“I have it,” Mairi said, her voice flat. She took a breath. “They’ll fall in line if you’re fair. All except Mrs. Boyce, the main cook. She’s hated me since my twelfth birthday and I turned her son’s head. She’s off with the laird’s men now, seeing to their bellies. When she’s back, you tell her you’ve sent me away, and she’ll kiss your feet.”
“I’m not sending you away,” Clara said firmly.
“Of course you’re not.” Mairi cut a hard look at Liam. “And if you think to fob me off like an old apple, you’ve got piss for brains. I’m off to London, I am. I’m done with idiot Scotsmen.”
Liam reacted as if he’d been struck. “London? What is there for you?”
Clara snorted. “A very great deal, I should think. If you help me now, I’ll write to Lilah. I’m sure she will sponsor you. And if not her, then one of her sisters.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Liam said. “You don’t know how they treat Scotsmen in London.”
Mairi frowned, but Clara dismissed it with a wave. “Similar to how they treat spinster bluestockings, I imagine. She’ll be fine.”
Liam winced at that, then changed tactics. “She hasn’t the money either.”
To which Mairi sniffed. “What do you know of my money?” she asked. “I’ll teach you everything I can, Lady Clara, and I’ll thank you for the introduction—”
“It will be my pleasure—”
“—And be damned to you, Liam MacCleal, and your cocksure Aberbeag.”
