it is not important to him.”
“I’ve seen people act in that manner before,” Fiona said, thinking that she did it herself.
At that moment the door opened behind them. Byron froze and then he turned slowly, his eyes bright and wary.
Chapter 13
Fiona had been looking forward to the next act in the French farce that their kidnapping had become, but rather than Marilla, one of the laird’s men pushed his way through the door, a tray balanced on his shoulder.
“Brought you buttered crumpets,” he said with a grunt. “And mulled cider.” He walked over to the fire and put the tray down on a hassock. Then he set a lidded silver pitcher on the floor close to the hearth. “Leave it here so it’ll stay hot,” he ordered.
“Thank you,” Fiona said. “We will.”
He straightened, caught sight of Byron, and scowled. “Does the laird know that you’re in here?”
“No, and you’ll not tell him.” The words were delivered with a hard tone that seemed to make an impression on the man.
“Wooing!” he said, and turned and spat into the fire. “Time was a man dinna have to do this kind of wooing. Groveling for money, more like.” His gaze moved to Fiona. “Begging from women who has the money. It’s unnatural.” He collected her cold teapot and headed for the door.
Byron strode after him. “You didn’t see me here,” he stated.
The old Scotsman snorted and stomped off.
Oddly enough, that snort made Byron smile. Fiona decided that she didn’t understand him. He was unnerved by Marilla’s advances, but amused by a retainer’s flat rudeness. As she watched, he not only closed the door but turned the key.
“Is that truly necessary?” Fiona inquired.
“If you’re asking whether I’d prefer to avoid the experience of having another strange breast fall into my hand like an overripe plum, the answer is yes.”
Perhaps she should say something to defend her sister. But an overripe plum didn’t sound very nice.
“What if it weren’t a
“I am not familiar with any woman’s breasts,” Byron replied, walking back to the sofa. “At the moment the world is full of strange breasts. Though I must say, this is a very improper subject.”
“You
“There are better things a man could do with his time than grovel at a woman’s feet,” Byron remarked.
With a start, Fiona realized that he was looking at
A dangerous smile.
For a moment her heart hiccupped, but she got hold of herself. “Right,” she said briskly. “You may have one of my crumpets, and then I would ask to be left in peace. I don’t have much left to read in this novel, and I’m keen to finish it.”
“If you force me to leave now, I shall starve,” he complained, picking up a linen napkin from the tray.
“Only because you’re afraid to go into the drawing room for tea.”
He reached a powerful hand toward the crumpets. Devil take the man, his limbs were probably as beautifully knit as his fingers. “More cautious than afraid,” he said. “Have you noticed how much worse the storm has grown today?”
She didn’t even glance at the windows. She’d lived in the Highlands all her life, and she knew the howl of the wind. “It will worsen through tomorrow evening, I should guess. You are now in the Highlands proper, Lord Oakley.”
“My name is Byron,” he said, for the third or fourth time, as he handed her the napkin and a crumpet.
The incongruity of this man being named Byron flashed across her mind. Byron was a poet, a man who wrote of love, midnight, and a woman’s smile. The earl, though, was of a different character altogether.
He obviously read her expression. “I have no connection whatsoever to that paltry rhymester Lord Byron. The name has been in my family for generations.”
“You’re not a poet, then?” She smiled at him, acknowledging that the mere notion was ridiculous. In fact, his christening had to be some sort of jest on destiny’s part.
