She looked directly at him. “No.”
“Stubborn woman,” he muttered, unsurprised. Trying to ignore the lemon scent of her skin, the smooth warmth of her, he carefully locked the cuff around her ankle, made certain none of the metal pinched or even touched her, then straightened again. “I’ll be back with yer breakfast in a bit,” he said, retreating to the door. “Is there anything else ye require, aside from yer freedom and a coach with four white horses to carry ye away from here?”
“The horses don’t have to be white,” she returned. “I’m not particular.”
Every time he thought he’d figured her out, every time he concluded that she was the grand, spoiled lady he’d expected, she said something like that and set him off kilter again. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he returned, pulling the door closed behind himself.
Another day or two of this and he was likely to become a raving lunatic. At the bottom of the stairs he summoned Cowen. “Has Mrs. Woring put a tray together fer our guest?”
“Aye, m’laird. I was aboot to have Ross fetch it fer ye.”
“I’ll fetch it. I need ye to send Ross doon to Mòriasg Hoose and have him tell my uncle I request his presence at his earliest convenience.”
Raibeart Maxton was a practical man, and Graeme could damned well use some practical advice—and a plan that didn’t end with someone imprisoned or dead.
***
“Ye should go talk to her,” Connell Maxton urged, as he tossed bits of chicken into the air and his pair of foxes leaped after the morsels. If Morag Woring got word of where one of the chickens she’d set aside for dinner had gone, the lad wouldn’t be able to sit down for the meal, but the foxes seemed happy enough.
“She’s locked in,” Brendan returned, frowning over a full page of complicated-looking mathematics. “And she’s English. I dunnae want to talk to her.”
“When Graeme marries her, ye’ll have to talk to her,” Dùghlas pointed out.
“Nae. I willnae.” Brendan crossed out a line in heavy pencil. “Damnation. I’d rather be oot clearing the ditches than doing this.”
“Graeme said the morning snow should be gone by tomorrow, and we’re to do it then,” Connell recited, as if they all hadn’t heard the announcement four hours ago, over breakfast. “And why dunnae ye want to talk to her? Are ye scared? Of a lass?Italked to her.”
“Aye, but ye make friends with frogs, duckling. And then ye weep when a hawk takes one. Dunnae make the same mistake with her. Stay well away from that woman.”
In the chair beneath the window of the downstairs sitting room, Dùghlas set aside his own pencil and sighed. Generally afternoons were filled with Brendan’s complaints about having to continue his studies at the old age of sixteen, while Connell worked through whatever passage he’d been given to read, and Dùghlas helped Connell and finished up his own studies.
Today, and for the past few days, the lessons had been more difficult and more lengthy, and they felt like a punishment—or a way to keep them inside the house. Dùghlas supposed that made sense, given the trouble they’d made for Graeme, but he wondered if their oldest brother had any idea how angry Brendan still was.
Aye, Brendan was angry nearly daily, but generally it was because a lass he liked had smiled at someone else. Then, his grumbling was full of plans to knock Rory Polk or Eran Howard on their arses. This, though, felt different. And when they’d tied up the lass, Brendan would have driven the wagon all the way to Dunncraigh himself, if they hadn’t had Connell with them. He kept talking like he didn’t care what happened to her now, even with the plans Graeme had made, and Dùghlas was beginning to believe that he meant it.
“Stop teasing Connell,” he said aloud. “He likes the Sassenach, and ye ken the duckling has a soft heart.”
“I dunnae have a soft heart; I have a big heart,” the eight-year-old corrected. “And Brendan can say whatever he likes. I think he’s just mean.”
“It’s nae mean to be willing to do what’s necessary. It’s practical. I’m practical.”
Dùghlas snorted. “Ye’re a bull in a bloody china shop.”
“At least I’ve done someaught. Graeme would just as soon throw punches while the Maxwell threatens him—and us. Dunncraigh’s supposed to be our ally, nae our enemy. And we can be back at the laird’s table by sending one damned letter! If trouble comes of it, I’ll take it on my shoulders. Graeme’s needed here.”
“And what would that make me,” Graeme said from the doorway, “if I allowed anyone to take ye from here, Brendan?”
The sixteen-year-old slammed his fist against the tabletop. “I’m nae having this argument again, Graeme! Withoot blunt coming here from somewhere, ye’ll have to sell Garaidh nan Leòmhann before Connell’s old enough to go to university, even though ye’ll nae have the blunt to send him anymore than ye will Dùghlas and me.”
“I’m nae going to university!” Connell yelled. “I’m staying here and helping! And we willnae ever sell the Lion’s Den, will we, Graeme?”
“Nae, we willnae,” the Maxwell chieftain returned with a grin. “If we’ve nae money we’ll sell Brendan to gypsies.”
Dùghlas grinned too, relieved to see his oldest brother in better humor again. “Well, that’ll gain us a shilling or two, at least.”
Brendan pushed to his feet, his face beet red. “Ye’re all so damned amusing.”
He stomped for the door, but Graeme didn’t move. “Where do ye think ye’re going?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.
