He cleared his throat and reached for the design, his fingers brushing against hers as he did so. Instead of putting the plans away, he stared down at them for a long moment.
“I’ve always wanted a little house like this for myself. Until I came to the Highlands, I’d lived my whole life in my father’s house. I’m ready for a chance to get out from under his thumb and make a name for myself.”
Ember nodded. “I ken exactly what ye mean.”
His expression cleared into another easy-going smile as he slid the design into a folder on the table. “You live with your overbearing father, do you?”
She chuckled. “Sort of. I am hoping to be able to make my own way in the world soon.”
When his fingers brushed against hers, she startled, but didn’t hesitate. She clasped her hand around his, shivering at the electrical sensation, and held his gaze.
“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” he whispered. “Finding where exactly you belong?”
Her fingers tightened around his. “Aye, tis, Max.” Right then, if someone had asked, she’d have said she belonged with him.
He swallowed. “I’m beginning to suspect figuring out a future might be more fun, more satisfying, with someone else.”
Was he saying what she thought he was saying? Unconsciously, Ember leaned a little closer to him. “Ye might be right.”
Just as he opened his mouth to reply, a call came from down the corridor. “Ember! Where are ye, girl? Have ye finished changing those sheets?”
With a sigh, Ember sank back on her heels once more, and he winced.
“Baroness Oliphant, huh? I’ve heard her calling for you at all hours—seems as though she treats you worse than the other servants.”
“Och, aye,” Ember began, with an exasperated roll of her eyes, before stepping away from him. “I’m her own personal slave.”
He sucked in a breath on that word, and her gaze flitted back to his.
It was impossible to miss his wince, or the way his expression shuttered as she stepped toward the dirty linens and scooped them up.
“Ember!” came the screech from down the corridor, and Ember sighed once more.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, meeting Max’s eyes, although she wasn’t exactly sure why she was apologizing.
His chin jerked in acknowledgement, but he didn’t say anything as she hurried out the door, heading for the laundry closet, and feeling as if she’d somehow ruined something very special.
Chapter 5
“When is he getting the shoe? He hasnae tried the shoe on her yet.”
“Willa is correct, ladies. This story has taken a detour somewhere. Mr. DeVille has spent quite a lot of time with our Ember, but not because he’s looking for the mysterious lady from the ball.”
“Yer ‘narrative causality’ isnae helping much this go-round, is it?”
“Oh, be quiet, Broca. Besides, tonight she’s going to Oliphant Engraving, which is where he’s been keeping the shoe, remember? In his office.”
“Ooh, which means this is the good part, eh?”
“What do you mean, Grisel?”
“This is the halfway point, right? That means this is where they finally kiss. No more dilly-dallying!”
“Finally. Push the ball over this way, would ye? I want to see this part!”
* * *
There was someone in the engraver’s studio.
That in itself wasn’t unusual of course, but it was after suppertime, and Max had thought he was the last person in the building. He’d brought his own lunch, but had eaten it late, which allowed him to work later in the evening.
He was hunched over his desk in the manager’s office on the second floor, when he realized he was hearing the sound of machinery below him. Which was odd, because everyone else—including the foreman, Lawrence Oliphant—had left for home nearly an hour ago.
Maybe Lawrence had returned to finish up a project. One thing Max was really coming to admire was the devotion of the men who worked for Oliphant Engraving; this wasn’t just a job to them, it was art.
While this place was sometimes referred to as a factory, it was so much more than that. Sure, there was the big, well-ventilated machine shop downstairs, where burly men in thick aprons poured molten metal into molds or beat sheets of it into submission. The receivers and plaques which would eventually grace custom Prince firearms were lovingly crafted right here in this building. The lathes, milling machines, and drill presses downstairs were used to ensure each piece fit the exact specifications.
Once the gun component was perfect, it was handed over to the engravers. These were the serious men up in the engravers’ studio, who sat at large desks with bright lights in front of big windows. They each had access to tools from the company, but most preferred their own and would carry the scribes and gravers and sharpeners back and forth to work each day in little black cases. It took various lengths of time to complete each project, but whoever ended up with that firearm would know the Oliphant engravers had given it their closest attention.
Max was a little in awe of them and their skill. Apparently, sometime in the middle ages, the brother of one of the lairds—a Duncan Oliphant—had been a famous silversmith. He’d set up a school for the art right here on Oliphant Land, and for generations, everyone in the Highlands had known the best jewelry came from the Oliphants. The skill had been passed from father to son, and when Oliphant Engraving was created, the manager had a whole pool of applicants and was easily able to hire the best of the best.
Of course, now that manager was Max. And though he felt as if he had a pretty good handle on things, he was still finding himself learning something new each day.
Such as the fact that, apparently, some of the engravers returned to work in the evening.
Sighing, he resisted the urge to bounce up and see what was going on. He still had work to do. The Oliphants had been running the business as best they could, but it was no wonder Andrew had sent him here;
