“Ye ken a lot…” Mrs. MacBride was saying when a dark shadow sprinted across the room.
Lilly jumped, holding on to Marian’s sleeves. “Was that a large rat?” Her eyes widened.
Mrs. MacBride waved her off. “There are nay rats in me kitchen,” she declared. “Nae with old Mossie guardin’ the floors.”
“Old Mossie?” Marian’s eyebrows rose in curiosity, just as the round gray-furred cat stalked toward them. “There!” She tapped Lilly lightly. “It is the castle ghost!”
Lilly looked at the cat in confusion, while Mrs. MacBride bent to stroke its fur lightly. “Ah, I see ye’ve already met.”
Marian’s heart warmed, her mind immediately replaying memories of that dark corridor.
We certainly have.
Mossie padded up to her, its tail twitching as it pawed at her skirt. It meowed insistently until she scooped it up and placed it on her lap. The cat settled easily against her, and she let out a soft breath, her fingers moving almost instinctively over its gray fur.
“Well,” she murmured, more amused than she cared to admit as it started purring. “I see you’ve made yourself quite at home, Mossie.”
“He’s a charmer, is he nae?” Mrs. MacBride said, just as one of the maids brought a tray of oatcakes to the table.
And a bannock thief.
Marian nodded, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “He certainly is.” She picked up an oatcake and placed it in front of the cat. “Although this is why he’s here.”
Mossie jumped down from her lap, padding across the kitchen once it had eaten its oatcake. She watched as it wandered off without so much as a backward glance and shook her head in wonder.
The terror of Glen Carrick, indeed.
Her fingers stilled slightly against the edge of the table.
“The Laird did not mention whether he has a name,” she said, more to herself than to anyone, but Mrs. MacBride heard her.
She laughed softly. “That is because we keep it between ourselves.” She poured the tea into a porcelain cup, steam curling up into the air before her. “Even the Laird doesnae ken.”
“What do I nae ken?” Lachlan’s voice suddenly asked.
Marian nearly spilled her tea, her heart skipping a beat. “You startled me, my Laird,” she gasped, her cheeks reddening from how close he stood behind her.
She shifted slightly in her seat, turning her head just enough to catch a glimpse of his face. For a moment, their eyes met. Her fingers tightened around her teacup.
It was the strangest thing. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, and it warmed up her chest even more than the hot tea in her hands.
She straightened slightly, as though that alone might restore some order to her body. It did not.
Mrs. MacBride’s eyes narrowed. She gave Marian a look before leaving them alone at the table to do something else.
Lachlan leaned in, whispering close to her ear, “Ye’re nae supposed to be in here.”
All the heat in her chest vanished instantly.
This matter again.
She placed her teacup gently on the table and turned so she now faced him more fully, even though she barely reached his torso while seated on the stool.
“We were having a pleasant conversation,” she answered quickly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lachlan eventually stepped back, his gait somewhat hesitant as he put some space between them.
“She has more sense about a kitchen than half of yer men,” Mrs. MacBride piped up from the next table, even though she had no way of hearing what either of them had whispered.
