Euphemia
He was being unreasonable, and he knew it.
The weans knew something was up too. Ronald shook his head and picked up his book again. I almost smiled. Wait until he saw the library at Eilidh House—or Manor, as the Sassunnach Laird insisted on calling it.
“It’s just a wee cart ride, Callum. What’s gotten intae ye?” Aunt Flora said, winking at me.
“Exactly. And Rowlands will be with me. I huv tae do ma job, and this is part o’ it,” I said, exasperated enough to fling my hands in the air. “I cannae very well inspect supplies from the hearth.”
“Ah dinnae like it. The weather’s turnin’,” Uncle Callum growled. “It’s gettin’ worse by the hour.”
“Uncle Callum, the Laird wants us all tae huv a nice Christmas—which is verra generous,” I pressed. “It falls tae me tae check the livestock and grain before it reaches us. Rowlands only holds the purse strings. He wouldnae ken the difference between a coo an’ a goat.”
He rubbed his beard, thinking.
“Aye… ye huv a point there. The man has a verra weak constitution.”
That was an understatement.
“I’ll be back before nightfall.”
“Hmph.”
“Callum, dinnae be so hard-headed,” Aunt Flora cut in gently. “The lassie’s almost twenty years old.”
Which, unfortunately, reminded everyone of my unmarried status.
“Aye. An auld maid,” Ranald sniggered.
I glared at him.
“Fine,” Uncle Callum sighed.
I grinned and darted into my aunt’s room to fetch the good winter coat she’d laid out for me.
A cart ride and a day out.
A day away from the Laird’s strange eyes… and that tempting, unsettling scent.
? ? ?
The two sturdy ponies were the healthiest I’d seen in a long while. I ran my hand down the warmth of one broad flank, comforted by the solid muscle beneath its winter coat. I didn’t dare pat its head—not with the harness already fastened and the driver perched and ready.
I shifted my weight, impatience gnawing at me, and glanced toward the house for Arthur.
Beyond the snow-dusted grounds, the loch stretched out in pale silence. The Laird was fortunate to own such a beautiful part of my country. I found myself wondering—briefly, dangerously—whether he appreciated the land as much as he’d begun to appreciate the people upon it.
His early disdain had vanished. He treated his staff well now. Fairly.
My cheeks warmed at the thought of our breakfast update meetings. He didn’t need to share his food with me. He certainly didn’t need to insist on pouring my tea every morning.
Yet he did.
The crisp crunch of boots on snow made me turn sharply.
It wasn’t Rowlands.
It was the Laird.
He was dressed properly for the bitter cold—hat pulled low, coat buttoned to the throat, boots heavy, leather gloves snug over his hands. Entirely reasonable. Entirely composed.
“Rowlands has taken ill,” he said mildly. “He feels unwell travelling by cart. I’ll accompany you instead and check the livestock with you. I do have some experience in these matters.”
He nodded to the driver as though the matter were settled.
“But—” I began, then faltered.
What could I possibly say?
You cannot come?
You smell strange?
I don’t want to sit next to you?
“Yes?” he prompted, adjusting the scarf at his neck.
“Nothing,” I muttered.
I reached for the side of the carriage—and felt his hands close around my waist.
Firm. Certain.
He lifted me easily, setting me onto the padded seat before climbing up after me. He sat close. Too close. Shoulder brushing mine. Thigh pressed along my leg.
Touching me.
The open carriage lurched forward without warning. I gasped, pushing my boots hard against the floor and gripping the handrest. Instantly, his arm swept across my chest, bracing me back until he was satisfied I had my balance.
Snow began to fall—lightly at first, drifting and quiet. But the farther we travelled from Eilidh House, the heavier it became, thickening the air and dulling the world to white.
An ominous start.
A journey begun with the wrong man.
? ? ?
Despite the harsh, icy wind and the constant flutter of snow, I wasn’t as cold as I’d expected. Something moved into my line of sight and I frowned, focusing on the dark brown leather gloves being waved in front of my face.
“Take them. Your hands must be cold,” he murmured.
“I cannae take yer gloves, Lord Wulverton,” I said, shaking my head.
“Aye, ye will,” he replied—mimicking my accent.
My head snapped up, irritation flaring sharp and instant. I was ready to give him a piece of my mind—but he only waggled the gloves again, that crooked smile firmly in place.
Fine. Let him freeze.
I released the handrest at the side of the carriage and tugged the oversized gloves on. They were warm. The leather creaked softly as I flexed my fingers.
“Tell me about your family,” he said quietly.
I dropped my gaze to the road we left behind.
Hoofprints marked the snow in neat, even lines, perfectly aligned with the carriage wheels.
There wasn’t another soul in sight—no cottages, no travellers.
Only the soft huff of the ponies and the rhythmic creak of the carriage beneath us.
Far finer than the rough cart I’d been expecting.
I stayed silent—not out of rudeness, but because I wasn’t ready for that conversation. Not with him.
After a moment, I spoke without looking up.
“Tell me aboot yours.”
As he spoke about his parents, his friends, and a life so foreign to me, I found myself aghast at the sheer excess of it. The waste. The ease. The certainty that the world bent to them.
And yet… the longer he spoke, the less I could hold it against him.
He’d been raised in luxury—born into it, shaped by it.
I had no doubt his family profited from the suffering of others somewhere down the line; most English families of means did.
But to my knowledge, the Wulvertons had never harmed us.
Nor had his people worn military colours.
Between stops at the farms and the granary, we paused for a meal at a popular tavern. A place my uncle would never have taken me.
Yet the Laird made certain my belly was full—and even paid for the driver’s meal.
The tavern was warm and bright, lamps and candles casting a soft glow that caught on the glass drops of the chandelier overhead. A fire roared in the hearth, heat licking at my chilled bones the moment we stepped inside. I could see why the place was busy.
The only thing I didn’t like were the three massive stag heads mounted along the wall, glassy eyes staring down as though they’d died angry.
I’d just lifted my hot toddy when I heard them.
“Och, she’s a bonnie wee ‘hing,” a man whispered—far too loudly.
“Wae a Sassunnach though.”
“Filthy scum,” another muttered.
Lord Wulverton shifted beside me, leaning away just enough to sit upright. His voice, when he spoke, was calm—but sharp as flint.
“Do you have a problem?”
“Aye,” one of them answered.
Another man elbowed him hard. “Ye want the military up here? He’s a bloody toff.”
“And you?” the first sneered, eyes cutting to me. “Wit’ are ye daein’ wi’ the likes o’ him?”
Before anyone else could speak, a sound slipped free of me.
Low. Rough. Wrong.
A soft growl threaded up from deep in my chest and escaped past my lips before I could stop it.
Oh, God.
Not again.