And the thought of them touching him, touching his skin, made Max shiver.
When she launched into speech again, with that sing-song cadence familiar to anyone who’s had to explain something to someone else, he forced his attention back up to her lips.
Which didn’t help the state of his trousers, frankly.
“So, Machara—sorry, Baroness Oliphant’s—first husband was Baron Oliphant, the most recent one, I mean. Which makes sense, because it’s not as if she’d be married to one of the dead ones—” She cut herself off and shook her head at her own rambling words, before continuing. “Never mind. Her first husband’s father gambled most of the estate away, then turned the manor house into The Inn”—Max could hear the capital letters—“and it’s become a well-known establishment. Baroness Oliphant is quite proud of the fact.”
Max had to chuckle. “It’s hard enough to keep everyone straight without throwing in titles too.”
“I ken it! Everyone’s named Mrs. Oliphant, have ye noticed? The cook, the baker, and of course, the teacher’s wife.”
“Exactly! And I can’t keep all the titles straight: lord this and laird that and everyone’s a lady! I mean, the ladies are at least, that is, the ones who aren’t a missus!”
She was grinning right along with him as she scooped up a basket, looking as if she were preparing to leave the workshop. “I kenned I liked ye; an American without any interest in lords and ladies!”
“Well, I’m sure they’re quite nice.” He realized he was feeling ten feet tall. Why? Because he was flirting with her, or because she’d just complimented him? “But it seems as though everyone’s got four titles, and they’re impossible to keep track of. And sometimes the gentlemen go by one title—like, their names—but their official title is something else!”
Thank the Lord Roland had told him to call him by his given name, because Max couldn’t keep things straight otherwise.
“I ken it!” She stepped closer to the door—and to him—with the basket on her hip. “Our laird is an earl, did ye ken? We dinnae stand on ceremony here in the Highlands, so he’s mostly kenned as Laird Oliphant. But there’s a number of other titles in there too. Besides, earls are as common as sheep here in Scotland.”
Max had to chuckle again at that. “I hardly think that’s true.”
“Och, well, maybe it was a bit of an exaggeration. We do have a lot of sheep.”
“That you do.”
As she slid past him—tantalizingly close, close enough he caught a whiff of her intriguing scent—he saw her basket was filled with rags soiled from oil. Was she taking them to be washed, or did she do the washing herself?
“I’ve enjoyed meeting ye, Mister…?”
When she trailed off, he realized what she was asking. “Oh! No, not mister.” His father had always insisted on being called Mr. DeVille, and Max had hated how formal it sounded. “I’m Max. Just Max.”
When he offered his hand instinctively, she seemed surprised. Was he supposed to bow or something? The rules here seemed different, but she wasn’t a lady, she was a serving girl. They were just two normal people, weren’t they?
But then her lips curled up into a smile and she took his hand. He had to stop himself from sucking in a startled breath at the warmth, the spark, which jumped between them.
It reminded him of their first touch, when he’d helped her pick up the spilled mugs.
And another memory tugged at him, just out of reach. He wanted to know what else this touch reminded him of, but he couldn’t concentrate right now, not with her so close, and her hand still in his.
“Well, Just Max, I’m Ember,” she said softly, peering up at him through her lashes, as her lips curled mischievously now. “And it’s verra nice to meet ye.”
Ember.
With that, she slipped out of the room, leaving him standing there with a tingling palm and a big grin on his face.
Ember.
His heart was singing her name, which sounded impossible, but was still true.
Ember! Ember! Ember!
Her touch and her smile made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t expected. Was this how Dmitri and Vincenzo, and Gordy and Ian, and all of his other friends back home had felt when they’d met the women they were going to marry?
Because Max felt as though he’d been hit between the eyes by some kind of spell or something. And he just couldn’t stop repeating her name in his mind, couldn’t stop seeing the smiles she’d given him.
Despite their conversation, he only knew two things about her, but they were enough: Her name was Ember, and that smile, right before she’d left, had definitely been her flirting with him.
* * *
“Why are ye smiling, girl? Ye’ve been walking around with yer head in the clouds for the last two days. Dinnae think I havenae noticed.”
Shite.
Ember schooled her expression and turned to face her stepmother. “I’m happy, milady.”
“Clearly.” Machara sniffed. “Were ye humming? Who hums as she folds linens?”
“Only those with addled brains,” Ember murmured under her breath.
“What?”
Finishing the sheet she was folding—and mentally cursing at the acrobatics required to fold a sheet by herself—Ember tossed it atop the pile and shrugged at her stepmother. “So I’m smiling and humming. It offends nae one.” Mainly because she was relegated to duties which didn’t put her into much contact with the guests, so no one saw her anyway. “It matters no’.”
“Nay, but it’s suspicious.” Machara peered at her. “Why are ye so happy?”
Likely, “Because I flirted with a handsome guest and he looked as if he wanted to kiss me and we’ve each searched the other out a few times in the last few days to flirt some more,” wouldn’t go over well, Ember thought fast.
“Vanessa told such beautiful stories of the ball, milady.” There. That made her sound just pitiful enough Machara would surely appreciate it. “I’m enjoying imagining it.” Like a complete
