Euphemia
I was scraping up the last of my porridge when Flora came into the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She glanced around at all of us—counting heads the way mothers did—then gave me a look far too cheery for this hour.
“The Laird wants tae see ye.”
“Me?”
My spoon froze mid-air.
Why, in God’s good name, did he have to ruin my morning?
“Aye,” she said, reaching for the kettle. “He’s in the dining room huvin’ his breakfast.”
Of course he was.
Probably sat there polishing his silverware and judging’ the very air for being Scottish.
“Am surprised ye didnae need to spoon-feed him,” I muttered, standing up.
Flora snorted. “He wants to discuss the progress. Take yer list. And mayhap a silver spoon in case ye need to feed him.”
The whole table erupted.
I stepped out into the hall, shaking my head as the laughter faded behind me. The manor was waking up—cold drafts creeping along the stone floor, the faint scent of peat smoke drifting from the kitchen hearth. Light filtered through the tall windows, thin and pale as winter milk.
I stopped at the old display cabinet—dusty brass handles, a cracked pane—and pulled the drawer open. My list lay folded inside, pages softened from being handled too often. I slipped it under my arm.
“Silver spoon,” I muttered as I straightened.
I’d sooner stick it up his—
No.
Best not finish that thought.
He was paying me wages we desperately needed.
I drew a steadying breath, tugged my cap straight, and set my shoulders.
Let the Sassunach Laird complain.
Let him wrinkle his delicate nose and wave his soft hands about.
I’d scrubbed floors since dawn.
I’d faced soldiers.
I’d survived loss colder than any Highland morning.
If he thought he could intimidate me with breakfast and a list, he’d be sorely disappointed.
I paused outside the door and tried—honestly tried—to muster a pleasant smile.
Nothing.
My face refused.
Fine. He’d get whatever expression God had stuck on me this morning.
I straightened my cap and apron, knocked once, and waited.
“Come in,” the toff’s voice drifted through—smooth as butter and twice as smug.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
Whatever greeting I’d rehearsed on the way here vanished on the spot.
He was smiling.
At me.
“Euphemia,” he said, warm as summer sunlight—too warm. “Come in and close the door. There’s a dreadful draft.”
I shut the door behind me, and the heat from the fire wrapped around my chilled bones.
Of course, his dining room was warm and comfortable. Why wouldn’t it be?
“Please, sit,” he said, placing a teacup in front of the chair beside him. “Milk and sugar if you’d like.”
I approached carefully, half-waiting for the inevitable moment his hand would shoot up to cover his nose again.
But… nothing.
No grimace.
No insult.
No theatrics.
Maybe that freezing dip in the loch had done its job after all.
“Thanks,” I murmured, sliding into the chair.
Still—unease twisted in my belly.
His eyes were different today.
Focused. Too focused.
As though he’d been waiting for me.
And that smile…
No Sassunach smiled like that without wanting something.
When he stretched his hand toward me, instinct made my fist curl—I nearly boxed his ears on reflex.
But no. He only took the list.
I let the paper go, though my jaw stayed tight.
“This is good,” he said, flipping it over with far too much enthusiasm. “Very good progress.”
I straightened despite myself, a small glow of pride warming my chest. I lifted the teacup and took a careful sip. We weren’t used to tea—certainly not with milk and sugar—but I’d keep to my plain ways for now.
“You are a very dedicated worker, Euphemia,” he said smoothly. “If you ever want to make a little more money on the side, just let me know.”
I froze mid-swallow.
More money?
Doing what, exactly?
I was already running half his blasted staff while Flora wrangled the cook.
I set my cup down with a controlled clink.
“More?” I asked, one eyebrow arching. “And how would I be earnin’ that?”
His throat bobbed.
A bead of sweat formed at his hairline.
For the first time since I’d entered, he looked less like a polished London gentleman and more like a man caught between lying, dying, and confessing a sin.
Then it dawned on me.
Oh, Lord above.
The whispers. The stories.
Lecherous Lowland Lairds who got maids with child and dumped them in the churches or—worse—the new workhouses.
Heat flared up my neck.
Not embarrassment—rage.
I gripped my teacup so tightly the porcelain squeaked. What I truly wanted to do was tip the hot tea over his perfectly groomed head, but that would be wasteful.
“My hours are full,” I said sharply. “Perhaps ye’d like tae ask ma Uncle? He can help ye.”
His smile went stiff.
“Yes, but—of course.”
Coward.
“Was there anything else?” I asked, and finished my tea in one decisive swallow.
“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “I would like you to report to me first thing every morning.”
“At six o’clock?” My eyebrow shot up. “Are ye aff yer heid?”
He winced—actually winced—and rubbed his chest like it pained him.
“Yes. You may… come find me if I am not downstairs.”
“That is improper,” I snapped, my patience dissolving like sugar in hot water.
His eye twitched.
“Stop it,” he muttered under his breath.
I blinked. “I beg yer pardon?”
I stood so quickly my chair scraped against the floor.
“Now you look here,” I said, jabbing a finger toward his fancy waistcoat. “I dinnae ken what ye are used tae in yer polished, perfumed city—but if ye ever act improper wae me, ye’ll be beaten tae a pulp. By me and ma Uncle.”
His breath hitched.
Not fear.
Something else.
Something worse.
Then he made a sound.
A whine.
Soft. High.
Like a dog begging at the table.
My jaw dropped.
He did it again—
this time a pathetic little whimper.
Absolutely not.
I snatched my list off the table so fast the papers crinkled and bolted for the door.
I didn’t walk.
I ran.
My boots slapped the floorboards as I fled the dining room, heart hammering, breath turning sharp in my throat. There was something gravely unnatural about that man—something wrong beneath all that polish and London starch.
Something that prickled my skin and tightened the air when he looked at me.
A man should not whine or growl the way he did.
No creature should.
I clutched my list to my chest and didn’t stop until the corridor curved out of sight. Only then did I let myself breathe.
Aye.
I needed to keep my distance from him.