“Ha. I love you, too.”
Inspiration hit. “I couldnae. Even if I wanted to. I dinnae have the device any longer.”
“You mean that device? Nice try. Even if you didn’t have one, I do. So that excuse was never going to work.”
Aila looked where her friend pointed to see the white oval amid the jumble Brontë had dumped out of her purse. He’d been in her purse?
That wily auld bastard had thought of everything.
Maybe, but he hadn’t counted on her, had he?
Chapter 25
Inveraray, Scotland
Late September 1748
“Good morn, Ian.” Finn scanned the servants’ hall before taking a seat at the table. A heaping platter of eggs, blood sausage, and haggis at the center of the table and the half-empty plate in front of his friend indicated Ian hadn’t been there long. “Have ye seen Aila about this morning?”
“Nay, perhaps she’s still asleep? It has been a rather long week for us all.” Ian gestured to the platter of food. “Tuck in, will ye? I think that new maid Elspeth is flirting wi’ me via the stomach. She’ll keep pestering me until that plate is empty.”
As comely as the kitchen maid was, she’d have a grave problem on her hands if she thought to win over Ian’s affections. They were fully engaged with Fiona, whether she flew with the angels or not.
Finn had a grave problem with his own affections and little time or will to dwell on those of another. Besides, he’d broken his fast hours ago. “She’s no’ abed.” Nor had she been when he’d woken to a cold bed before the dawn. “Her dog is also gone.”
Ian shrugged and continued eating. “She might have taken the beast for a walk then. She seems to enjoy doing so.”
She did, true. And she had proven herself an early riser, awaking before him each morning when it was his usual habit to be up with the sun. Still, Finn couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. Awash with contentment in the aftermath of their passionate love play, he’d been in too much of a stupor to pinpoint it last night. The way Aila had lain stiff in his embrace, without a word to say…. While he couldn’t speak to what, precisely, in the morning light he thought he must have done something to upset her.
Questioning her about the marks on her hip, perhaps? The many hours and nights they’d made love in the dark, he’d never had occasion to notice them before. It was possible she’d engineered their encounters to that effect. To keep him from seeing the birthmark, scar, or whatever it was. That didn’t make any sense, either. Aila wasn’t one to be ashamed of any portion of her behavior. He’d have to think that philosophy would extend to her body. One she had every reason to be confident in displaying. She would have shown it to him with the option to like it or not.
What then?
“She did say she wanted to return that necklace to Boyce, did she no’?” Ian asked around a mouthful of sausage. “Mayhap she went there.”
Of course. The errand wouldn’t account for the early hour, but that had to be it.
“I’ll look for her there. Enjoy yer meal.”
His friend arched an inquisitive brow. “Ye’re going to seek her out? Should ye no’ be building yer precious castle this morn or might I hope ye’ve come to yer senses at last?”
Finn tamped down a spurt of irritation. “My men have been hard at work for many an hour already. Something ye would ken, my friend, if ye had no’ slept off yer drink ’til mid morn.”
A snarl curled Ian’s lip. He lifted a tin cup in mock toast. “Slept it off? Who said I ever stopped,my friend?”
His hands folded into fists. It was all Finn could do to refrain from yanking Ian out of his chair and beating some sense and sobriety into him. Aye, he might have an issue or two of his own, Finn acknowledged. None as severe as Ian’s. Either drink or a short drop with a sudden stop from the hangman’s scaffold were going to send him to an early grave.
If ye keep on as ye are, ye’ll join him there.
Finn turned his back on the wee, nagging voice in his head. He turned his back on his friend, as well. For the time being only. He had no intention of giving up on Ian. Not only for Ian’s sake but Fergus’s as well.
A mile-long walk in the brisk morning air to the mill did much to clear his head. Alas, when he arrived, he found the mill dark and vacant. With the village as the remaining option, he sought Boyce out at the pub. The taproom, typically bustling at any time of day now that the harvest was in, was vacant but for a few men seated before the fire.
“Help ye, me lord?” one of them asked.
“Aye, if ye would. I’m looking for the miller, Boyce.”
“Sick in his bed,” the same man answered. “Like many this morn.”
