Chapter 4 #2
“So, Machara—sorry, Baroness Oliphant’s—first husband was Baron Oliphant, the most recent one, I mean.
Which makes sense, because it is not as if she would be married to one of the dead ones—” She cut herself off and shook her head at her own rambling words, before continuing.
“Never mind. Her first husband’s father gambled most of the estate away, then turned the manor house into The Inn”—Max could hear the capital letters—“and it has become a well-known establishment. Baroness Oliphant is quite proud of the fact.”
Max had to chuckle. “It’s hard enough to keep everyone straight without throwing in titles too.”
“I know it! Everyone is named Mrs. Oliphant, have you noticed? The cook, the baker, and of course, the teacher’s wife.”
“Exactly! And I can’t keep all the titles straight: lord this and laird that and everyone’s a lady! I mean, the ladies are. At least, that is, the ones who aren’t a missus!”
She was grinning right along with him as she scooped up a basket, looking as if she were preparing to leave the workshop. “I knew I liked you; an American without any interest in lords and ladies!”
“Well, I’m sure they’re quite nice.” He realized he was feeling ten feet tall.
Why? Because he was flirting with her, or because she’d just complimented him?
“But it seems as though everyone’s got four titles, and they’re impossible to keep track of.
And sometimes the gentlemen go by one title—like, their names—but their official title is something else! ”
Thank the Lord that he could call his new siblings by their given names, because Max couldn’t keep things straight otherwise.
“Most certainly!” She stepped closer to the door—and to him—with the basket on her hip.
“Our laird is an earl, did you know? We do not stand on ceremony here in the Highlands, so he is mostly known as Laird Oliphant. But there are a number of other titles in there too. Besides, earls are as common as sheep here in Scotland.”
Max had to chuckle again at that. “I hardly think that’s true.”
“Well, perhaps it was a bit of an exaggeration. We do have a lot of sheep.”
“That you do.”
As she slid past him—tantalizingly close, close enough he caught a whiff of her intriguing scent—he saw her basket was filled with rags soiled from oil. Was she taking them to be washed, or did she do the washing herself?
“I have enjoyed meeting ye, Mister…?”
When she trailed off, he realized what she was asking. “Oh! No, not mister.” His father had always insisted on being called Mr. DeVille, and Max had hated how formal it sounded. Besides, here in the Highlands…he rather suspected he was becoming someone else. “I’m Max. Just Max.”
When he offered his hand instinctively, she seemed surprised. Was he supposed to bow or something? The rules here seemed different, but she wasn’t a lady, she was a serving girl. They were just two normal people, weren’t they?
But then her lips curled up into a smile and she took his hand. He had to stop himself from sucking in a startled breath at the warmth, the spark, which jumped between them.
It reminded him of their first touch, when he’d helped her pick up the spilled mugs.
And another memory tugged at him, just out of reach. He wanted to know what else this touch reminded him of, but he couldn’t concentrate right now, not with her so close, and her hand still in his.
“Well, Just Max, I am Ember,” she said softly, peering up at him through her lashes, as her lips curled mischievously now. “And it has been very nice to meet you.”
Ember.
With that, she slipped out of the room, leaving him standing there with a tingling palm and a big grin on his face.
Ember.
His heart was singing her name, which sounded impossible, but was still true.
Ember! Ember! Ember!
Her touch and her smile made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t expected. Was this how Dmitri and Vincenzo, and Gordy and Ian, and all of his other friends back home had felt when they’d met the women they were going to marry?
Because Max felt as though he’d been hit between the eyes by a charging bull or something. And he just couldn’t stop repeating her name in his mind, couldn’t stop seeing the smiles she’d given him.
Despite their conversation, he only knew two things about her, but they were enough: Her name was Ember, and that smile, right before she’d left, had definitely been her flirting with him.
“Why are you smiling, girl? You have been walking around with your head in the clouds for the last two days. Do not think I have failed to notice.”
Shite.
Ember schooled her expression and turned to face her stepmother. “I am happy, milady.”
“Clearly.” Machara sniffed. “Were you humming? Who hums as she folds linens?”
“Only those with addled brains,” Ember murmured under her breath.
“What?”
Finishing the sheet she was folding—and mentally cursing at the acrobatics required to fold a sheet by herself—Ember tossed it atop the pile and shrugged at her stepmother.
“So I am smiling and humming. It offends no one.” Mainly because she was relegated to duties which didn’t put her into much contact with the guests, so no one saw her anyway. “It matters not.”
“No, but it is suspicious.” Machara peered at her. “Why are you so happy?”
Likely, Because I flirted with a handsome guest and he looked as if he wanted to kiss me and we have each searched the other out a few times in the last few days to flirt some more, wouldn’t go over well, Ember thought fast.
“Tiffany told such beautiful stories of the ball, milady.” There. That made her sound just pitiful enough Machara would surely appreciate it. “I am enjoying imagining it.” Like a complete nitwit. “All those gowns,” she added with a sigh, hoping it didn’t sound as fake as she imagined it.
To her delight, her stepmother sniffed haughtily and drew herself up. “Yes, well, just remember stories are all you are likely to know. A grand ball is not for the likes of you—a servant girl who tinkers in her father’s workshop.”
Ember’s good mood dimmed. Machara was right. Not in terms of worth—Ember had looked as grand as any of the ladies there that night, and she’d danced with the guest of honor—but she was a simple lass with simple wants, and none of them included catching the eye of a lord.
Although it might be nice to only have to clean up after one person.
See? Simple wants.
Over the last few days, she’d seen Max several more times, and she was beginning to think he might be the reason she’d been thinking more and more about what Mrs. Oliphant, the cook, had said about finding a man.
Her stepmother was already sweeping from the room. At the door though, she paused. “When you are finished here, take a set of sheets to the blue room. The guest requested they be changed today, and Annie is late to work.”
Of course she is.
But Ember merely inclined her head. “Yes, milady.” It was easier to agree than argue most days.
As Machara disappeared down the hall, likely to find something else which needed Ember’s attention, Ember stifled a sigh and reached for the next sheet to be folded. And as she did, her thoughts slid to Max.
So what else is new?
Max. She’d been thinking about him—and those smiles they’d shared—since the moment their hands had met. She’d felt a spark, a warmth, similar to the sensation she’d felt when he’d touched her hand that day in the hall after she’d run into him.
She’d never experienced anything like it before or since, except perhaps that electrifying waltz with Mr. DeVille—but that feeling was likely the result of the gown and the masks and the splendor of the ball.
When Max touched her, she’d felt as if he’d touched her soul. Her heart even. Or at least, her libido. That spark had wrapped around her chest, causing her to shiver as her nipples had hardened, then reached lower and caused a sort of ache between her thighs.
Last night, as she’d changed for bed in her tiny garret room, she’d placed her palms on her bare breasts and lifted them, caressed them, while trying to imagine what it would be like to have a man touch them.
What it would be like to have Max touch them.
Then she’d scoffed at herself and tugged her nightgown over her head, embarrassed to be thinking about a man, she’d only just met, in that way…even if she were the only one who would know.
At last, she finished the folding and collected all the linens to place in the closet down the hall. Once that was taken care of, she picked a set off the top, draped them over her arm, and headed for the blue room.
Machara is not around, so no need to bustle.
It was the sad truth of her life that, over the years, she’d just begun to bow to her stepmother’s demands because it was easier.
Oh, she knew she was talented, and she knew she could make a place for herself if she needed to…
but where? She’d been so young when Papa had married Machara, she didn’t consider any place other than the inn her home.
If she defied Machara too openly, she’d have to leave Oliphant land in order to find work.
But soon, if she could finish the set of shoes she was working on, she’d find a way to approach Mr. DeVille.
She knew he must be settled into the work at Oliphant Engraving by now, so maybe he’d have some time for her.
Could Max help her with that? He was an American who knew about the factory and had likely come to the Highlands with Mr. DeVille.
She’d have to remember to ask him for help once she finished the pair of shoes.
These shoes would be another silver pair, since steel was the easiest to buff to a shine. She’d finished the base but still required the lathe to turn the heels before she could begin to engrave those, much less attach them.