Chapter 9 #2
Tiffany struggled to gain control of her thoughts, her body. This man could alter her very breathing. “Laird Gaberlunzie, I think—"
“Why do ye want that manuscript anyhow?” His tone made it sound as if he was scowling, but it was impossible to tell. “It seems a bit risqué for a lady in yer situation.”
The blush worked its way up her throat to her cheeks. “It is risqué. I had no idea A Harlot’s Guide to the Whatever-whatever—”
“Forbidden and Delightful Arts,” he supplied helpfully as they waited to cross the street.
Right. She took a bracing breath. “I had no idea that existed. I only remember—”
“From the time you spent reading to blind Mr. Ferguson?”
She risked a glance, wondering at his tone. Was this one of the things he was surprised by when it came to her? “He was not blind, but yes. I remember there being a box of Oliphant antiquities, and I was hoping some of the older manuscripts were still available.”
Lunzie snorted. “Well, the one that’s left is a bloody marvel.” He glanced down at her for a brief moment. “Why would ye want it? Just for the novelty?”
Tiffany frowned, and realized her irritation at him had driven away all thoughts of nervousness when it came to the possibility of acquiring the manuscript.
“There is a wealthy lady I know,” she finally said when they reached the other side of the street, “who is interested in collecting artifacts from our clan’s past, and is willing to pay handsomely.
She is particularly interested in manuscripts, and knowing her, I suspect she would happily pay me a fortune for such a wicked manuscript, written by her ancestress. ”
Somewhere around the second sentence, Lunzie had stiffened, then slowed to a stop there on the sidewalk, pulling her to a halt to finish her explanation. He was staring down at her intently, touching only her arm, his jaw working as if he were trying to decide what to say.
Finally, he ground out, “And ye have need of that money, I suppose?”
Why did his sarcastic tone make her stomach feel irritable?
“My sister does,” she snapped, wanting to defend herself. But then her irritation increased, realizing she’d been worried about his opinion of her.
An opinion he’d already admitted was negative.
How could he think so poorly of me, and do what he did last night?
Or had he done that because he thought poorly of her?
Oh God in heaven, her insides—emotions and thoughts—were all a jumble.
Her gaze dropped to his beard, because the unkempt bush was easier to look at than his eyes—perhaps she could claim she was looking for squirrels or missing dachshunds in its depths—and then to his chest.
Which is how she knew when he exhaled, really more of a sigh, and turned back toward the shop. “Well then, let us get ye yer manuscript.”
Bonnie’s. Had he not heard her when she’d said it was for Bonnie? Or had he not believed her?
The bell tinkled again as they stepped into The Curios Cabinet, and the tall, lanky man behind the counter looked up, blinking behind thick spectacles. “Yes?” he sneered. “May I help you?”
If this was Brother Jimmy, he was nothing like his welcoming sister or jolly father. Tiffany took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to push aside her early feelings to focus on this interaction, but Lunzie squeezed her arm. When she glanced at him, he sent her a small smile.
At least she thought he did. Good heavens, that beard certainly was atrocious, was it not?
“My good sir, we were here yesterday afternoon when ye were indisposed,” Lunzie launched into the explanation, tugging Tiffany toward the counter. “Yer sister showed us an intriguing little manuscript. Medieval. Horrible condition, quite in disrepair.”
“Oh yes, the Oliphant manuscript.” The man sniffed, then bent and picked up a small wooden box and placed it on the counter. “I had it moved to this carrying case for you, since Sister Mary thought you’d return. But don’t try to belittle it, sir, I know its worth.”
Oh, is that why Lunzie had tried to diminish how much she wanted—needed—it? Perhaps he was the better one to do the negotiating here, and she ought to be pleased he took control the way he did.
In fact, Lunzie had stepped up to the counter, a bemused Tiffany following beside him, to haggle with the man.
He really was good at this sort of thing, wasn’t he?
When she’d met him, he was dirty and hungry, begging for a place to stay and a bite to eat.
But she would never guess that now; her Lunzie was just as haughty and imperious as the shopkeeper, and knew all the right things to say to haggle.
Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to be working.
The more the men argued over the worth of the manuscript, the deeper the pit in Tiffany’s stomach grew.
It seemed that each time Lunzie tried to diminish its worth, he was saying something about her.
He’d already admitted to his low opinion of her, and yet he was doing his utmost to secure the manuscript for her?
But when the two men began to debate the difference between worth and cost, Tiffany had had enough.
She tugged on his arm.
“That is enough, Laird Gaberlunzie,” she said softly.
He turned a surprised look her way. “What do ye mean? I almost have him argued down to—”
“You have no such thing, sir,” the shopkeeper sniffed. “I know what I have and what I can get for it!”
“Lunzie.” She sighed and tipped her head toward the door. “It is no use.” Was she giving up because she didn’t think there was a chance at the manuscript? Or because of how she felt, deep in her stomach. “I cannot afford the cost, either way.”
In a blink, his expression went from animated—was he actually enjoying the haggling?—to displeased. “Ye dinnae have the money?”
She pulled her arm from his. “I thought I had enough for—well, this price is too high for me.”
Slowly, his brows drew in and his expression turned thunderous. “Did ye have enough money this morning when we left the hotel?”
Tiffany found herself backing toward the door, hating the way his opinion mattered to her. “I—I do not know what you—”
“Would ye have had enough money had ye no’ given that charity to those urchins?” he all-but-growled.
Yes, but she wasn’t going to admit that now, was she? Despite the tears in her eyes, Tiffany forced her chin up. “It was a paltry amount, and I do not see how it could matter.”
“Answer the question, Tiffany!”
“No,” she whispered, as a single tear slid free of her eye and crawled down her cheek. “I will not. I know you think poorly of me, but—”
She wasn’t sure how she would have finished that sentence, because in a blink, his expression went from angry to confused, and that was too much for her. With a quick bob of her head and a rushed, “Good day,” to the shopkeeper, she fumbled for the door and all but tripped outside.
The cheerful bell did nothing to improve her mood.
Tiffany stumbled away from the shop, aiming for the little square across the road. Good thing there was little traffic this morning, because she doubted she would have been aware of a hurtling beer cart or out-of-control sheep or whatever dangers frequented York streets.
Dimly, she heard her name being called, but she ignored it, intent on reaching what she saw as the safety of those bushes, where she could have a good cry without anyone seeing her.
She should have known it wouldn’t happen.
“Tiffany!” A strong hand grabbed hers, but when she whirled on him, Lunzie’s smile was gentle. “There ye are, lass.”
“Leave me alone,” she sniffed, mortified at him seeing her like this.
“Why?” His free hand rose to cup her cheek, his thumb wiping the tear track. “We should all have a friend to turn to when we need to cry.”
Surprisingly, his touch made her feel better. Tiffany tried to gain control of her stupid tears. “I—I do not normally cry.”
“Because yer life is so wonderful?”
“Because it makes me look like a wet cabbage.” Her mother’s opinion slipped out before she realized what she was saying. “At least, that is what I have been told.”
Lunzie had winced at her words, but now tipped his head to one side. “Well, ye were told wrong. Ye look no worse than any beautiful woman crying. When my sister cries, she does it with her whole body—snot, tears, flailing—but she’s nae less beautiful.”
He had a sister?
He had a sister he thought was beautiful?
That was remarkably sweet. “And…” Tiffany took a shaking breath. “When she cries, what do you do?”
“I offer her a hug.”
With that, Lunzie opened his arms, and it seemed like the easiest thing in the world to step forward and allow him to embrace her, there in the square. It didn’t feel wrong or wicked. It felt…like something a friend would do.
“Why are ye crying, lass?”
The hug did help. Tiffany’s tears had dried, and her breathing was returning to normal. She didn’t want to admit that she didn’t really know why she’d been crying. Was it because of his low opinion of her? Was it because his opinion suddenly mattered very much?
When she didn’t answer, he prompted gently, “Is it because ye cannae afford the Oliphant manuscript?”
That was as good an excuse as any, so she nodded against his shoulder.
He exhaled. “But ye said the manuscript wasnae for ye?”
“I am…” Finding her words muddled, Tiffany pushed herself upright, although not out of his arms, because she wasn’t that foolish. “I am going to sell the work and give the money to my sister.”
“Aye, ye said that.” When he nodded, the morning sunlight glinted off the gold strands in the hair which peeked out from under his tam, stirring a recollection she couldn’t quite place. “Why does she need the money?”