“Where is Dougal?” Aedan asked, hoping for the bulwark of another male presence when the ladies of Balmossie were in a decorating humor.
“In the library, working on designs to present to the lighthouse commission for their approval,” Meg said. “He wants to get the drawings into the afternoon post.”
“Ah, hiding out, is he?” Aedan drawled.
“Thistle!” Lady Balmossie said as the monkey clambered up the hangings. “She never acts so shoogly at Balmossie.”
“That’s because she stays in the conservatory there, climbing rhododendrons and lemon trees instead of the curtains,” Amy answered.
Aedan walked over to pluck the monkey off the drape, letting her swarm over his shoulders while he looked out the window. Through a screen of rain, he could see the jagged contour of Cairn Drishan in the distance. His road crew had stopped their efforts there, not due to the rain, but on orders from the National Museum, which cited the treasure trove law. He sighed.
He realized he was listening for a knock on the door that would announce the Blackburns. That sort of anticipation suited schoolboys, he told himself. Yet he felt on fire to see Christina Blackburn again, albeit in the gray light of a rainy day. He could not forget their nighttime encounter, nor the sudden tender kisshe had stolen. In the daylight, he was chagrined to have been so bold with a young lady and guest in his house.
“Thistle quite loves you,” Amy said, startling Aedan out of his thoughts.
Realizing the monkey was grooming his hair, Aedan deftly removed her from his shoulder. She tumbled upside down, showing lacy pantaloons.
“Wench,” he drawled.
“Naughty Thistle!” Lady Balmossie offered her a treat.
“If you spoil her, she will never behave,” Amy pointed out.
“She was spoilt years ago, even before Hugh had her and left her to me in his will,” Lady Balmossie said. “He got her in India. She was ruined by Hottentots there. And ruined by Oaten-toads here. Hugh let his Highland servants take care of her.”
“Aunt Lill! That is hardly the case,” Aedan said, though he knew it was no use pointing out there were no Hottentots in India, nor Oaten-toads, her term for Highlanders, in Scotland. She had married a viscount, but her upbringing was rustic Lowland, and she was inherently stubborn in her view of supposedly savage cultures.
“Aedan, when your antiquarian lady comes in, you must not scowl so,” Amy said. “You sometimes adopt a glower that would frighten anyone but us.”
“But he wants to frighten her,” Lady Balmossie remarked. “He isna keen on Edgar Neaves, who sent his wee expert here, and he fears the lady will stop his silly road.”
“I am only keen for her to see the stones and go back to Edinburgh,” he said.
That was not quite true. Remembering her exquisite face and delicious lips, he was very keen indeed. His heart beat as if he were a boy about to encounter his fervent crush.
“I am sure Aedan will be very polite to the lady,” Meg said.
“Of course I will,” he murmured.
*
The butler lookedold enough to be someone’s great-grandfather, but Christina had to rush to keep up with him. Knobby-kneed and gnarly, MacGregor wore a red plaid kilt and black coat, tartan socks, and creaky leather shoes, and led Christina and John, who followed more slowly, across the foyer, up the stairs, and down a corridor toward the upper parlor.
Christina lifted her skirts to hurry, petticoats rustling. Behind her, she could hear the thumping rhythm of John’s cane. Their footsteps were muffled on long Oriental carpets, and the walls, warm salmon pink above polished oak, glowed brightly. As in the other corridors she had seen, paintings, antique furniture, and shining weapons were artfully displayed here, too.
The butler turned. “Are you having an umbrella, bonny sir?” His accent was the soft, precisely accented English of a native Gael, though he did not seem entirely fluent.
She blinked when he addressed her as “sir.” “I, ah—it’s raining, I know, but we are not going outside just yet.”
“You will be needing an umbrella, bonny sir. Or a targe,” he muttered, pointing to some round shields on the wall. “Miss Thistle is having tea today.”
“Miss Thistle?” Christina followed, wondering what on earth he meant.
She saw a man nailing some tartan carpet into place, which explained the thumping of a hammer she had heard. Down another hallway she saw a ladder, paint buckets, and brushes. She turned to wait for John, while MacGregor barreled onward.
“If the laird knew that I’m an artist,” John said, “I wonder if he would let me paint some walls here. I’m that desperate for the work, and I love any sort of painting work.”
“Don’t jest, John. You should not climb a ladder.”
