Livie hesitated, but after a long moment, she nodded and scooted out from under the desk. “Verra well, then. Let’s do it.”
“Come,” Amelia said, rising and extending a hand to her charge. “Our campaign begins with gingerbread.”
Chapter Ten
Blair contemplated the cold, empty hearth in the drawing room—what he’d mentally begun calling the great hall, since it felt so medieval.
He would have risen long ago to lay a fire to cut the chill, but Scone had installed himself on Blair’s lap the instant he’d lowered himself into one of the overstuffed armchairs, and the damned beast wouldn’t let him up. Every time he tried to stand, the cat would sink his claws into Blair’s thighs in protest.
It left him with little else to do than stew. Blast this never-ending snow, which would undoubtedly delay Cullingham—and Blair’s own departure. He needed to get away from Glenrose, away from the Highlands.
And away from Miss Amelia Harlow.
Bloody hell, he’d nearly kissed her. And despite the complete madness of such a desire, he still longed to taste those soft, rosy lips.
Something about this place was addling his wits. Perhaps it was the sharp clarity of the air or the way the starkly beautiful landscape stirred memories of the past. Or perhaps it was being forced into such close quarters with a vibrant, steadfast, all-too-perceptive governess who kept stealing into his thoughts.
Whatever the case, he needed to get out of here—and fast. The sooner Cullingham arrived with the paperwork, the sooner his plan for the estate could be set into motion. Then he could retreat back to Edinburgh, knowing he’d done his duty to Glenrose and Livie.
The darker truth, the truth he didn’t want to admit, was that he was no longer certain he could return to Edinburgh with a clear conscience. Amelia had planted a seed of doubt about whether he was choosing the right course. Some sentimental part of him wanted to believe her passionately-spoken defense of tradition and perseverance even in the face of these changing, tumultuous times.
And damn it all, he wanted to save her hopes of one day opening a schoolhouse for the crofters’ children. Her earnest enthusiasm was infectious, making him long to be better, nobler—for her. Nor did he relish the thought of facing the hurt in her gentle brown eyes at the destruction his plans would wreak.
Blast him, he couldn’t think like this—with his heart instead of his head. This hesitancy had been his father’s downfall. He would not let it be his. He would act decisively to preserve Livie’s inheritance, and that was that. No foolish sentimentality—even delivered by a bonny pair of chestnut eyes and two enticingly full lips—would deter him.
He must have drawn taut as his mind had churned over such thoughts, for Scone gave a discontented growl and began to turn circles over Blair’s thighs. The beast was no doubt preparing to dig in should Blair think of attempting to stand again. The cat’s tail thwapped him across the face several times before the cursed creature settled once more.
Just as Blair was about to upbraid the tomcat with his most scathing oaths, he caught the scent of something divine—warm and spicy and a little sweet. The smell wafted from the door leading to the kitchen.
Without thinking, he straightened from his chair—and earned a yowl and the deep pierce of Scone’s claws. This time, though, Blair wouldn’t be bested by the wee hellion. With a grunt of pain, he pried the cat from his thighs and dropped him unceremoniously into the now-empty chair, then strode toward the kitchen door, his mouth watering.
Voices drifted from the other side of the wall. He assumed they came from the cook or her helpers, but then he recognized the gentle English timbre of Amelia’s voice, followed by Livie’s barely refined Highland burr.
Blair froze, suddenly uncertain if he should intrude. They must have taken the servants’ stairs that led to the back of the kitchen, for he certainly would have noticed them pass through the great hall. Perhaps they’d been avoiding him.
But then Amelia laughed—a warm, throaty sound that shot straight through his gut—and his feet carried him forward of their own volition.
Inside, he found Amelia and Livie standing behind a worn wooden table, their sleeves rolled up and their forearms covered with flour.
They turned to him in unison, Livie stiffening and Amelia slowly meeting his gaze.
“What’s all this?”
He silently cursed himself for his brusque tone, but Amelia only smiled faintly. A swipe of flour sat on her cheek, as if she’d brushed back a lock of her thick sable hair and grazed her skin in the process.
“We are making gingerbread.”
That caught him off-guard. “Why?”
“Because it’s almost Christmas!” Livie piped up.
“It’s a little tradition we have,” Amelia added, dusting off her hands and grabbing a thick rag. “I brought the custom with me from my hometown.”
“Drayton, in Shropshire.”
She blinked in surprise, pink blooming behind the flour on her cheek. “Yes, you remembered. The town claims to be the English home of gingerbread. My first Christmas in the Highlands, I showed Livie how to make it, and we’ve baked it at this time of year ever since.”
Before Blair could form a response to that charming tidbit, Amelia turned to the ancient-looking brick oven that had been built on one side of the kitchen’s massive wood-burning hearth. Opening the inlaid iron door, she plucked a large, flat tray from the oven with her rag-swaddled hand.
The delicious scents of ginger and treacle blasted Blair as she set the tray on the wooden worktable. The dark brown treat filled the whole tray in a steaming, uncut
