Lifting the book, she showed him the cover, a rich, dark blue with gold lettering.Scottish Myth and Folk Legends.
“Very apropos.”
“Yes, exactly.” She flipped pages. “This one’s about a kelpie.”
“Oh?” James had read no folktales of Scotland, but some of the men who worked on his ships had stories they told about ocean monsters and sea sprites.
“A water horse,” Lucy told him, her voice pitched low. “A shape-shifter that could take the form of a horse or a man. They say they lured women.” She quirked a brow at that and then frowned. “And children. Depending on what you read, they’re either very seductive or a bit grisly.”
Her eyes took on a kind of eager glint as she flipped pages, deciding which tale to read to him.
“There’s a tale here of a lady who enslaved a kelpie to work as a horse on her father’s farm.”
“That does sound grisly.”
Lucy laughed. “The worst one may be this one. A group of children were down by the riverside and found a horse near the water. A beautiful horse. And they couldn’t resist climbing atop to get a ride. One boy decided he didn’t wish for a ride, but he wanted to touch the horse, but once he put his finger on its coat, he couldn’t remove it.”
She looked up at him, and James held her gaze as he sipped his whiskey.
Her cheeks darkened.
“What did the boy do?” he asked. “Get dragged away by the kelpie?”
“According to the tale, he whipped out a knife and cut his own finger off,” she said excitedly.
“You like the grisly bits a little.”
“Maybe a little. My older sister used to tell me scary stories before bed to torment me.” The tormenting was teasing in nature, judging by Lucy’s amused tone. “So I made up scary stories too. It became a bit of a competition.”
“Are you competitive as a rule?” He was, but since he’d spent so much of his life alone, his competitiveness tended to be with himself. Pushing himself to do better, disappointed when he didn’t live up to his own expectations.
“No. I just like to do things well.” And she did do things well, perhaps better than most. Despiteoccasional flashes of uncertainty, she had a confidence about her, though he suspected she’d think it wrong to brag. Women were taught that, and James thought it quite ridiculous.
“Tell me what you’re good at. Besides telling scary stories.”
She shrugged.
“No false modesty. I’d like to know.”
“I’m good at most things I put real effort into doing well. But mostly I’m good at helping people. My family, but friends too. My friend, Miranda, is marrying in about a fortnight, and it fell to me to make most of the arrangements.”
“That seems a great deal for you to take on.”
“I didn’t mind.” She rushed her reply so emphatically, he suspected it wasn’t entirely true.
After a moment of flipping pages in her book, she added, “Most of the time.”
“So sometimes you do mind?”
“That probably makes me sound dreadful.”
“Not at all. I spent most of my life looking after myself. Helping others is admirable.” It seemed she came from a family with a philanthropic spirit, and he had to concede that aristocrats who helped others deserved his respect.
“Of late, I’ve wanted something of my own.” The words emerged quietly, almost hesitantly, as if she was uncertain whether to confess her yearnings.
“So you left London as the very helpful Lady Lucy and you’ve come to Scotland as Lady Lucythe rebellious, who will make her mark on the world.”
“Are you making fun of me?” She rose from her chair and clutched her book of Scottish myths like a shield in front of her.
