbed the ground oats between her hands. “Why?”
Curious and ready to learn. Aila hoped Finn would take her advice to heart and engage a teacher for the children. They hadn’t had the chance to talk more about it the previous night. Over another meal of smoked salmon and turnips, boiled this time instead of mashed, conversation between Finn and Ian had centered around letters from family received that day, and the building of the castle and what more could be accomplished before winter set in. Not much more had been said.
Certainly, it hadn’t been brought up when she’d opened her bedroom door around midnight to find Finn there with his fist raised as if to knock. He hadn’t, but Aila welcomed him in with a kiss, glad she didn’t have to wonder whether a knock on his door would have ended in an invitation or rejection. Once again under the blanket of darkness — a maid had come to bank the fire Ian had built up for her leaving nothing but the faint glow of embers — she and Finn had tangled among the sheets.
Not a word spoken, but a night of sex worthy of the record books. He’d learned and remembered what she liked most. Things she’d hadn’t been aware of herself. What made her moan, what made her scream. What drove her to the brink of ecstasy beyond any she’d ever known. She let out a shaky sigh and tried to soothe her pounding heart. She forced her attention back to the lesson. The miller explained that the grist was warmed by the heat created by the grind of stone against stone.
Aye, she knew all about friction and the heat it generated. With a shake of her head, she admonished herself to let it go. Residual lust had no place here with the children and Boyce in attendance.
“’Tis no’ flour just yet, mind ye,” Boyce continued. “There’s an elevator wi’in this shaft that carries the grist above and into a trough where an auger turns it until it is cool and dry. Then it’s pushed into the bolter that separates out the chaff.”
“What’s chaff?” Niall asked.
“The chaff are the husks, stems and such in there. See?” He helped them sift through the grist in their hands, showing them the bits to be weeded out, then offered to take them above to watch the bolter. Niall and Effie raced upstairs well ahead of the miller who followed at a much slower pace.
Aila winced in sympathy for the poor man. He seemed so worn out upon their arrival, she’d offered to come back another day. He’d insisted they stay with the claim that they raised his spirits.
A moment later, the children ran down the stairs once more with Boyce doddering after them. “Aye, that’s it over there. The flour comes down that chute to be bagged.”
Niall peered up the chute. “Can we do that?”
Boyce rubbed his jaw with exaggerated skepticism. “Och, I dinnae ken. How are yer skills wi’ a needle and thread?”
The lad looked highly offended. “Sewing? That’s women’s work.”
Like father, like son. Aila was about to explain the error in his way of thinking. To her surprise, Boyce beat her to it. “There’s nae such thing as women’s work, lad. I’ve stitched up every bag of flour to leave this mill myself. Even long before my wife passed. It is my job and my responsibility. Many a man takes on the duties ye claim to be for women.”
Niall’s face scrunched with doubt. “Like who?”
“Sailors, for example. Each one of them must ken how to sew. No’ only sails, but clothing,” the older man explained. “I’d wager yer father had a valet at some point? A gentleman who cared for his clothing and such?”
“Duff,” Effie piped in. “He used to live with us at Rossmore Castle before.”
“Aye, there ye are.” Boyce nodded in approval. “And no’ sewing alone. His Grace has a fancy French chef to cook for him.”
“A man to cook for him?” Niall once again voiced his qualms with an expressive face.
“Aye, a man. Look at me, I’m a man, am I no’?” Both children nodded at the miller’s question. “Yet, I no’ only sew. I cook for myself. I clean my home and launder my clothes. Wi’ or wi’out a woman by his side, a man needs to ken how to take care of himself.”
“Amen to that,” Aila muttered under her breath. “Thank ye, Mr. Boyce, for providing a much-needed lesson on that subject.”
He offered a genial smile then clapped his hands. “Now who wants to fill one of the bags?”
