Whatever it was, Machara wasn’t pleased. She raised her hand to gesture to Bonnie, who looked almost relieved when her mother motioned her toward the front entrance. As Vanessa was pulled away, she glanced over her shoulder at the knight, who still seemed amused by the whole thing.
Were…were they leaving? Ember’s heart began to pound in her chest. If they were leaving, that meant they would be back at the inn soon, and her stepmother would discover she wasn’t there!
Her mind already frantically calculating, she stepped away from the cowboy, who was still watching the musicians. If Machara and her daughters had to wait for the carriage to be brought around—and their cloaks, although it was warm outside—then they’d be here a bit longer.
Ember might have a chance of beating them home.
But only if she ran!
Mr. DeVille turned to her. “I’d like to dance with you again, if you don’t—” He cut himself off abruptly when he got a good look at her. “Why are you shaking your head at me?”
“I’m sorry,” Ember said quickly, genuinely meaning it. “I have to go!”
“But—”
She didn’t have time to hear him out. Instead, her heart already frantic, she turned and hurried for the back entrance, hoping she wasn’t making too much of a commotion. Once out of the ballroom, she gathered her skirts in her hands—thank goodness they were cut high in the front, so she didn’t have to worry about tripping—and began to run.
Taking the back stairs two at a time, she almost didn’t hear the footsteps behind her.
“Wait! Please! What’s the rush? Miss? Miss!”
It was the cowboy, following her!
Blast!
She didn’t have time to explain to him her hurry, much less who she was and why she wasn’t supposed to be at the ball in the first place. Rounding the corner to the kitchens, she ducked her head and flew past the cook and her helpers.
And Mr. DeVille still followed. “Miss! Can I help you?”
Such a gentleman!
Her cloak was still hanging by the back door, and she snagged it on her way past. But the steps leading into the kitchen garden were shrouded in darkness, and she had to slow her descent. In doing so, her left shoe slid from her foot.
She was already three steps down when she realized it and was turning and pick it up when Mr. DeVille burst out of the backdoor. “Miss!”
Double blast!
No time to explain, and no time to go back for the shoe. Besides, she’d be faster without it. Without stopping, Ember bent and slipped the other shoe from her right foot, then grasping it tightly in her hand, bolted into the darkness on stockinged feet.
She had to be home before Machara discovered where she’d been, or she’d be scrubbing the privy for weeks, or worse!
Only once during her flight did she glance over her shoulder. She caught a glimpse of Mr. DeVille, in his outrageous cowboy hat, standing silhouetted on the backsteps, holding her other shoe in his hand.
Chapter 3
“Good morning, sisters. May I call this meeting to order?”
“It worked! I cannae believe it worked!”
“Of course it worked, Broca. Narrative causality, you know. Mr. DeVille is absolutely intrigued by his mysterious dancing partner and will have to track her down and try the shoe on every lady he meets.”
“Are ye certain, Evangeline? That seems like such a silly way to find a wife.”
“Are you questioning narrative causality, Willa?”
“Quiet, both of ye! Seonag, can ye tune this thing any better? The picture needs to be sharper!”
“W’fer?”
“Because it’s all blurry, and that willnae do, because he’s in the bathtub! Hurry! I can see something poking out!”
“Those are bubbles, Grisel.”
* * *
“Ye’re looking better than I’m feeling.”
At Roland’s words, Max scrambled for a towel, but none was in reach. “Don’t you know how to knock?” he growled, instead cupping his hands in front of himself under the water.
“I did,” Roland declared cheerfully, as he plopped down on one of the benches in the bathing chamber and eyed Max in the tub. “Was yer head underwater?”
“Possibly.” Max had to admit that having a separate chamber for bathing—with real, hot running water—seemed a major improvement over his father’s house. He might’ve spent some time submerged, just for the fun of it. “What do you want?”
“Tsk-tsk. That’s no’ verra welcoming.”
“I’m lying here in rapidly cooling water, holding my own genitalia. How do you expect me to act?”
Roland made a show of leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and craning his head sideways, as if trying to catch a glimpse under the bubbles. “I suppose ye’d rather someone else hold yer—what did ye call yer bollocks? Och, aye—yer genitalia.”
Max glared. “You’re not offering, I hope?”
Chuckling, Roland dropped his head, then sucked in a breath and cupped his forehead. “Ow.”
“Headache?” It was still early enough in the day, was it possible Roland had overindulged the night before?
“Too much brandy. It doesnae sit as smoothly in my stomach as good Highland whisky, aye?”
Max had to agree with that. “I know what you mean. I had a bit too much myself.”
“I ken it. That’s why ye’re currently enjoying the hospitality of one of Newfincy Castle’s most recently installed bathtubs. It’s nice, aye?”
Allowing himself to relax a bit, Max rested his head against the edge of the tub, but didn’t un-cup his hands, just in case Roland could see through the bubbles. “I’ll admit you Scots know how to live life. Now don’t get me wrong, we’ve got some nice bathing chambers back in America—I’m sure your cousin Andrew Prince can afford one—but I’ve just never experienced it, and I’m glad I accepted the opportunity to enjoy it.”
“Ye mean ye were just too drunk to make it back to the inn last night, so ye gave into my nagging.”
“Possibly.” When Max shrugged, a bit of the water spilled over the side of the tub, and he resisted the urge to wince.
Here in the Highlands, he was allowed to make messes—and demands—without feeling
