“Mistress Marshall?” Ian’s prompt drew her attention back to the two men. Both looked expectant, though by Finn’s expression his expectation for her answer was clearly in the negative.
She did so hate to disappoint him but if taking a meal with him gave her the opportunity to delve into the mystery of the treasure, she was going to take it.
Then she’d leave. With or without answers.
Chapter 9
“Supper sounds lovely.”
Squeals of delight, and one fierce frown, met her assent. Effie threw her arms around the dog, tighter than any domesticated beast would normally bear. Yet this one only panted happily and licked the girl’s cheek. The pair bounded down the hallway with Rab on their heels. Ian’s nursemaid followed the children with a long-suffering sigh.
The sound of Finn grinding his teeth again roused a certain degree of pleasure. As she’d told him, it was awfully good to know she wasn’t the only one aggravated by the other. On the flip side, she still didn’t know for sure whether the burning desire Finn roused in her was reciprocated or if it was vexation alone that riled him. What she did know now, Aila realized with a start, was that it wouldn’t be immoral any longer to solve that particular mystery.
As a widower, he was free to take a lover if he chose. Would he? Could he? Had it been long enough for him to do so with an unencumbered heart?
When she’d asked the question earlier, it had been asked out of sympathy. Now her curiosity was focused on whether the loss were recent, a fresh wound, or if he mourned still.
She could see it now. It wasn’t rage that filled him, despite Ian’s claim. It was loss. Perhaps a dash of defeat. Poor Finn. Left to raise his son and daughter alone.
Ian directed a servant to return her trunk to her room. Aila let him relieve her of her cloak with a murmured thanks and he passed that off to the servant as well. Castle maids and footmen gathered around a long table with the housekeeper seated at one end and the majordomo at the other. Aila let Ian lead her to a smaller table set next to the fireplace.
“Why are ye sitting way over here?”
“A compromise. Despite Finn’s position here, he is neither servant nor guest,” he told her. “The steward would have us dine in a more formal setting, while I…let’s say prefer to maintain a discreet distance between the two of us.”
“I dinnae blame ye. I wouldnae want to share his company either.”
Sitting, she watched Finn from beneath her lashes as he sat opposite her. Empathy had never been her strong suit, yet her heart ached for his loss. She longed to brush away the furrow between his brows along with his worries. To hold him, comfort him.
And more.
If he were able and willing. This wasn’t exactly a good moment to solve that particular conundrum. Thankfully, she had another at hand.
“Who is Mr. Boyce?” she asked Ian as he sat to her right.
“He’s the local miller, I believe.”
“Miller?”
“Aye.”
It wasn’t clarification she was asking about, but rather for the definition of what a miller was. She wracked her brain. Boyce and the cook reentered the room sans the bag over his shoulder this time and she fought the urge to slap a palm to her forehead. Oh, the miller! As in the one who mills the wheat or barley into flour. And Violet thought her a clever lass.
Aye, maybe when she was in her element. Not a fish out of water.
She eyed Boyce as he chatted with the staff, rejecting their pleas to join them at the table. He looked worn out, even sickly as some she’d seen in the village earlier. Heavy bags of skin drooped under his eyes. The rest of his wan face appeared to sag as well. As if he’d once been much heavier and was now deflated.
“Mr. Boyce looks as though he’s ill. I noticed in the village, too, more of the same. Nothing viral, I hope.”
“Viral?” Ian asked. “My apologies, lass. I’m unfamiliar wi’ the term.”
Finn’s expression, too, turned from frustration to inquisitiveness and Aila bit her tongue at the rookie move. Hadn’t she learned enough from Brontë’s mistakes to watch her tongue? When were viruses discovered? She had no idea. She shouldn’t have even asked. Her fully inoculated self was unlikely to pick up the flu or chicken pox. “Catching?” she opted. “Does one get sick from being around them?”
“It disnae seem to be so. ’Tis a general malaise some have been inflicted wi’ in the village,” Ian told her. “Some trouble wi’ the bowels, nausea, vom—”
“Nothing that needs be discussed over a dinner table or with a lady,” Finn cut in, then turned his scowl from Ian to her. “Fret no’, lass. Nae one within the castle walls has been afflicted. Ye’ll be safe enough here. Until ye leave, that is.”
Ian looked between them. “My friend hisnae truly frightened ye off, has he, Miss Marshall?”
“Please, call me Aila.”
“A bonny name for a bonny lass.”
Since he offered the compliment without a shred of flirtation, she inclined her head in thanks. “To answer yer question, nay. Mr. Keeley disnae frighten me one whit.”
Liar, she silently admonished as Finn lifted a brow accusing her of the same. Not that the feelings he engendered were the same fright as a horror film might rouse or that shock Ian had given her when he’d suddenly appeared out of the dark in the passage. It would be more accurate to say that he unsettled her and left her squirming. She felt his scrutiny as if she were lying naked on a beach in the French Riviera and his eyes were the hot summer sun toasting her. Roasting her. Heating her.
Ha, she would have liked to call that look smoldering. In truth it was more baleful than anything. There should be nothing seductive about it, yet given the choice between a tall drink of water in an icy glass and the one seated on the other side of the table, she knew which one she longed for.
A heaping tray of food cut like a knife between them to land with a thud on the table. “Here ye are, my lor…er, Mr. Keeley. Mr. MacKintosh.” A kitchen maid emptied the tray of plates, bowls and utensils along with a bottle of whisky, platters of smoked salmon and mashed neeps, and a kettle full of what smelled like Cullen skink, a fish chowder, out onto the table. “I’ll have to fetch another setting. I wisnae aware Miss Marshall would be joining ye here rather than sitting at the long table.”
“Thank ye, Elspeth.” Aila blinked as Finn employed the most kindly tone she had yet to hear from him. “Fetch a plate for Mistress Marshall if ye please.”
The maid bobbed a curtsey. “Aye, my lo— er, sir.”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard someone address ye as ‘my lord,’” Aila commented after Elspeth returned with the extra dishes and disappeared once more. The men had already tucked into their meal with hearty appetites while she sipped her soup. “What are ye the lord of?”
From primary school history and her book, she knew the term “laird” had been banned following the Scots’ loss in the battle of Culloden in an attempt to upend the clan system. Bearing weapons and wearing kilts had also been outlawed, which explained why neither man nor anyone in the village wore one.
Titles and lands were stripped from noblemen who’d fought against the English for their “treason.” Her heart ached for Finn and Ian, as well. Their clothing bore the same stamp of quality as her own in comparison to the locals. With their air of command and the respect they were offered by the castle staff, clearly both were born to the upper classes.
“I was the Lord of Rossmore, laird of clan Keeley, prior to our defeat on the Drummoise moor,” Finn confessed after a pointed silence. “King George has since prohibited use of the title.”
Beneath the bitter infliction of Finn’s brogue there was a poignant underpinning of remorse she couldn’t help but sympathize with. “Dinnae fash, it will no’ last forever.”
Ian snorted around a spoonful of soup. “Ye speak wi’ more confidence than anyone I know. Can ye see the future now, lass?”
Despite his jesting tone, she hesitated to respond
with the truth even to tease. She had no idea how badly it might go for her if they took her seriously. “It’s logic, no’ clairvoyance.”
“Logic?” Finn lifted a brow. “Explain.”
“It’s only that the monarchy will no’ be wanting to drive a wedge further between our two countries when it is their goal to unite Scotland and England under one rule,” Aila explained. “They deliver their punishment to make their point. Aye, they’ll make certain we feel the pinch, but in the end, they’ll need to let our customs and culture stand if they dinnae want a continued rebellion.”
The men shared a look over her head as she turned her attention to her salmon. Something between amusement and indulgence. Too bad she wouldn’t be around when the laws were repealed to be proven right.
She stared with studied innocence at her fork. “Er, where is this mill located that Mr. Boyce operates by the way? Has it been around long?”
“’Bout a mile west of the village on the far side of the orchard,” Ian answered distractedly.
Arriving in the hall, young Mr. Elliot paused at their table. “Good evening, Mistress Marshall. I see you and Lord Keeley have worked through your differences.”
“Ye could say that.”
“I heard you asking about Mr. Boyce,” Elliott went on, the tic in his eyelid jumping. “If you’re curious about the locals, I’d be happy to answer your questions.”
It might have been congenial politeness that prompted the offer, however there was a keen intensity in his gaze to make her wonder if he meant it as a means of flirtation. She had no desire to encourage him, if that’s what it was. “Idle curiosity, nothing more. Though I appreciate the offer.”
With a nod, he lingered as if hoping for an invitation to join them. Soon enough the men’s stony scowls sent him on his way to a place at the long table with the castle staff. Ian’s expression eased after Elliot was gone. “Where are ye from, Miss Marshall? I’m curious what county of our fair country propagates such optimism.”
Aila sighed. She had a feeling she could pepper them relentlessly with questions about Mr. Boyce and gain nothing but vague answers in return. Her best hope had probably been with Elliot. She should have asked him to sit regardless of the young man’s intentions. He’d seemed eager to accommodate her and she might have gained some valuable information.
Instead, she’d opened herself up to an interrogation that would test her ability to fabricate half-truths on the spot. She’d had no idea how wary her countrymen had been of strangers during this time. Then who could blame them? The English had taken everything from them, made fugitives of many of them.
She set her fork aside, unable to enjoy the fish with the spotlight on her, and took a sip of her wine while she weighed her answer. At least this one didn’t require the same creativity as answering the ones about her journey here had. Honesty here wouldn’t hurt.
“I’m originally from Stromness on Mainland in the Orkneys.”
“The Orkneys?” Ian snorted in disbelief. “I have a difficult time picturing ye in a wee fishing village, Miss Marshall.”
So did she, though the town was not so wee any longer. The confines had chafed. That was one of the reasons she’d left. “I come from a long line of sailors.”
Ian refilled his whisky glass from a bottle at the center of the table and lifted it in a silent toast. “How is that ye came to ken James and Robert Adam and find yer way here?”
Aila scoured her mind for an acceptable response but came up empty.
“Let me put a pin in that for the moment.” She decided it would be better to ask the questions than to answer them. Rather than turning the conversation back to Boyce, Aila found her thoughts turning in another direction. “I’m more interested to hear about the new castle. How did ye come to be working here?”
“’Tis no’ I who is in Argyll’s employ.” Ian lifted his hands in protest. “I am merely here to visit my old friend whilst he labors in the duke’s service.”
There was accusation in the words and in the rancorous look he shot Finn. Finn shrugged and continued eating with a mumbled, “Ye ken why.”
Ian grunted a response and pushed his plate of fish away. Neither offered anything further on the subject. Aila could make a hundred guesses why Finn worked here, but beyond reason, she wondered what it cost him to seek employment by the enemy.
Neither man looked as if he were going to compound on the subject, so she turned to Ian. “He must be a good friend for ye to join him here of all places. There’s no’ much to entertain. Inveraray is like Stromness in that regard. Nothing compared to Glenrothes.” The men shared a look of surprise, and Aila silently cursed her slip. What she knew of Brontë’s Tris MacKintosh didn’t automatically apply to this MacKintosh.
It was Finn who asked, “What do ye ken of Glenrothes?”
“Is that no’ where the MacKintosh clan hails from? I’m familiar with the clan name.” She crossed her fingers and hoped the excuse would suffice.
“We did,” Ian allowed with a nod. “In a sense, still do at heart.”
Relieved that her explanation had been accepted, Aila sipped her wine and pushed a bit further, eager to determine if there was a link between the two men in truth. “I imagine ye’ve met the earl then, since he’s the head of the clan?”
“I may have,” Ian prevaricated, his dark gaze penetrating hers.
It hit her then, a mighty wallop upside the head akin to those delivered by her dreaded great aunt, though far more enlightening. “Ye may have? My guess is that ye are the earl.”
“Shite!” Finn looked around the room, now mostly empty as the staff had finished their meal and either returned to their duties or retired, before he turned to scowl at her. “Wheesht, lass! Do ye want to let the whole place ken who he is?”
“I believe we had a conversation about shushing me, Lord Keeley.”
“Och, call me what ye like, lass. I’m no’ a wanted man,” Finn growled low. “He is.”
At that provocative statement, her gaze darted back and forth between them. Questions crowded her mind, fighting for dominance over which would burst out first. Why would Ian be hunted and not Finn? “Ye picked a hell of a place to hide out, my lord,” she addressed Ian, though at a lower volume. “Nae one would ever think to come looking for ye in such a backwater village.” Their expressions remained stern and cautious. Aila waved a hand. “Och, dinnae get yer panties in a twist, I’ll no’ be telling anyone who ye are.”
“My panties in a twist?” Ian echoed, a hint of amusement easing his harsh countenance. “I can assure ye, they are no’. How can I be confident I can trust ye?”
“My dearest friend is engaged to one of yer clansmen,” she said. “I’d never do anything to hurt them. Even remotely.”
So remotely neither would ever know.
Or would they? If Ian was the Earl of Glenrothes now and Tris the nephew of the Earl of Glenrothes more than a hundred years from now, any harm to Ian might affect Brontë and Tris in ways she couldn’t begin to enumerate.
Aila swallowed back a mouthful of wine. This time travel thing was more complex than she’d imagined. Things like ripples and the butterfly effect that had only been the stuff of fiction and cinema up to about ten seconds ago now weighed on her. She put a pin in that topic as well and would revisit it later when she was alone. Or gone.
“I am curious though,” she lowered her voice and leaned toward Ian. “What did ye do to become a fugitive?”
“’Tis none of yer concern, lass,” Finn grumbled in defense of his friend.
“’Tis alright, Finn,” Ian assured him. “I feel I can trust the lass no’ to spread tales. Aye?” She nodded when he lifted a brow in her direction. “I killed the English fleet admiral. After the ceasefire had been called.”
Since he hardly had the look of a cold-blooded murderer, she assumed he’d had just cause and asked him why.
He stared into his whisky glass, his expression wooden. His tone just as emotionless. “The admiral wa
s aboard a ship on the Firth of Forth when he ordered a bombardment upon my family’s keep at Raven’s Craig for nae other reason than it was a Scottish hold and in range. We were nae threat to him. The cannon fire decimated the entire south side of the castle. Everything inside was crushed.” He tossed back his drink, abusing the fine libation by taking it in a single swallow. Tears glistened in his eyes and Aila knew it wasn’t the sting of the alcohol alone that summoned them. “And everyone.”
She didn’t need to ask who. It was apparent that whoever it had been, their loss had broken his heart. Aila’s eyes burned, throat tight with sympathy for his loss. She reached for his hand and he let her take it. “I’m so sorry.” Regret for asking the question that had reawakened such grief gnawed at her heart. “Would ye like to talk about it?”
“’Tis years past, lass.” He forced cheer into the words. “Long forgotten.”
Nay, it wasn’t.
Ian withdrew his hand and snatched up the nearly full bottle of whisky off the table as he stood. “If ye’ll excuse me, I’ll bid ye goodnight.”
Chapter 10
Finn watched his friend leave, noting Mistress Marshall’s…nay, Aila’s stricken expression as Ian disappeared into the passage. He’d learned long ago not to ask questions he didn’t want to hear the answers to. It was clear she had yet to learn that lesson. She turned to him, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. For all her vinegar, the lass had a soft heart. That surprised him.
And swept away the remnants of his anger at the same time.
“Dinnae fash, Mistress Marshall.” He thought to soothe her. “Ian’s an angry man these days. As are most.”
“Aila,” she reminded.
Ian had taken the words from his mouth in saying it was a bonny name. She was bonnier, however. Against his will, he’d spent the better part of their meal imagining her naked in his bed. That luminous mane of hair spilled on her pillow while he discovered how thoroughly those freckles covered her. Watching her answer Ian’s questions when she’d barely cast him a stray look had him green with envy. “Aila, then.”
A Good Scot is Hard to Find (Something About a Highlander Book 2) Page 8
