Chapter 4
“Where is that girl? Ember! My pillows are not arranged correctly. Ember!”
The screeching from the front hall brought Max to a stop. Cautiously, he tilted his head to one side and listened. Yep, that was Baroness Oliphant, the harpy who ran the inn. She must be searching for one of her servant girls, and Max had no interest in walking in on her in her current mood.
Wasn’t there a back stairway? He’d use that to get up to his room instead.
Decision made, he spun on his heel and hurried toward the back of the building where the corridor ran alongside the kitchens. But a surprisingly familiar sound distracted him, and he found himself frowning in confusion.
It was the delicate sound of a graver chipping away at a piece of metal.
He’d gotten used to it over the last few days at Oliphant Engraving, the sounds of the engravers in the warehouse almost omnipresent, but he hadn’t expected it here at the inn.
He took a little detour and came across a small room beside the kitchen; the close stone walls causing the sounds to echo.
Since the door was slightly ajar, he stepped in, and his brows rose in surprise.
It was another workshop, though a much smaller version of the artists’ studio at Oliphant Engraving.
The larger machines—the presses and the drills and lathes—were missing of course, but on one wall hung an assortment of gravers and scribes and mallets.
“What’s all this?” he murmured.
It wasn’t until the figure hunched over a workbench startled and began to straighten, that he’d realized he’d spoken out loud. He began to apologize, but when the person turned completely around, and he realized who it was, something else entirely escaped his lips.
“You!” Of course, then he winced, realizing how accusatory it had sounded. “Oh, I am sorry, I just had not expected…”
Max shook his head, knowing he was making a hash of things. The serving girl—because it most definitely was the pretty servant who’d run into him, and she was still wearing that hideous cap—stood gaping at him, her dark eyes wide, a graver in one hand and a curved piece of metal in the other.
“I’m sorry for barging in.” He offered his most charming grin. “I was curious about the noise and couldn’t help but investigate.” He shrugged. “I guess I should learn to rein in my curiosity. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What? Oh, no!” She shook her head, then spun back around and placed the metal piece in a little box, obviously full of half-completed projects.
“No, there is no need to apologize.” As she crossed to the racks of tools to hang up the graver, she sent him a shy little smile.
“As a guest of the inn, you are allowed to wander wherever you like on the public floors. I was just surprised to see you. Few guests realize this place is back here.”
Well, if she was willing to talk to him, Max wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. She had the prettiest, smoothest voice; far more cultured and refined than he’d expect from a serving lass, with just a hint of the Highlands.
Figuring he could listen to her talk forever, Max crossed his arms and leaned a hip against one of the workbenches. “And I was surprised to find a metal engraver’s workshop in the inn.”
“You know what this place is?” Before the question was even complete, her expression cleared. “Oh, you are an American, are you not?”
“I am.” He didn’t bother hiding the pleased grin.
“I can tell by your marvelous accent. You must have arrived with Mr. DeVille. Have you spent time at Oliphant Engraving? Is that how you know about metal engraving?”
Blinking, he tried to follow her jumps in logic. She thought he’d arrived with Mr. DeVille?
But when he opened his mouth to set her straight, something entirely different came out. “You think my accent is marvelous?”
She chuckled as she wiped her hands on a rag, cleaning off the engravers’ oil. “Of course. It is a well-known fact the American accent is just heavenly to listen to. In comparison, Scottish men sound positively dull!”
“Really? I think your accent is charming.”
Was he flirting with her? He was, wasn’t he?
Ember waved her hand. “Do not be silly. Your voice is much more appealing.”
When she smiled at him, his body’s reaction was visceral: something reached down into his stomach and tugged, and he felt his cock harden in response.
Down, cowboy.
Clearing his throat, he shifted his stance, hoping to hide his arousal. “Yeah, well, we might have to agree to disagree on that one.” Hurrying to distract her, he asked, “But what is this place? Is it a part of Oliphant Engraving?”
And why didn’t I know about it?
She waved her hand dismissively, then reached behind her back to untie the heavy leather apron the engravers and machinists all wore. On her it looked big, as if it had been sized for a man.
“This was my—” She hid her stumble by pulling the apron over her head, knocking her old-fashioned mop cap askew.
“This workshop belonged to Baroness Oliphant’s second husband.
He was the manager of Oliphant Engraving—the best engraver the Oliphants had seen in a generation!
And when he married her, he set this place up for himself to tinker in. ”
As she spoke, she stretched up to hang the apron alongside the tools, and Max found himself studying her rear end. It was a nice rear end; one he wouldn’t mind getting close enough to feel.
His palms were itching at the thought actually.
Well, hell, what is it about this girl?
She turned back to him, arranging her cap and tucking in a few strands of hair, before he could really see the color. Her smile was slight but lacked guile. He didn’t think she was flirting with him; as far as he could tell, she was treating him just like any other guest.
And to his surprise, he was irritated by that. He wanted to treat her like someone special, and for her to do the same to him.
Hmm.
His brain, in an effort to rescue him from the silence threatening to stretch too long, prompted his mouth to blurt out, “Baroness Oliphant!”
As her hands stilled their mop-cap-arrangements, one of her dark brows lifted. “Baroness Oliphant what?”
“What?”
“What about Baroness Oliphant? Or was that like a curse? Oh Baroness Oliphant, I just slammed my thumb in the drawer! Or By Baroness Oliphant, it was hot out there today! Or were you just commenting on her general Baroness Oliphantness?”
Chuckling, Max shook his head, his hands dropping to his hips. “None of those things, but now that you mention it, I could see using her name that way.”
“Yes, but do not let her hear you. She can be nasty, and I speak from experience.”
Remembering the way he overheard the proprietress yelling for that poor girl, Max had to nod in agreement. “I can see that. But I guess what I was asking is, is she really a Baroness?”
“Sometimes, I think if she were not, she would have invented a way to be called Baroness anyhow. Perhaps changing her name so it was legally her first name?” The girl shrugged and sent him another grin over her shoulder as she fetched a small dustpan and tiny brush.
“But yes, she is a lady, where the definition of lady is a little loose, I must say.”
He watched her efficiently sweep the metal shavings from the worktable, as if she’d done it many times before. “I’m from America, where we don’t have lords and ladies.”
“One of your more charming characteristics,” she quipped, throwing him another grin over her shoulder, which had him shifting again as his trousers got tighter. “Although I know some Americans can be raised to almost lord-like status—the Midsummer Masquerade proved that.”
Max resisted the urge to frown, wondering what exactly she meant by that. Instead, he continued. “Well, I just mean that I don’t know a lot about ladies, but I was surprised she and her daughters aren’t staying at the Dumpkins house party.”
“Ooh, a sore subject.” The lass winked charmingly as she finished her sweeping.
“She might carry the title lady, but Machara has been forced into trade, and thus is not quite the same level of gentry as the Earl of Dumpkins’s widow, or Laird Oliphant.
They have been invited to attend select events at the party, but not to stay at Dumpkins Estate. ”
Well that made sense—Max had seen plenty of snobbishness in America. “I suppose it’s unusual to see a lady running an inn.”
As she dumped the shavings into the bin, the girl gasped so theatrically, it had to be in mock outrage.
“Not just an inn, sir, but The Inn. With capital letters!” As she returned the pan to its place, she sent him a teasing smile.
“The Oliphant Inn was originally a manor home, as you can imagine, belonging to the Barons Oliphant. Baroness Oliphant’s first husband—Lord Oliphant, not to be confused with Laird Oliphant, whose dearly departed wife was also Lady Oliphant, although that was a title and not a name, as Lady Oliphant’s— Wait, where was I? ”
He grinned. “Baroness Oliphant’s first husband.”
“Right.”
When she nodded and brushed her hands down her apron, his gaze followed and lingered on those hands. They were strong and callused—nothing like the lady’s gloved hands he’d touched at the ball—and looked capable.
And the thought of them touching him, touching his skin, made Max shiver.
When she launched into speech again, with that sing-song cadence familiar to anyone who’s had to explain something to someone else, he forced his attention back up to her lips.
Which didn’t help the state of his trousers, frankly.