Chapter 4
The mouse had found her way out of her hole.
Freya MacLeod had been scurrying around the main floor of the castle for the last half hour, peeking around corners and darting into crevices as if searching for a delectable bit of cheese.
God only knew what she was up to. She’d kept a careful distance from him so far, but she wasn’t as stealthy as she thought she was. If he were the sort of man who could be easily spied upon, he wouldn’t be at Castle Cairncross right now.
He’d noticed the nervous glances she’d cast his way, but he hadn’t paid her any mind. She’d either work up the courage to approach him, or she wouldn’t. It made no difference to him, either way.
He wasn’t here to make friends with the MacLeod sisters.
He remained still as a soft patter of footsteps came up the kitchen staircase and continued toward the entryway.
He didn’t move a muscle when she peeked around the edge of the banister, or even when she worked up the courage to edge closer to the door, nor did he blink when she came to a stop behind him.
He waited. The grandfather clock chimed the four o’clock hour, then ceased, leaving them in silence, aside from the soft click of the pendulum as the minutes ticked by.
One, two, three minutes passed, but she didn’t take another step or breathe a single word. It was absurd. Was he meant to stand here for the rest of the afternoon, pretending he didn’t see her?
A sharp command to get on with whatever it was she’d come for hovered on the edge of his tongue, but he bit it back. The girl was anxious enough. If he dared to glance in her direction, it might send her into a fit of hysterics.
Anything was preferable to that.
He’d just about given up on her when at last, she cleared her throat and let out a timid squeak. “Laird, er, that is, Mr. Ross?”
He drew in a slow, silent breath and turned to her, and God above, she looked like she was on the verge of a swoon.
She was carrying a tea tray with an array of dishes knocking into each other atop it. Her fingertips had gone white from the death grip she had on the edges of the tray. Her eyes were downcast, and her lower lip was bitten raw.
A shame, really. She had a pretty mouth, plump and pink, with a shallow groove at each side of her lips that hinted at the possibility of dimples. He couldn’t be certain of that, as he’d never seen her smile, but he was rarely wrong about dimples.
Not that he was likely to ever see hers. She had little to smile about, and in any case, her dimples were no concern of his. He didn’t have any business thinking about Freya MacLeod’s mouth, or her dimples, or any other part of her.
Nor would he, if she’d simply leave him alone. That he’d noticed her mouth at all wasn’t a welcome realization, and when he spoke, his voice was harsher than he intended. “What is it?”
Another squeak burst from her lips. “I, er … I beg your pardon. I just … I thought …” She trailed off and resumed abusing her lower lip with the edges of her teeth.
Good Lord. They’d be here forever at this rate. “What do you want?”
He tried to speak gently, but he wasn’t a gentle man any more than he was a patient one, and his words carried the same harsh edge as when he issued a stern command to his hunting dogs.
Predictably, she took a hasty step backward. “I, ah, I thought you might like to have some tea, my lord. That is, my laird,” she corrected hastily, a blush flooding her cheeks. “Um, I mean, Laird Ross.”
Tea. For the past five hours he’d been standing in this entryway and listening to that grandfather clock tick off the minutes without either of the MacLeod sisters offering him a single refreshment.
Not that he cared. He didn’t give a damn about tea.
So why had Freya MacLeod developed a sudden and pressing concern for his hydration?
She and her sister had kept well out of his way since he and Keir arrived yesterday, but now here she was, wobbling tray in hand, when it was obvious she didn’t want to suffer through tea with him, any more than he did with her.
Curious, that. Suspicious, even.
If she’d been a different sort of lady, he might have suspected her of some scheme or other.
If she’d been anything like her younger sister Sorcha, for example—a termagant if there ever was one—he would have made it his business to find out what mischief she was plotting, through fair means, or foul.
But this wee little mouse? She wouldn’t dare.
“No, thank you.” He turned back toward the door. “I don’t care for tea.”
It was a clear dismissal, but instead of scampering off like a proper little mouse, she lingered. “I have some lovely Dundee cake, and orange marmalade that I make myself.”
He jerked around to face her again. “I don’t care for cake, either.”
In truth he was fond of cake, especially Dundee cake, but not fond enough to endure what was sure to be an excruciating half hour of sipping tea with Freya MacLeod.
She could hardly work up the nerve to look at him, and he didn’t have time for a silly young lady who was frightened of her own shadow.
“Oh. I, ah … very well, then.” She shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, the tea tray still rattling in her hands, but just when he was certain she was about to dart back down the kitchen stairs, her chin rose in an unexpectedly defiant gesture, and then—
“Oh! Oh, no!”
She lurched forward, the tray slipped from her hands, and everything—the teapot, the cups and saucers, the Dundee cake and marmalade and the lady herself went sailing into the air, and—
“Damnation!” He managed to catch her under her arms before she toppled head over heels onto the stone floors, but there was no saving the dishware, which crashed to the floor in an explosion of silver teaspoons, shattered porcelain, hot tea, and a pot of sticky orange marmalade that somehow survived intact and rolled across the hallway like a billiard ball from the tip of a cue.
“Are you hurt?” He set her upright onto her feet, but when he released her arm she swayed, and let out a cry of pain.
“My ankle! I—I … oh, dear. I think I’ve twisted my ankle.”
God above. For such an allegedly biddable chit, Freya MacLeod was turning out to be a great deal of trouble. “Can you put your weight on it?”
“I think so.”
“Try it. I’ve got you.”
He held her steady, but she let out another cry when she attempted to stand on the injured foot, a spasm of pain crossing her face. “Ouch! Oh, dear. If you’d be so good as to help me to one of the settees in the drawing room, I—”
She broke off with a gasp as he braced one hand on her back, slid the other behind her knees and swept her up into his arms. “My goodness! Mr. Ross! What are you doing?”
“What do you think? I’m carrying you to the drawing room.” He lifted her higher against his chest and made a valiant effort not to notice the sweet scent that clung to her—fragrant black tea and orange marmalade—or the press of her soft curves against him.
“I don’t need you to … I insist you put me down at once!”
“Quiet.”
As rescues went, it wasn’t the most gallant or the most gracious, but he managed to get her into the drawing room and lay her down onto one of the worn settees.
He sat down beside her, but not right beside her, of course.
An ocean of faded blue silk cushions remained between them—and he reached for the hem of her skirt. “Let me see your ankle.”
She sucked in a sharp breath and jerked her feet away from him, her cheeks flushing scarlet. “I will not! You can’t just … a proper gentleman does not breach a lady’s hems, Mr. Ross.”
“That depends entirely on the lady, Miss MacLeod.”
“That comment does you no credit at all, Mr. Ross. As for my hems, they are sacrosanct. I must insist they remain unmolested.”
There was nothing amusing about the situation, but she looked so outraged, with her pert nose in the air and that prim frown on her face that he choked back a laugh. “Forgive me, but a proper gentleman does breach a lady’s hems if there’s a chance there’s a broken bone underneath them.”
“It’s not broken. I just wrenched it a little, that’s all.”
“There’s only one way to be sure. Come, Miss MacLeod, there’s no need to be so missish. If you’ve broken a bone, I need to know about it.” He nodded at her foot, which was still tucked underneath her skirts.
She huffed, but after a bit of offended flouncing about, she offered him her ankle, taking care to tuck her skirts modestly around every bit of exposed leg. “Yes, all right. Don’t touch my skirts, if you please.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” He took the injured limb in his hands and turned it carefully this way and that, but there was nothing to indicate she’d broken it. There were no protruding bones and no swelling, and not so much as a scratch or any redness to the skin. “It appears to be perfectly fine.”
“As I said.” She jerked her foot out of his hand, tucked it back under her skirt and edged away from him until she was perched on the opposite side of her cushion, as far from him as she could get.
If he reached a finger in her direction, he hadn’t the least doubt she’d burst into flight and scurry back to whatever mouse hole she’d emerged from, despite her injury.
Their conversation died a quick death once they’d settled the question of her ankle, and they sat there staring at each other, neither of them speaking.
The silence grew heavier with every passing moment until at last she cleared her throat.
“I, ah … I understand from Lord Ballantyne that you, he, and Mr. Dunn have been friends for some time.”
So, they were to have a polite conversation now, were they? How tedious. But silence, it seemed, was too much to hope for. “Yes.”
“Your fathers were friends, I think?”
He did his best not to think about his father, and he certainly wasn’t going to discuss him with Freya MacLeod. “Yes,” he answered shortly, and perhaps a touch rudely.