“That’s a good idea, Cowen. I’d like to know if I’m aboot to have half the Sassenach army riding doon into my valley.” And Taog the footman had a good portion of sense, so the lad wouldn’t be likely to gossip, or to miss any clues that the Maxton household was about to be in for a great deal of trouble.
“That was my thought, too.”
Graeme followed the butler into the hallway, then watched the older man hurry down the stairs on his errands. Five servants, Garaidh nan Leòmhann had, when back during his parents’ time the so-called Lion’s Den had boasted a dozen. He would almost rather have seen the house go up in flames—dead and ruined all at once. This way, the slow decline and ruin they’d been facing for the past dozen years or so brought a little pain with it every damned day.
The lass pounded on the far side of her door as he reached it. The lass who happened to be a damned heiress. And a privileged, spoiled Sassenach. But for what he required, that really didn’t matter. Graeme made a fist and pounded back. “I’m here, fer God’s sake!”
“You’re a very rude man,” she returned, her voice a little muffled through the thick oak.
“I dunnae recall claiming anything different. What do ye want? Ye’ll have yer breakfast in a minute.”
“I… I require some assistance.”
Clenching his jaw, ordering himself not to imagine her still in her night rail with her long dark hair loose over her shoulders, he pulled the key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and shoved it open.
Lady Marjorie was not wearing the night rail he’d scavenged for her, nor was her long, dark hair loose. And although he didn’t see what he’d imagined, the sight before him left him more unsettled than disappointed. She’d found the light blue muslin gown that had once belonged to his mother, the fit a little tight across her bosom. And she’d somehow tamed that hair into an elegant coil atop her head. If she was attempting to convince him that she was an angel and that her halo, however, she would firstly have to be other than a Sassenach, and secondly not be the physical representation of just how much trouble he’d likely found himself, whatever he decided to do with her.
He shook himself. “What assistance?” he demanded. “Ye look fairly decent to me.”
Her pale cheeks darkened to a soft rose. “I—yes. It’s the buckle on my shoe. I put them on the hearth to dry, and when I tried to put them back on, one of the buckles broke off.”
“Yer shoe.”
She frowned. “Yes, my shoe. Do you expect me to go about barefoot? There’s snow outside.”
“I dunnae expect ye to go aboot outside at all,” he countered. Just the thought of one of Dunncraigh’s men spying Lattimer’s sister onhisproperty… The coolness between the Maxwell and himself would seem like a handshake compared to what would happen if that occurred. Of course if he had under his control the money to challenge the Maxwell’s stranglehold, the story would have a very different ending.
“I am not going barefoot,” she stated. “A lady wears shoes. It’s bad enough that this is a house dress I will have to pair with walking shoes. If I—”
“Fer glory’s sake,” he muttered. “Where are the damned things?”
“On my feet. I wasn’t about to admit you into my presence while my feet were naked. And your language, sir. If you please.”
Graeme clenched his jaw, choosing to concentrate on the second part of the statement even while the first part had him conjuring more than her feet naked before him. Damnation. He needed to go visit Morag Polk or Juno Allen in Sheiling. Three younger siblings and a host of cotters under his protection or not, a man like him wasn’t meant to be celibate for… God, how long had it been? A month? No wonder he was imagining a proper English lass naked. Of course if he married her, he could damned well see her naked. Even a marriage of convenience—his convenience, in this instance—needed to be consummated.
“My language?” he repeated, fighting his way back to the conversation at hand. “Ye’re the one came to the Highlands, lass. Dunnae ye dare complain aboot our way of speaking.”
Color touched her cheeks again. “I meant the profanity. Not your… way of speaking.”
“Oh.” Had he cursed? He couldn’t recall, though odds were that he had. “Well, I reckon I’ll speak as I wish.”
She folded her arms over her chest, which sent his attention back to the snug fit of the blue muslin. “Physically I am your prisoner, Mr. Maxton. My mind and my opinions, however, remain my own.”
“That’s bloody fine with me,” he returned, lifting his gaze to her face again, using profanity deliberately. He was well versed in it, and that was damned certain. “Give me yer damned shoes.”
“I…” She made a sound very like a growl. “I will not surrender my only footwear.”
“God save us from the plague and Englishwomen,” he muttered, altering his grandfather’s favorite saying a bit to fit the circumstances. Old Uisdean Maxton would no doubt approve, given his well-documented suspicion of any Sassenach. “Cowen!”
The door opened so quickly that the butler must have been listening just on the other side of it. “Aye, sir?”
“Find me some lass’s shoes. I dunnae care if they’re milking shoes or dancing slippers, as long as they’ll fit our guest, here.”
Bobbing his head, Cowen backed out of the doorway and vanished again. Female shoes were a rare commodity at the Lion’s Den, but they’d managed to find a handful of gowns in the attic. The butler was a resourceful lad; he’d manage.
“Thank you.”
Thatcaptured his attention. “So ye’re a polite lass now, are ye?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
