Love in the Time of a Highland Laird (A Laird for All Time Book 3) by Angeline Fortin (whitelam books .TXT) 📗

doors to the dining room opened then with a grainy grind of wood and hinge. Al jerked away from him as the old man who’d been manning the library doors earlier stepped in. Drawing in a deep breath as if he meant to speak, he let it out with a low whistle. His shoulders drooped and he scratched his head.

“Archie?” Keir prompted irritably, withdrawing his hand. “Did ye need something?”

“Aye, sir,” the old man said. A dramatic pause followed before Archie wrinkled his nose and frowned. “Nay, sir.”

A second later the doors closed again, more gently than they were opened. Al shared look with Keir before breaking down into a light chuckle. He did not appear amused. “Well, that was…”

The doors banged open once more. And again there stood Archie proudly scratching at his behind through his kilt.

“Aye, Archie?”

“Aye, laddie. Lady—”

“Oh, there you are, Keir!”

A plump, but lovely woman in her late thirties sailed through the door around poor Archie, cutting him off. She looked like she’d leapt off the screen of Vanity Fair. She was gowned—the only word Al could think of to credit the flamboyance of her dress—in a pink satin dress with a heavily embroidered stomacher that matched the underskirt showing beneath the parted skirt. The edges were trimmed in neat pleats of satin ribbon. An overabundance of lace flowed from the elbow-length bell sleeves, covering her forearms. She was bedecked with several long strings of pearls and wore an ostrich feather poking out of an elaborately upswept hairdo towering above her head. The skirt stood out from her hips, nearly a foot on each side.

1746, Keir had said. It did explain the clothes.

She seemed overdone to Al’s eyes but also fit seamlessly in that gilded dining room with its handsome, richly-garbed master sitting at the head of the table.

She felt positively dowdy now in her borrowed plain blue dress when she’d felt ridiculously dressed up before.

He rose to his feet as the woman glided up the length of the long table. “Ceana, when did ye get here?”

“Days ago!” she drawled with a flourish of her hand. “I’d been wondering where you’d gotten to when you didn’t join us in the dining room for supper.”

Al frowned. Wasn’t this the dining room?

Her frown deepened when the woman halted, pinning Al with an odd look as if she’d just noticed her. “Oh, you must be the one Maeve was telling me about. Tell me, did you really kill our brother?”

“Ceana.” Keir’s tone carried a hint of warning.

“What? I’m only asking because she doesn’t look at all strong enough to have overcome him.”

“And she dinnae. She had naught tae do wi’ his disappearance.” He lied wonderfully, Al thought. Cool as a cucumber. “She just…” He shot her an arch look. “She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Ceana didn’t appear to be entirely convinced. “Then where is Hugh?”

Nor did she seem overly distressed by her brother’s disappearance. His own sister. Keir displayed far more concern.

He only shrugged. “Taken prisoner? Many were, including perhaps my father.”

The woman’s expression softened and she reached out to lay a hand on his arm. “I’d almost forgotten. Have you had any news?”

“None as yet.” The response was clipped, inviting no further comment. “And Braemore?”

She flicked her wrist dismissively. “He’s scurried off to his hunting lodge on the Orkney’s. No one will ever put in the effort to follow him there. Honestly, he may never return. I may just have to stay awhile.”

He grimaced and turned to Al. “Ceana, may I introduce Allorah Maines? Al, this is Lady Ceana Sinclair, Countess of Braemore. Hugh’s older sister.”

A countess? She was a bit awed by the announcement.

“Oh, not much older,” she chided, dropping into the chair across from Al and studying her thoroughly. “Maines? English? No wonder Maeve wants to chew her up.”

“Nay,” Keir was quick to answer, explaining to Al, “Maeve’s only son was killed last year on the advance into Derby.”

She stared back blankly. Advance?

“Into England,” he added.

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” She offered her sympathies to them both. “To answer your question, I’m American.”

For that, she received the same blank stares in return. “I come from America. The United States. Across the ocean?” she added helpfully.

“The colonies?” Keir said at last. “Ye’re a colonist?”

“Um, I guess you could say that.”

“Is that where…?” He broke off, frustrated.

“How did you happen to get all the way over here?” Ceana asked curiously. “Just in time to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Al cast about for an acceptable answer but Keir came to her rescue. “Now, Ceana, allow the lass tae retire tae her rooms. She’s already endured a difficult interrogation this night.”

Ceana’s lips quirked. “Oh, aye, I could see just how terribly you were torturing her before. Very well, I’ll let her be for now, but be warned, I’m insatiably curious.” Her eyes slipped across the table. “Oh, how lovely! Are you not going to eat such a fine entrée? ‘Tis much more appetizing than the partridge that was served up on our table. Do you mind?”

As Ceana shifted over to his chair and took up his knife and fork, Al looked to him for direction.

He merely shrugged. The moment between them, whatever it had been about to become, was gone.

Perhaps for the best. Perhaps not.

“I will return to my room. If you don’t mind.”

“Nae a’tall—”

But Ceana cut in, glancing up from the salmon. “Nonsense. You should join us in the drawing room, Miss Maines. We’ll want to learn all about you. Do you play at all?”

Play what?

“Thank you, but it’s been a long day. I think I’ll just go to bed, if you don’t mind.”

“But—”

He lifted a hand, silencing his cousin. “Of course, I’ll hae Archie show ye the way.”

“Do you think he’ll remember better than I?” she asked, gaining a flash of a smile for her jest. “I’ll make my own way just fine, I’m sure.”

“Verra well.”

Keir produced another of those charming bows as Al turned away, but called