“Five.”
“And here?” She pointed to the second stack.
“Five, fer God’s sake. And five, and five again.”
“Push two of the stacks together. How many are there, then?”
He moved his mouth, otherwise counting silently. “Ten. What good does that—”
“Push the other two together.”
Connell did so. “Fine. And there are ten here, too, so dunnae ask me.”
“I won’t. Push the two tens into one pile. How many are there?”
“Ten and ten is twenty. I’m nae a bairn.”
“Separate them into four equal piles again. How many are in each pile?”
“Five. Did ye think I’d ferget?”
“No, I didn’t. What is five pebbles times four stacks?”
He looked down at the stones, then up at her again. “It’s twenty. How did ye do that?”
She chuckled. “Well done, Connell. I didn’t do anything. You did.” As she spoke the hair on her arms lifted, and she turned her head to see Graeme leaning in the doorway and gazing at her. Warmth swept through her like a summer breeze.
For heaven’s sake, she wasn’t even certain she liked him. She craved him; especially after this morning. Especially since he’d donned his kilt again, and she knew what lay beneath it. In her defense, he had a great deal to recommend about him. Firstly, he was handsome as the devil, with that careless hair and graceful physicality that reminded her of a lion on the hunt. In addition to that, he’d taken on the task of raising his own brothers, doing that while seeing to the wants and needs of a hundred other families scattered in valleys and villages for miles around.
At the same time, she remained a prisoner here, unable to leave the mansion and with her own lady’s companion still locked in a room upstairs. The most reasonable explanation for her attraction seemed to be that she’d simply lost her mind. If she accepted that idea, at least she could follow her impulses and fall into bed with him at the next—and every—opportunity. Madwomen did mad things, after all.
“Graeme!” Connell said, heaping up the pebbles again. “I can multiply now.”
“I saw ye. Keep those river rocks handy fer a time.” He pushed upright. “Do the other equations I gave ye while I have a word with Ree.”
Marjorie had no idea where he’d discovered her nickname unless it had been from the letter she’d written to Connell. He definitely hadn’t been present when she’d told his brothers to call her Ree. She liked the way he said it in his deep brogue, when only a very few of her schoolmates and her brother had ever addressed her that way. Only her friends. And lately those had been very hard to come by.
“Yer grandness?” Graeme prompted after a moment, both pulling her out of her reverie and reminding her that they weren’t precisely friends. Not precisely, and not yet. What theywerewas something she hadn’t quite figured out yet. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d encountered something so… out of her realm of experience. And given the results, perhaps she should venture there more often.
Leaving Connell to his pebbles, she rose and walked over to join Graeme in the hallway. “Have you reconsidered Mrs. Giswell’s prison sentence?” she asked.
“That’s why I’m here. She demanded to see ye and then turned her back on me. Now she willnae speak, and she’s better at silence than ye ever were.”
Marjorie allowed herself a brief smile. “Oh, dear. She’s given you the cut direct. It’s the greatest show of disdain a lady can give a gentleman.”
He lifted a straight eyebrow. “Ye’ve nae cut-directed me,” he returned. “I recall a slap direct, though.”
She’d begun to wonder if he was baiting her on purpose. “There’s no such thing. And a slap isn’t ladylike. I blame you for inspiring my misbehavior, though.”
His grin warmed her insides. “I’ll accept that responsibility. And I’ll be encouraging ye again, I imagine.”
Desire touched her, heady and welcome. But she was still a prisoner, and until that altered, she couldn’t be certain how much of this was her free will, and how much she merely wanted it to be. “Perhaps a cut direct would teach you some manners, sir.” With a sniff she preceded him up the stairs.
Graeme caught hold of her elbow and pulled her around to face him. With her a step above him, for once they stood eye to eye. “Ye can turn yer back on me,mo boireann leòmhann,but dunnae stop talking. I like the sound of yer voice.” On the tail end of that, he leaned in and kissed her.
Now that she knew what lay beyond his kisses, they seemed even more intoxicating, like the heady scent of fine brandy and melted chocolate. Touching him made her want to forget or excuse what he’d put her through, made her want to believe that Dunncraigh was a force so evil and powerful that kidnapping a female first to assuage him and then to stand against him not only made sense, but was perfectly logical.
After a delicious moment he straightened a little. “Of course there are occasions when yer silence suits me, too,” he murmured, gray eyes dancing as he grinned.
