“I didna hear you there,” she said, lapsing into Scots without realizing. “You move like a cat, a big yin, the kind that eats lesser folk for breakfast.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. Isla felt her cheeks flush and was glad of the shadows that cloaked her embarrassment.
But why should I be? That is the natural speech of my country. I will not be ashamed of it. How dare he laugh at me!
“Then it’s fortunate I’m already fed. Forgive me, this lady was sweating after a ride, and I thought to see her comfortable before the night’s chaos resumed.”
He indicated a black head that was looking over the stall door at him. Shining obsidian coat, intelligent eyes and standing at sixteen hands tall. Isla’s mouth fell open before she caught herself.
The mare was beautiful. She instinctively went to have a closer look but it brought her equally close to the beast’s carer. Isla stopped, suddenly aware of the man’s height and broad shoulders. Dark eyes regarded her from the shadows, pinning her to the spot and making her pulse race.
Get a hold of yourself woman. Eyes are eyes and men are men.
“Ah,” she said lightly, trying to reduce the man’s stature in her own mind. “A philosopher of horseflesh. I like that better than the philosophers inside.”
He inclined his head, turning back to the horse, continuing his work with efficient strokes. His hands moved with a soldier’s economy and an owner’s casual possessiveness. There was no sign of a servant’s servility.
“Were you cavalry by any chance?” she asked.
His eyes, dark as wet slate and momentarily catching the light by a movement of his head, lifted briefly to hers.
“Not cavalry, no,” he said, simply.
The movement of his arm was so disciplined, the strokes even and strong, that Isla got the sense that this was a man used to rigid discipline.
“No?” she asked, leaving the opportunity for him to say more.
He turned back to the horse.
“No.”
That cryptic answer only sharpened her curiosity.
“You’ve the manners of a gentleman for a groom,” she said with a note of sarcasm.
“And you,” he returned, “the spirit of a Highlander … for a debutante.”
Her brows rose. “A Highlander? Is that a criticism?”
“An observation.”
“I am proud to be Scottish.”
“And I a groom.”
She saw then the finely made coat, laid carefully over the door of the stall. Black with silver buttons, otherwise unadorned but clearly not cheap.
“A finely dressed groom.”
“You always judge by appearances? What should I judge if I were to do the same?”
The audacity of it stole her breath and then, absurdly, she laughed. The sound startled the horses and echoed off the rafters, freer than anything she had uttered all evening.
“Be careful,” she said, smiling despite herself. “My brother would have your ears for speaking so.”
“I’ll take the risk.” He set the brush aside, leaning against the stall door with casual grace. “Besides, I doubt your brother frightens easily. Nor do I. Or you for that matter.”
Isla turned away, tugging at her glove.
