Chapter 7
Between the ring of knives being sharpened, the clang of metal pans, and the heat that was pouring from the hearth, this was an all too familiar setting for Lucy.
The aromatic hints of parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme hung just the same in this air as that of The Spotted Elk.
That was with the very noticeable distinction being the grandiose space, quality of utensils and cookery, and the dozens of staff effortlessly threading between each other while they brought the evening’s meal to creation.
Given her ownership of The Spotted Elk and her role preparing meals, this space should make her feel more at home than any second prior in this castle built for countesses who commanded people’s movements.
It should.
And perhaps it would, if Lucy didn’t feel Mr. McQuoid’s—Arran’s—penetrating eyes on her the whole while.
The swell of servants’ calls and the din of mundane kitchen sounds offered cover to the no doubt hanging-offense discussion between her and her aunt and uncle.
“Gor, lass. Ye look bonnier than a bell in spring,” Nettie cooed like the proud mama she’d become after Lucy’s mum passed fifteen years earlier. “Like Mary, Queen of Scots, herself.”
“Aye,” she whispered furiously. “The only exception is I don’t possess any of the lady’s charm and grace.”
“Och, just listen to yourself.” Nettie pinched her none too lightly. “There isn’t a more charming, graceful, bonnier lass. Isn’t that right, Tasgall?”
“Isnae another,” he voiced, equally proud. “Not in all of Scotland or England, or the—”
“And none of that matters in the least,” Lucy cut in, moving closer to them. “They believe I’m Mr. Smith’s betrothed.”
Tasgall made an impatient noise. “Nay. They called ye his sweetheart.”
Nettie nodded. “Your uncle is right, Lucy, they—”
Groaning, Lucy slapped her hands over her face. “Well, now one of them said I was his betrothed and now they all do.”
All with the exception being the hard-staring Arran McQuoid. Between the guard outside her door and the way he clung to Lucy’s side, he appeared the only family member of logic in this entire household.
Her nape tingled.
“Is he still staring?” she whispered, but she already knew.
She’d not suspected anything different. The enigmatic stranger had his piercing gaze on her. She felt his gaze the way she would a branding touch.
Nettie answered with a smile. “He hasna taken his eyes off ye, lass.”
Compelled; his gaze called to her; beckoned. She slipped a glance over her shoulder.
His brownish-black lashes swept low like he incisively plucked out her every secret—lie? It was all mixed up.
A quiet, unreadable smile curved his lips.
Heart hammering, Lucy whipped her focus back to her family.
Tasgall puffed out his big barrel-chest. “And fer good reason too.”
“Aye, because he doesn’t trust me,” she said frantically.
Nettie let loose one of her rattle-the-crockery snorts; one that managed to penetrate even this kitchen roaring with noise.
The staff paused as one and looked their way.
Unbothered as a cow in clover, Nettie waved at her audience.
That collective audience ceased staring and resumed their work.
Nay. That wasn’t completely accurate. One member of their audience, the braw fellow at the entrance, kept up his watch, and brought Lucy back to her point.
“That isnae the look of a lad wary of ye, lass. Well, not entirely. He’s takin’ yer measure, but ye’ve definitely turned his head. ” She chortled.
Oh, good, kind baby Jaysus, help me.
“I cannot stay.”
“You certainly can. Did you see the joy you brought that family when you showed up?”
“Because they believe I am someone else, Nettie,” she said, exasperated.
Lucy stole another peek in Arran’s direction.
There.
Contrary to Nettie’s ridiculously romantic imaginings about Arran McQuoid, he’d shifted those incisive eyes elsewhere.
His timepiece.
Panic set up an increased tempo in her chest.
“Well, it isn’t as though ye don’t know the lad,” Tasgall said unhelpfully. “Aye, yer no stranger to him.”
As though she didn’t know him? “I’ve known him but a handful of hours, Tasgall.”
Him and Nettie gave her a peculiar stare.
“Ah, was talkin’ about Mr. Smith, lass.”
Mr. Smith?
Lucy’s eyes went flying open in swift clarity.
Oh, God. Of course! The gentleman she’d been pining over.
Good, kind, gentle, calm Mr. Smith—now unconscious on account of Lucy’s tavern.
He didn’t leave her all off-balance, the kind of topsy-turvy that had a lass forgettin’ her name.
The tavern. “I have to return. The Spotted Elk—”
“Hasn’t had a full night in almost two years now, lass,” Nettie murmured, giving the top of Lucy’s hand a reassuring pat. “Tasgall and I will go back. Ye cannot be rude and run off, Lucy—”
“Especially not after your sign went and brained their lad.” Lucy flinched. “Told her to replace it, I d—oww.”
His perpetually ruddy cheeks blared brighter. “Whit was that—?”
“Cannae be reminding the lass she nearly killed the lad,” Nettie said, glaring up at her big husband.
Lucy covered her face a second time and shook her head as the pair quarreled.
“Lucy?” Arran called, a question in his voice.
Did he wonder at Lucy’s delay?
Her reaction to her troublesome kin?
It really could be anything.
“Go, lass,” Nettie urged on a hushed whisper, that furtiveness belied by the slight shove she gave Lucy in Arran’s direction. “We’ll see to the inn. Ye stay the eve, and when he wakes up, ye can have yer proper goodbye and all the confusion will be sorted out.”
When left with a choice between staying to argue the point with Nettie and Tasgall, Lucy chose the unlikeliest of options.
A short while later, arm in arm, Lucy let Arran escort her from the grand kitchens.
A sharp flutter caught in her chest. She’d never touched a fellow so.
And this strapping gentleman, with his bonnie face and body built like a stag, didn’t have the form of the fancy fellows who’d passed through the doors of The Spotted Elk.
His biceps were forged like Sheffield steel. All things she had no place noticing.
It was only that she’d never touched a man so. That alone accounted for her awareness of the broody McQuoid.
He cracked open the silence. “Never tell me,” he drawled, “they were attempting to bring you back.”
“If luck favored me,” Lucy muttered.
Arran stiffened; his already Highland-hard muscles bunched under her fingers and rippled the fabric of his fancy black wool jacket.
She’d offended him. A fine English nobleman such as himself wasn’t accustomed to being insulted—albeit unintentionally on Lucy’s part.
Tossing his head back, Arran did in fact roar…with rich, rough amusement that rippled through the hall, and through Lucy herself.
When his unexpected humor did fade, they reached the dining room. Unnerved, eager to separate herself from her all-powerful partner, Lucy took a step to go.
Or she tried to.
He stayed her in the doorway.
The mundane sounds of conversing and quarreling family members melted into an inaudible hum in the background.
Arran McQuoid’s touch. His glittering gaze. The storm-crafted aura Mr. Arran McQuoid wore like a cloak about his brawny Scot’s shoulders left her immobile. The man froze time itself.
Neither of them moved.
They each seemed trapped in a moment of which there existed no way out.
Arran slipped a warrior’s unwavering gaze over her face.
Her breath caught…not with fear.
…That isnae the look of a lad wary of ye, lass… he’s takin’ yer measure, but ye’ve definitely turned his head… Hasn’t taken his eyes off ye, lass…
Arran leaned closer, his breath warm as melted chocolate, sweet, unnervingly so, spilling across her lips.
Lucy’s every nerve ending leapt to life.
Mr. Smith had never stirred such heat in her. He’d never sent her thoughts scattering; scattering like the fallen autumn leaves upon the first winter’s gale. Why then should this brooding stranger who oozed danger do so?
“I find myself…” He moved eyes dark as polished walnut over her face, a lingering stare steeped in danger upon Lucy’s every feature. “Curious as to why your servants would need to encourage you to remain with your beloved.”
Her stomach dropped. And her temperature instantly cooled.
Arran the Inquisitor did not let up. “At that, a beloved who is injured?” He kept his elbow locked so she could not escape.
And run, as she wished to.
“Arran,” Andromena fired from across the room. “Do let Lucy join us, and stop keeping her all to yourself, will you?”
Lucy’s and Arran’s heads whipped towards a standing audience.
Somewhere near two dozen lords, ladies, and their wee ones surrounded the finest-set pedestal table, draped in a red velvet cloth, trimmed in gold.
The seating, gold chairs upholstered with a deep green velvet, were paired to Yuletide perfection.
Gilded candelabras some two feet tall illuminated the garland mixed with crimson roses and pinecones.
Lucy’s throat worked. It is a Yule-kissed land.
“Aye, I suppose it is.”
That quiet murmuring brought Lucy’s gaze flying back to Arran’s face.
The wash of candlelight sent shadows playing off his arresting features. The light flickered over the sharp planes of his cheeks, and the distinct cleft set within an angular jaw, as hard as the gentleman himself. He was a man to be feared, but at moments, there appeared a gentleness within—
One of the lads’ voices penetrated the charged moment. “Is she all right?”
“Her?” Fleur whispered back. “Arran’s the one with a queer look on his—”
The rest of the young woman’s words ended on a silencing look from the countess. “Miss LeBeau, we thank you for joining us, particularly after the day’s events.”
If Lucy’s blush grew any hotter, she’d set fire to that magnificent table they’d set. Arran remained coolly indifferent to his family’s gawking.
She sank into a belated curtsy. “I am grateful for the invitation, my lady.”
“None of that.” Lucy’s five-foot tall, impishly smiling, chestnut-haired heroine came sweeping over. The girl tugged Lucy’s arm from Arran’s and folded it within her own. “You are not sitting beside Arran as Aunt Catherine intends. I have very many questions for my sister-to-be.”
“You are not the only one, Andromena.” Arran’s impenetrable gaze remained locked on Lucy.
As Lucy found herself whisked away, she released a breath she’d not realized she’d been holding.
She joined the McQuoids to a flurry of questions thrown in every direction—hailing from powerful peers and peeresses. She struggled to keep up.
Rescue came this time in the form of the Countess of Abington, who urged her big family to quiet.
The quiet lasted only as long as it took for Lucy to be seated.
A rapid volley of queries came flying in Lucy’s direction.
Lucy struggled to keep pace with the vibrant, garrulous family. Yet none of their chatter, or their questions, unnerved her half so much as silent Arran McQuoid, watching her from beneath hooded lids.