Thaddeus
The tea was lukewarm, and I grimaced as the weak liquid touched my tongue. I set the cup back onto the saucer with a sigh.
On top of the endless list of tasks facing me, it seemed I could now add sourcing decent food and beverages to it.
Scotland was proving quite the disappointment already.
I truly didn’t know why the Crown bothered with these impoverished, windswept lands.
I spread a thick layer of butter across the fire-toasted bread.
At least the butter was fresh.
One bite had me groaning under my breath—finally, something vaguely acceptable to my palate.
The dining room was smaller than the one in our London townhouse, but it had character. The wooden panels were dark and well crafted, though the room itself needed a proper cleaning. With some work, and a capable staff, the estate could fetch a handsome sum if sold.
I’d always known some distant thread of Scottish blood ran through the Wolverton line, but I’d never felt connected to it. Standing here now only confirmed my suspicion: thank God most of my peers didn’t know the truth. I’d never hear the end of it.
I tossed a cube of sugar into the miserable tea and stirred it just as a knock sounded at the door.
Graham poked his head inside.
I waved him in and took another sip of the ghastly concoction.
The sugar hardly improved it.
“Isn’t there anything better than this tea?” I asked.
“That’s all there was in the pantry, my lord. Tea is expensive here.”
“Hmm,” I hummed, noncommittal.
Of course.
They were the peasant class.
What would they know about good taste?
“How’s the bread? Ma wife baked it this mornin’ at the crack o’ dawn,” Graham said as he stepped properly into the room.
I offered him a tight smile and nodded. Lying was not my strength, so the gesture would have to do.
“And the butter?” I asked, taking another sip of the watery milk.
“Milked an’ churned this mornin’,” he replied, chest puffing with pride.
“Lovely,” I said, though it was only just passable. Still, better than the tea.
“We’ve got some potential workers here,” Graham continued. “Callum MacDonald and his niece.”
“Good. That was quick,” I said, sitting a little straighter.
The sooner I completed this task, the sooner I could leave this godforsaken land.
“Well? Do you know them? Are they any good?” I pressed when he hesitated.
“Aye. Callum I’ve known fur years. He can graft,” Graham said, running a hand through his greying hair. “The girl looks sturdy enough.”
I almost smirked.
So, no refined lady of the ton.
Most likely some unruly heathen born of peat and stubbornness.
As much as I disliked Scotland, at least there might be something to look at while I was trapped here.
“Send them in,” I said.
Yes, this was ideal. They could stay in one of the crofts—close enough to call on when needed, but far enough from the manor to preserve my own space.
My ears pricked at the sound of dull, heavy footsteps beyond the dining room.
Wonderful. Judging by the weight of them, my unparalleled luck meant I wouldn’t be greeting a dainty woman, but a heifer the size of the shaggy beasts cluttering the pasture.
The thumps grew louder.
I stiffened.
My head snapped toward the door in a dark glower.
Something wasn’t right.
There was no knock.
The door flew open.
I jolted upright, knocking the wooden chair clean over.
A behemoth of a man filled the doorway. His hair was long and shaggy, merging almost seamlessly into a reddish-brown beard that covered half his chest.
“So, yer the new Laird,” he rumbled as he marched straight toward me.
His grin stretched ear to ear, far too cheerful for the sheer danger radiating off him. My instinct prickled—warning me, absurdly, that this oversized brute was not the real threat.
He seized my hand and shook it with enough force to dislodge bone.
I tried to focus, but my gaze flicked past his massive shoulder…
back to the doorway.
Her.
Covered from head to toe—scarf wrapped around her head and neck, long skirt brushing the floor in modest folds.
But the hair.
A strand of red broke free from the scarf.
Not dull red—flame red.
Wild.
Untamed.
The man kept talking, but I couldn’t hear him.
All my attention tunnelled into her.
She didn’t move her head, but her eyes lifted.
Brown and gold—warm as sunlight, sharp as judgment.
Her small nose was red from the cold.
Something crawled beneath my sternum.
Soft at first—silky, almost seductive.
Then it shifted, drawing inward on itself, coiling into a single point of heat that pressed upward beneath my throat.
It held there.
Poised.
Waiting.
For what?
The man released my hand.
Her gaze fell to the floor, lashes lowering to hide the brilliance, breaking whatever had caught hold of me.
A whisper slid through my skull—more memory than sound.
The flame.
My entire body shuddered.
I jerked back, eyes darting around the room for the source of the voice.
The flame.
“What the devil?” I croaked.
“Are ye all right? Ye look as if ye’ve seen a ghost,” the giant murmured, brows drawing together.
“A ghost…” I muttered, staring between them—the brute and the girl.
But only one of them made my insides curdle and scream.
One word.
A word I didn’t understand.
Mate.
Mate.
Mate.
A violent chill raced down my spine.
I turned away from them abruptly, pretending to lift the fallen chair—an excuse to compose myself,
to gather what remained of my sanity,
to pretend I had not just heard the impossible
whispering inside my skull.
I bit back the urge to vomit.
Dear God… if anyone knew I was hearing voices, they would have me admitted to Bedlam and leave me there to rot.
“Sit,” I snapped, dragging my chair in and fixing my eyes on the man. Authority. Control. Anything to steady myself. “Callum, is it?”
“Aye, and this is ma niece, Euphemia,” he said as the chair beneath his bulk protested under his weight.
Euphemia.
The voice purred her name like velvet sliding over steel.
A violent cough tore out of me. I grabbed the teapot, my hand trembling, and poured a slosh of tea. No sugar. No milk. I did not care. I swallowed it in one go, the leaves scraping my throat.
Pitiful, but necessary.
I shoved the teapot toward them with a jerky wave.
“Ah,” Callum chuckled. “I wouldnae mind a spot o’ tea. Dae ye want a cup, lass?”
I refused to look at her.
Could not, for the life of me.
Not without that crawling, coiling thing beneath my sternum flaring again.
“Graham said you are a robust worker,” I said sharply, directing the comment somewhere near the uncle’s chaotic beard.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw it—her hand slipping out from beneath her shawl, snatching a slice of toasted bread from the tray.
It vanished into the folds of fabric like a creature hiding treasure.
A warm glow spread across my chest.
I rubbed a hand over my eyes, squeezing my temples, then ground my teeth together.
It did nothing.
The heat only increased.
And God help me… I was pleased.
Pleased that she ate from my table.
What in God’s name was wrong with me?