Hard-Hearted Highlander. Julia London
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good afternoon.”
“Will you please sit?” she asked.
“Thank you,” Catriona said, and plunked herself down on a settee. Rabbie didn’t move from his position near the hearth.
“Might I offer you something to drink?” Miss Kent asked in a manner that suggested she’d been rehearsing the question, and looked nervously to Rabbie.
“No. Thank you.”
“Have you any ale?” Catriona asked. “I’m a wee bit dry after our ride.”
Miss Kent looked startled by Catriona’s request. “Ah...” She glanced to the butler, who nodded and walked out in that same eager manner as before.
The maid was now leaning against a sill at the open window, gazing out, as if there was no one else in the room but her. “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” Miss Kent said, having noticed the direction of Rabbie’s gaze. “M-may I introduce Miss Bernadette Holly? She is my lady’s maid.”
Miss Bernadette Holly pushed herself away from the sill and sank into what could only be termed a very lazy curtsy.
“Aye, we’ve met,” he said dismissively.
“You have?” Miss Kent exclaimed.
“In the Balhaire kitchen,” he said, at the very same moment the maid said, “No.”
Miss Kent looked at her lady’s maid, her brows rising higher.
“What I mean to say is that we were not formally introduced,” Miss Holly said. “Our paths crossed in the kitchen, that’s all.”
One of Rabbie’s brows rose above the other. Was she openly contradicting him, this lady’s maid?
“Oh, dear, of course, the kitchen,” Miss Kent said. “That was...well, it was an unfortunate oversight.”
He didn’t know what Miss Kent thought was an oversight and he didn’t care. He kept staring at the maid, this Miss Holly, wondering how she kept her employ with her supercilious ways. She leaned against the sill once more and folded her arms across her body, returning his gaze with one that seemed almost impatient.
“Do you ride, Miss Kent?” Catriona suddenly interjected, heading off anything Rabbie might have said about the maid.
“Oh, I, ah... I am a poor rider,” the bird said, and glanced uncertainly at Miss Bernadette Holly, who once again gave her an almost imperceptible nod, as if giving her permission to continue. Rabbie glared at her.
“There is much to see in these hills, views you’d no’ see in England, aye? Perhaps you would join Rabbie and I one afternoon?” Catriona suggested.
Again, Miss Kent looked to Miss Holly. This time, she raised her dark brows, and Miss Kent spoke instantly. “Yes, thank you.”
What was this, was the bird the maid’s bloody puppet? Even the girl’s utterly useless mother kept glancing nervously and fretfully at Miss Holly.
Miss Holly smiled a little at Miss Kent, and Miss Kent suddenly smiled, too, as if she’d just remembered an amusing jest. And then she blushed, as if she were embarrassed by the jest. Diah, she was more a child than a woman grown. Rabbie shifted restlessly and caught Catriona’s eye. She gave him a very meaningful and slightly heated look.
He suppressed a sigh of tedium and looked at the bird again. The color in her cheeks was very high.
The butler returned with Catriona’s ale, at which point Miss Kent took a seat beside Catriona.
“How do you find Killeaven?” Rabbie asked, making some effort, he thought, although his voice was flat and emotionless, no doubt because he didn’t care what she thought of Killeaven.
“It’s...well, it’s bigger than I anticipated,” Miss Kent said, and again looked to Miss Holly. “I suppose...that is to say, perhaps we might make improvements to it?”
Was she asking him? “Pardon?”
Miss Kent looked in his direction—but at his feet. “Perhaps we might make some improvements to the house and the grounds.”
He didn’t care what she did to Killeaven. Burn it down for all he cared. “I donna really care.”
That earned him another heated look from his sister. “What my brother means is that it is up to you, Miss Kent. This is your house to do as you please, aye?”
He hadn’t meant that at all.
“Would you like to see it?” Miss Kent asked suddenly. She was not speaking to Rabbie, but to Catriona.
Catriona gulped down a bit of ale and said, “I should like it verra much, I would.” She stood.
Miss Kent and her mother rose almost as one. The three of them walked out of the room, Miss Kent suddenly jabbering. At the door, Catriona glanced back and motioned with her head for Rabbie to come along. He ignored her. He didn’t care about this house. What he cared about was Catriona’s unfinished ale. He walked to the settee and the small table where she’d set it down, picked it up and drained it. He put the empty glass down, folded his arms and turned to Miss Holly.
She was glaring at him.
“Aye, what, then?” he asked impatiently. She shook her head, as if the burden of explaining what, exactly, was too great. “You are a peculiar one,” Rabbie said irritably.
She watched him in silence.
“Tell me, then, is your charge capable of rational thought? Or must you do all of it for her?”
“I beg your pardon,” she said indignantly. “I don’t do any thinking for her.”
“No? Why, then, does she look to you before she answers any question put to her?”
“She is anxious,” Miss Holly said instantly. “And eager to impress you.”
He snorted. “Well, that’s no’ possible.”
“Is it likewise not possible for you to make her feel the least bit welcome?”
He jerked his head up at that bit of insolence. “You dare to instruct me, lass?” he asked incredulously.
“Someone ought to,” she said pertly.
In that moment, Rabbie felt something besides anger or despair—he felt stunned. He’d never in his life been addressed by a servant in such a manner. He didn’t know what game she was playing with him, but it was an unwinnable one. He casually moved to where she stood, standing close, towering over her. She was pretty in an exotic way, he decided. Her skin was flawless. Her lips were full and the color of new plums. And her brows, dark and full, were dipped into an annoying vee shape above those pretty hazel eyes sparkling with ire. “A wee bit of advice, lass,” he said, voice low as he took in the slight upturn of her nose and the strand of hair that had come undone and now draped across her smooth, creamy décolletage. “Donna think to shame me. It will no’ work. For one, I donna care what that wee mouse thinks of me, aye? For another, there is little anyone can do to me that’s no’ already been done, and been done worse.”
One her dark brows lifted in a manner that reminded him of a woman hearing a tale she did not believe.
“You donna care for me, then,” he allowed. “I donna care for you, either. But I will marry that lass, and if you continue on as you have in my presence, I will put you out on your lovely arse and pack you back to bloody old England. Do you understand me?” He was confident that would do it—that would make her quake in her festive little slippers.
But the maid surprised him with a smirk; she seemed almost amused by his threat. “Neither should you think to threaten me, sir. For there is little you can do to me that has not already been done, and been done worse.” She gave him a bit of a triumphant look and stepped around him, walking out of the room and leaving the faint scent of her perfume in her wake.
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