CHAPTER EIGHT

 

 

Chairs scraped as the two lasses scurried to the opposite end of the bar. Alexander’s black gaze locked on Sabella. He headed straight for her, forcing anyone in his path to cede ground.

“Oh, my,” she breathed.

When he reached her, he braced his hand on the table and lowered his head near hers. “It’s past seven.”

She glanced outside. It was? In summer, the sun didn’t set until nine or ten.

“Why havenae ye headed home yet?”

He smelled like pine resin and sunshine. She inhaled deeply, and a wee smile curved her lips. “I spent the day with Joan. She’s been such a help, Mr. MacPherson. I only have to learn ten receipts! Ten isn’t too many.”

His jaw flexed. He dragged a chair close to her and straddled it. “How much cider have ye had?”

She propped her chin on her hand. “Several cups. I lost count.”

“Bluidy hell, lass.”

“I might be a wee bit tipsy.”

“Aye. Ye might.”

“Were you working on Campbell’s house today?”

“How do ye ken about that?”

“Joan mentioned it. She doubts ye’ll finish by winter, but I think she’s wrong.”

His mouth quirked. “Why do ye think so?”

She eyed his shoulders, his powerful jaw, his dark, calculating eyes. “I just do. I don’t care what the other maids say. Your voice sounds nothing like a bear’s growl. Of course, I’ve never heard a bear growl, but your growl is more like an ocean, and you’re not a rabid badger. You’re just a bit out of sorts sometimes.” She leaned closer to whisper, “They told me about the folds. I shall try to remember.”

He glared toward the bar. Joan held up a whisky bottle. He shook his head then stood and helped Sabella to her feet. “I’m takin’ ye home, Duchess. Dinnae cast up yer accounts. My maid just finished laundering these trews.”

Outside, he lifted her onto his horse with the effortless strength that made her thighs tingle and her knees sweat. When he mounted behind her, flattened his palm across her belly, and murmured, “Steady, now,” her breath hitched at the sudden ache below her navel.

Perhaps she could bathe in the river after he went to sleep. What if he saw her from his bedchamber window? Drat and blast. Why did the thought quicken her pulse?

As the horse carried them south along the loch, warm sunlight and his strong, hard frame at her back softened Sabella into butter. She relaxed against him, resting her hand lightly on his forearm. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and the crisp black hair covering his muscles fascinated her fingertips.

Noting how yellowed his sleeve was, she winced. “I’ll wash this again tomorrow.” She traced the seam between his skin and the linen. “Though, it mightn’t come out any whiter. I can’t seem to find the trick of it.”

He grunted.

“Sadly, The Prudent Housekeeper’s Guide is of little help. I’m not even certain it’s written by a lady, let alone a housekeeper.”

Another grunt. His arm flexed as she petted the muscles near his wrist.

“The receipts are too vague to be useful. And laundering?” She snorted. “One page of instructions. One. Apart from the chapters about budgets and being fleeced at the market, the author offers very little that one couldn’t discover on one’s own. All she does is complain about maids seducing their male employers. I daresay, she’s either a scorned wife or a spurned man. Nothing else explains the vitriol.”

His forearm flexed in a captivating fashion.

“If I’d had more time with your former maids, perhaps they would have shared some tips. Joan’s were so very helpful.”

Silently, he guided the horse onto the road branching toward the east hills.

“And her range, Mr. MacPherson! It’s a marvelous design. The boiler. The efficiency. The ovens and steam apparatus. Have you considered installing something similar in your kitchen?”

“Aye.”

She frowned. “Why haven’t you?”

“Campbell’s farm burned to the ground, lass. His wife and the bairn she’s carryin’ will need a roof ere winter. That’s the priority.”

The ache in her middle expanded to squeeze her heart. Goodness, the selflessness of this man. He’d been abducted and shot trying to aid Broderick in Edinburgh. According to Annie’s letters, he’d then risked his recovery defending Campbell and his wife from a dangerous attacker. And now, he’d delayed finishing his own house to build one for his brother.

She sighed, her eyelids growing heavy as the horse rocked her against him. “The MacPhersons make splendid cider.”

An ocean-deep chuckle. “Ye should taste our whisky, Duchess.”

Grinning, she replied, “I probably shouldn’t.”

Her assessment was confirmed when they arrived home and he lifted her down. The world spun so wildly, she teetered into his arms. Rosemary, pine, and pleasantly earthy male skin filled her senses. Some kind of long, hard tool prodded her belly and ribs. It had prodded her hip earlier, too. Did he routinely carry a hammer home in his trousers?

“Oh, dear,” she mumbled against his chest. “I think I’m a wee bit more than tipsy. Sergeant Munro would be scandalized. He didn’t approve of drunkards.”

He braced her elbows and set her firmly away. “Go inside,” he ordered, his voice rough and threadbare. “Dinnae do aught but sit or lie down.”

She managed to weave her way into the kitchen. Then she remembered he likely hadn’t had dinner yet, because that was her job. But he’d told her to sit or lie down. Could she prepare dinner lying down? No. But she could slice a bit of ham, cheese, and bread while sitting down.

A perfect solution.

Lurching into the larder, she gathered her supplies and tried to recall where the ham had gone. In its place, she piled the last of the smoked brisket. Back in the kitchen, she selected her knife and began slicing. The bread was easy enough, though it came out dreadfully uneven. The brisket was harder and sliced too thick.

The cheese was her downfall.

Halfway through the sticky block, the knife ground to a halt. She needed to stand in order to apply proper pressure, she thought. Clumsily pushing to her feet, she braced her hips against the table and grasped the knife’s handle. Using both hands, she steadied the block and pressed down.

A sudden give. Flashing pain. Blood.

She shook her head, staring at the deep gash near her thumb’s knuckle. Between the cider, the heat, and the sight of blood dripping onto the table, Sabella’s vision began to waver like a wheatfield in a windstorm. The knife clattered. She reached for the table’s edge.

Somebody was shouting at a duchess. An enormous shadow sprinted across her vision. From behind her, a hand reached for her wrist.

And Sabella’s mind misfired.

Pain. Blood. A hard grip on her wrist. A furious male.

She scrambled backward, yanking hard and jerking from his hold. Cold, slithering fear coiled inside her chest. It squeezed and pressured. It made her shake.

Smaller, Sabella. Ye must stay quiet and small. Wait for his temper to pass.

He froze. So much bigger than she remembered. Darker, too. But he was blurry and wavering. She couldn’t see him clearly.

“Easy, lass.”

Sobs gathered, expanding her breastbone. “Ye promised, Kenneth. Ye promised not to leave any more bruises.” She stumbled and collided with the sideboard, cradling her wrist and remembering the pain. Vicious, throbbing pain. “I’ve been good. I did everything ye asked, didn’t I? I didn’t betray ye. Ye don’t have to hurt him.”

He was saying something, but she couldn’t hear him. The gasping sobs were too loud. Like wailing gusts, they were.

She held her breath and shut her eyes, but a wheezing keen escaped, high-pitched and pathetic. She rasped. She begged. “Pl-please.” She slid. “I’ll wear the long sleeves. I won’t tell anyone.” She huddled on the stone floor and folded her arms tightly against her body. Rocking. Rocking. “Ye don’t have to do it again. I’ll be good.”

His voice, low and calm, was as deep as oceans. “Sabella. Listen to me, lass.”

Her knees drew up to protect her body. She lowered her head and tucked in tight. “I’ll be good.”

“I’m Alexander.”

“I’ll be good.”

“Say my name, love. Alexander.”

Hard, grinding breaths. God, her hand hurt and her head was spinning. “A-Alexander.”

“Aye, that’s it, Duchess.” His voice softened to a hypnotic cadence. “All is well. Ye’ve had a bit too much cider. But all is well. Easy.”

She lifted her head. The world was still blurry and tilting like a skiff at sea, but he hadn’t lied. “Alexander?”

He crouched in front of her, his elbows propped loosely on his knees, his expression unreadable. “I need to lift ye up and bandage that hand.”

She glanced down. Blood had seeped into the cream tartan. Her throat swelled with nausea. “Oh, God.”

“Shh, lass. Look at me.”

She did. Dark eyes, not green. Calmness, not vicious rage. “Alexander.”

“Aye. Will ye let me touch ye?”

She nodded.

With motions that reminded her of smoke rising, he scooped her up and carried her into the scullery. There, he sat her on the washing bench and gently moved her injured hand beneath the tap. Cold water stung, but it also soothed.

“I—I stained yer plaid,” she whispered.

“It’ll come clean. Dinnae fash yerself.”

“I ruined yer supper.”

“I’ll manage, lass. Havenae starved yet.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t usually fall apart like this.”

His mouth twisted as he stared at her hand. A muscle near his eye twitched. “’Tis the drink. There’s a weaker cider in storage at the distillery. I’ll bring a cask home tomorrow.” He switched off the tap and collected a towel from a lower shelf. After binding up her wounded thumb, he scooped her into his arms again and carried her to her bed. Then he helped her undress down to her shift.

It felt as comforting as a ritual.

If she weren’t so weary, she’d thank him for taking care of her again. But she was already drifting off into a velvety gray mist and only managed to whisper, “Ye’re such a gentleman, Alexander MacPherson.”

Firm lips pressed against her forehead, and a voice as deep as an ocean murmured, “Not for much longer, Sabella Lockhart.”