by Caroline Lee
“I came to talk to you, Ember.
How dare he be so calm!
“Did ye come to explain to me why ye lied?” she snapped.
“Whoa!” Holding up both hands, palm outward, he stepped closer again. “Hold your horses. I didn’t lie to you.”
“Ye’re Mr. DeVille!”
Cocking his head to one side, he studied her. “I’m Max.”
“Nay!” She shook her head, the stupid cap flopping over one ear, as she tried to find the words to explain her anger. “Ye’re not just Max, ye’re the manager of Oliphant Engraving! Ye’re the one I needed to help me start producing the shoes I designed and help me get out of here!”
The memory of how she’d unburdened herself—after she’d all-but-mauled him—and explained her needs, had her grip tightening around the graver again, shame washing over her. “Ye’re Mr. DeVille!”
Solemnly, he nodded. “I am. I’m sorry I didn’t make that clear. I thought you knew.”
“What? How would I have kenned that?” Unable to face him any longer, she turned back to the vice, planted her hands on either side of it and felt the sturdy wood beneath her palms. In her other hand, the weight of the graver pushed her knuckles into the oak, and she welcomed the pain. She blinked, the tears forming again. “Ye’re practically a lord, Mr. DeVille. Ye’re fancy.” She didn’t pause, didn’t let him deny it. “Ye’re friends with the Princes; ye’re their guest of honor!”
“I’m just me,” he said quietly behind her. “I’ve been staying at the inn while I’m waiting for—”
“For yer house to be finished, aye,” she snapped. “I thought ye were staying here, while yer boss stayed at Newfincy Castle with the other lords, because ye’re a simple man!”
“Ember…” His voice changed as he moved up beside her. “I am a simple man.”
“Nay! There’s naught simple about ye!” Frustrated at her own anger and tears, she hurled the graver across the workbench, where it skidded to a stop among the neatly arranged tools. “I cannae believe I thought I was falling in love with ye!”
She heard him suck in a breath, but she was too knotted up inside to even look at him.
“Were ye using me, Mr. DeVille? Was I just a serving lass to dally with?” Her voice caught on a sob. “Was I?”
“Ember!”
His hand closed around her forearm, but she yanked herself out of his hold and stumbled away, finally turned to face him again, her fists hovering at her side, because she was too angry to know what to do with them. “I let ye kiss me, Mr. DeVille! And I kissed ye, because I thought we had a connection! But ye’re too high and mighty to think that way about a mere serving lass—”
“Listen to yourself, Ember!” he growled, but made no move to reach for her. “However poorly you think of me, I’m not going to let you talk that way about yourself! You’re a remarkable woman, Ember.”
“I’m a serving lass, Mr. DeVille.”
“Dammit, stop calling me that! I’m Max.” He was breathing heavily now, and she saw his own hands had curled into fists. He was still the most handsome man she’d ever met, but with the fire of anger flashing in his light brown eyes, he was downright mesmerizing. “I’m just a cowboy.”
Just a cowboy. Just a serving lass.
But that wasn’t true, was it?
“Nay, ye’re no’ just a cowboy. Ye’re a fancy manager of a fancy business endeavor. Ye’re friends with the Princes, and ye’re practically a lord yerself. Ye were the guest of honor at the ball—” Ember gasped so loudly she almost choked as she stumbled back against the workbench. “Ye’re the one I danced with!”
He didn’t deny it.
“Ye kenned, did ye no?” She gasped again, her eyes widening in realization at what she’d just stated and what he hadn’t denied. “Ye kenned it was me all along?”
“No.” He lowered his eyes, sounding almost…sad? “I realized only last night.”
Her palms scrabbled for the edge of the workbench behind her, desperate to feel anything solid, as her breaths left her in great heaving gasps and sobs. The tears were no longer flowing, but her chest felt tight, and her mind was in turmoil.
Was this anger, shame, or something entirely different?
“Wh-what do ye mean?” she finally managed. He realized she’d been his partner for the waltz only since last night?
Is that why he’d shut down and hurried away?
She didn’t want him to have a reasonable explanation. She wanted to stay angry at him.
But when he turned, giving her his shoulder, as he raked his hand through the tight dark curls close to his head, she felt confusion settle over her. Aye, she was still angry. But he seemed sad, and she ached to comfort him.
Which was stupid.
Love can be stupid.
Nay, she couldn’t love him, not after the way he’d lied to her.
But did he truly lie?
“I’m sorry, Ember,” he said quietly, tugging at the hair at the back of his head. “It wasn’t until yesterday, when I saw your hair for the first time—you’re always wearing that cap—that I guessed. Not at first, but when you handed me that shoe, I knew.” He peeked sideways at her. “You see, I have the other one.”
Suddenly, all the anger seemed to drain from Ember’s chest, leaving her feeling…empty. “Ye have the other shoe? The one I lost?”
He nodded, dropping his hand to rest on the same workbench which was holding her upright. “I’ve been saving it. I’d hoped to find you again.”
“Nay,” she snapped, bitter. “Ye hoped to find that lady again.”
He only hesitated a moment, then dropped his chin in acknowledgement. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I thought she might need help. She ran away so fast.”
Hollowly, Ember tried to explain, though wondering why she bothered. “I ran away because I wasnae supposed to be there. My stepmother had forbidden me to go.” She took a deep breath and shrugged. “When I saw her readying Vanessa and Bonnie to leave, I realized I had to get home first.”
“Last night, when I realized who you were,” he began quietly, “I wasn’t sure how to treat you. You’d been acting like a servant, but I’d danced with you as a lady.”
As his words sunk in, Ember’s gaze snapped up to his. There was something in those lovely brown eyes, a sort of—
She gasped. Was he accusing her of lying to him?
Anger flashed. “I’m nae lady, Mr. DeVille. I’m just Ember. I’m a—a drudge,” she bit out.
He didn’t back down, but she saw the muscles in his jaw flex as he thought about his answer. “I found out today you’re the stepdaughter of Baroness Oliphant. If Vanessa and Bonnie are ladies, so are you.”
Her harsh bark of bitter laughter surprised even her. “Impossible!” She held out her hands, palms up, as she said sarcastically, “Are these the hands of a lady?” Those hands plucked at the heavy leather apron she’d once again slipped over her serviceable gown. “Is this the dress of a lady? I’m the one who keeps this place running. I’m the one who, when I’m able, steals a few moments to myself so I can bang on metal.”
There. That summarized her life, didn’t it?
And why in the world did it sound so…empty?
He was studying her. “If you had a choice between being a servant and being a lady, which would you choose?”
Although his question had been quiet, she snorted as she turned away from him, stalking toward the carefully arranged tools. “What does that have to do with anything?” Where the hell was it? “I’d choose to be an engraver.” Ah, there it is. She reached for the graver she’d tossed carelessly away, pulling it from the row. “I’m good at engraving.” The tool was perfectly weighted, fitting into her palm as if she’d been born with it there. “This—all of this—was my father’s. He taught me everything I ken about the art, because he wanted me to be the first female employed at Oliphant Engraving. I could’ve been too…”
Had she not accepted the chores Machara heaped upon her. Oh,
her stepmother had been wily at it; she’d started small, using the chores as an excuse to help Ember forget her grief after her father had passed. Ember had been so young, and she’d believed everything her stepmother had told her.
By the time she’d realized what had happened, she was the one keeping the inn going, and she was too busy to follow her dreams the way she’d wanted.
Too busy, or too scared?
Behind her, Max cleared his throat. “When you first told me about this workshop, you said it belonged to the baroness’s second husband. You didn’t say it was your father’s.”
Forcing her fingers to unclench, Ember inhaled slowly. She reached up to place the graver in its rightful place. “Machara doesnae like me to mention my relationship to her with the guests. Just like she harangues me if I dinnae cover my hair.” Ember shrugged, still staring at the neat line of tools. “It’s easier to just do as she prefers.”
A pause. Then he asked quietly, “Wasn’t that a lie?”
She twisted to frown at him. “I didnae—” Had she lied? “I just… I just didnae say her husband was my father,” she began slowly.
“That’s true. And I didn’t lie—I just forgot to mention my last name. I’m sorry; meeting you felt personal enough that it didn’t even occur to me to give you a full introduction.” He straightened his shoulders, then dipped forward from the waist, as if in a formal setting. “Maxwell DeVille, at your service.”
She sniffed and tried to hold onto her resolve. “Ye already ken me. I’m just Ember.”
“Ember Oliphant, stepdaughter of a Baroness, attender of masked balls, engraver extraordinaire.”
When he said it like that, she sounded almost as fancy as him. “Ember Oliphant, serving lass.”
He grinned crookedly. “Max DeVille, cowboy.”
There was a feeling in her stomach, one she didn’t like. Hot and coiled, like anger, but…not.
Unable to look at him any longer, Ember turned away. The piece of turned metal was still clamped in the vice, but she couldn’t imagine working on it, not now, not with the way she was feeling at that moment.
Embarrassment. It’s embarrassment, ye ninny.
Heaven help her, it was.
He was right. She hadn’t mentioned her relationship with Baroness Oliphant, any more than he’d mentioned his last name. If he was at fault, so was she.
“Ember, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you my last name. When you mentioned my boss, I thought you meant Andrew Prince, who hired me back in Wyoming. Last night, I wasn’t quite sure why you thought he’d be interested in making shoes, but then I figured out who you were, and I was distracted by that and forgot to ask.”
“That’s alright,” she said dully. “I should’ve realized who ye were.”
“And how would you do that?” he scoffed. “You likely assumed I was there last night on business from my boss, who you thought was Mr. DeVille. Right?”
With a sigh, she nodded and finally risked a glance up at him. “Look, Mr. DeVille—”
“Max,” he corrected firmly. “After what we shared last night, no matter who we are or what jobs we do, I think you can call me Max, don’t you agree?”
Could she?
“Ember,” he prodded, “I’m Max.”
She sighed. Aye, he was Max, wasn’t he? The man she thought she’d been falling in love with. The man who made her happy and had her considering a future with.
The man whose tongue was on yer nipple.
Aye, that too.
“Alright, Max,” she said quietly.
She didn’t have to see his face to know he was smiling at her concession. But that realization only made the ache in her stomach intensify. She was still angry at him, but now it was tempered with shame, which made her angry at herself.
“I—”
She wasn’t sure what he’d been about to say. All she knew was that she couldn’t stand the embarrassment any longer. Even if she was the one who was embarrassing herself.
“Max,” she interrupted, turning her back to him and bracing her palms on either side of the vice. “I think it would be best if ye left.”
A pause, then his voice, sounding a bit strangled, asked, “Leave your workshop? Or leave the inn?”
She stared down at the wood between her hands and didn’t answer.
Behind her, he blew out a breath. “Well, alright then. Goodbye, Ember.”
And as his footsteps faded along the corridor, Ember allowed the tears—no longer angry tears, but ashamed ones—fall. She watched them soak into the wood of her father’s workbench and mourned what she’d been stupid enough to throw away.
Chapter 9
“Oh, this is just going brilliantly, is it no’? How is he supposed to woo her if he’s no’ even in the right place? Where’s the damn shoe?”
“Calm down, Broca. I’m certain everything will work out.”
“Are ye? Because ye dinnae sound certain. He’s left the inn, Evangeline! The shoe is in his office! Ember’s still at the inn, and—let me restate it, in case it’s no’ obvious—they’re no’ together!”
“That is correct, but Grisel has managed to infiltrate the story in a most ingenious way, and I have confidence in her ability to set it back on the right path.”
“Do ye? Have confidence in her, I mean. That’s nice that one of us does.”
His new house was very…nice.
Max stood in the center of the parlor, still holding his worn carpet bag, and slowly turned in place. It was amazing what could be accomplished with enough money. Not only had his house been built in a matter of weeks, but it was completely furnished as well. The wallpaper was tastefully muted, the pair of chairs in front of the fire looked comfortable, and the gas lamps were modern.
But it wasn’t home. Not that he’d ever felt at home in his father’s house to be honest, but over the years, he’d grown used to his father’s decorations. Here, there were no paintings hanging on the wall, no knick-knacks on the mantel or the tables.
Shaking his head, Max set down his bag and stepped back into the foyer, then crossed into the dining room. Had he really expected the builder to personalize the house as well?
That’s your problem.
And it was a problem, because the more he saw of his new house, the more he could imagine it personalized. Not with his things—because, despite the shopping sprees Roland had forced upon him, Max’s clothes could still fit in two suitcases—but with hers. He could imagine a sewing kit tucked there, beside the chair, or a colorful painting which had caught her eye sitting on the mantel. He could imagine the fancy china plates she’d picked out sitting in that cabinet, and a painting of the two of them hanging along that wall.
And the her he was imagining—the woman standing beside him in that painting—was Ember.
Was he crazy? He’d known her for such a short time, but he could absolutely imagine sharing his home with her.
Sharing his life with her.
He picked up his second suitcase and began to climb the stairs to the next floor. The house’s design rivaled his father’s in terms of quality, but it was nothing like Newfincy Castle.
Snorting softly, he stepped into the first bedroom. Imagine, someone like him knowing what the inside of a castle looked like! He was a simple man, and he knew this house was too fancy for him alone. Why, this bedroom was finer than the room he’d stayed in at the inn, which had been part of the ancient manor house!
He dropped the suitcase near the bed, knowing he’d have to hang up the suits so they wouldn’t wrinkle too badly, and wandered across the hall. This bedroom was smaller, and would be ideal for a nursery—
A nursery?
Max blew out a breath.
He was thinking about babies? With…with Ember?
No, you’re thinking about a life with Ember.
Ember, the serving lass he’d only just met. Ember, the lady he’d danced with at the ball. Ember, the woman he’d almost taken against the workbench at Oliphant Engraving.
<
br /> Ember, the woman he loved.
Well, shit.
Max scrubbed a hand over his face while he muttered to himself.
He loved her?
Yes, by god, he sure did. He loved her!
So what are you going to do about it, idiot?
The way he’d left things with her…
She’d been crying. He’d made her cry. He hadn’t purposefully hidden his identity from her or anything, but she’d been right to have been hurt by the confusion. Now that he realized how much she was relying on impressing “Mr. DeVille,” he could see why she’d been so upset.
He needed to figure out how to make it better. How to convince her he wasn’t a bad guy. How to make her see how much he needed her in his life.
“I’m going to need some help,” he muttered.
Luckily, he had an idea of who to ask.
“Mr. DeVille?” A call came from downstairs. “Is that ye up there?”
Max stuck his head out the door. At the bottom of the steps stood a plump older woman; her gray hair pulled back in a bun. She was wearing an apron and grinning, her hands on her hips.
“Welcome home, Mr. DeVille! I’m Mrs. Oliphant.”
Already trotting down the steps, Max muttered, “Of course you are,” but offered the woman his hand and a welcoming smile.
She shook it enthusiastically. “Grisel Oliphant, at yer service, sir! I heard ye were in need of a housekeeper, so I took the liberty of applying, then hiring myself. I’m a hard worker, and I think ye’ll find I make the best bloody beef-and-potatoes in all the Highlands.”
“And…is that a regional treat?” He was trying for diplomacy. “I prefer my beef cooked a little past bloody—”
“Bless ye, sir!” She laughed, wiping her hands on her apron. “The beef isnae bloody! Imagine that!” Still laughing, she shook her head. “Americans. Complete idiots apparently.” She hurried on, as if she hadn’t just insulted him, good-naturedly though it may have been. “Would ye like some tea? I can set it up in the parlor if ye like. Or were ye heading out again? I’ve no’ begun fixing supper, but I will; just say the word, sir.”
“Um…actually, I don’t think you have to make anything fancy for me.” After all, it wasn’t as if he had guests. It would be odd to dine all by himself in this big house, especially after the weeks he’d spent at the inn and dining at the castle. “You hired yourself, you said?”
