“Ye’re quite the diplomat, Ree.”
“Thank you.” She held out her hand.
“Ye’re also relentless.” With an exaggerated sigh he put the key into her palm, running a finger up her wrist. “Ye ken I’m trusting ye with the safety of my brothers.”
Marjorie nodded. “I understand.”
“Ye’d leave in a heartbeat if ye could, aye?”
That was a strange question coming from a jailor to a prisoner, but neither was the answer as straightforward as it would have been a few short days ago. “Not in one heartbeat,” she whispered, and went to go release her conscience and fellow captive. And for one more heartbeat she wished Mrs. Giswell hadn’t agreed to anything and would stay locked up in a room, away from this odd little… refuge she’d found from the world.
***
“Ranald the innkeeper says the Sassenach still at the inn dooned aboot half a keg of rum yesterday and havenae stirred from their room except to eat and piss. I reckon ye’ve the right of it; they’re nae going anywhere.”
Graeme nodded at the groom. “Thank ye fer riding into Sheiling fer me.” He patted Clootie on the withers as Johnny led the gray gelding back into the stable. With only two saddle horses at the house, Clootie was as likely to carry the lads to the loch for fishing as he was to carry him on his rounds to visit the cotters.
“I needed to see aboot getting a bridle mended, anyway,” Johnny returned. “Couldnae find the blacksmith, though. Ranald says Robert Polk’s been stomping aboot the countryside fer two days, bellowing fer some lass named Hortensia.” The groom grinned. “Sean Moss said he figured that might be a cow, and that Rob’s finally gone oot of his head.”
Hm. Hortensia sounded like an English name to him. And as it didn’t belong to Marjorie, that narrowed down his suspicions considerably. It meant more trouble in his path, but at the same time he found it hilarious that the gruff, determinedly unmarried Robert Polk was roaring after a proper, mature Englishwoman.
Then again, he was a determinedly unmarried lad roaring after an English lass himself, and he’d wager his prospects were much poorer than Rob’s. He had a newly minted heiress desperate to fit into Society, while he lived literally and figuratively as far from proper as anyone could get.
That shouldn’t have mattered when he meant to be rid of her as soon as he could do so safely, both for her and for him and his. Except that she’d given her word to keep the Maxtons out of any story she told, and he believed her. He’d kept her there, especially over the past four days, because he wanted her there. Because he didn’t want to let her go. What that meant, he refused to consider.
Back inside the house he heard her laughing about something, Connell’s giggle mingling with hers. For as long as he could remember the mansion had been chaotic and wild, and overwhelmingly masculine. Marjorie seemed to like the chaos, but even with the circumstances of her arrival she’d brought a peace and a thoughtfulness that filled the house with unexpected warmth. She brought him a… contentment mixed with excitement. He’d never experienced the like. It was addictive, and he craved her, craved being around her. And he would continue telling himself it was because he enjoyed bedding her, and nothing more. Nothing more was allowed.
“Laird Maxton,” Cowen said, from the direction of the kitchen, “I’ve been instructed to tell ye that young Connell requests an audience with ye, at yer convenience.”
“Well, that was pretty.”
The butler blushed. “That was how the duckling said it, and he made certain I would tell ye the same thing precisely.”
“Ye sounded very proper. Was Lady Marjorie anywhere aboot when this conversation took place?”
“Oh, aye.”
Of course she had been. “I’ll see him now, then. Do ye know the wheraboots of Mrs. Giswell? I request an audience with her, at her conv—”
“God’s sake, m’laird. Please dunnae. All these polite, twisty words are giving me the shakes.”
Graeme chuckled. “Ye’re a man after my own heart. Just go find her, will ye?”
He expected to find Connell and Ree in the downstairs sitting room, but the continuing laughter led him upstairs to Connell’s bedchamber. The door stood open, but considering the formality of the request, he knocked before stepping inside. “Ye wanted to see me, duckling?”
His brother and Marjorie sat on the floor, scooping the trio of baby rabbits he wasn’t supposed to know about into a basket. Connell stood up, squaring his shoulders. “Aye. I did want to see ye.”
“Here I am, then.”
Glancing down, the lad took a deep breath. “Garaidh nan Leòmhann is yer responsibility, and ye need to know what’s afoot beneath yer own roof. I have a duty to tell ye, then, that I rescued three rabbit kits when a hawk carried off their ma. Their names are Fluff, Gray, and Hop, and even though ye said we had enough animals in the hoose, I’d like to keep them. They’re very nice, and Daisy and Pete havenae tried to eat them yet, and the cats think they’re cats. I’m teaching the lot of them to be friends.”
Marjorie knelt behind the boy, her expression proud as she practically mouthed the words of the speech along with him. She was back in the first gown he’d found for her, the pale blue one. Damnation, he needed to find her more to wear. A lady required more than two gowns. And he liked taking them off her.
“Graeme?” Connell prompted. “They’re too little to go off alone, and Brendan said if ye knew aboot them ye’d have Mrs. Woring cook them in a stew.” His light blue eyes filled with tears.
Oh, for Lucifer’s sake.“I did tell ye nae more pets, Connell,” he said slowly. “I reckon ye didnae have a choice, though, with a hawk taking their ma. Ye can keep ’em. Remember, though, the foxes and the cats might ferget they’re all to get along.”
The lad bounced on his toes. “Now that ye know about them and I have yer permission, I can build a hutch in here where they’ll be safe.”
