Page 6 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
“Coffee, Mr. MacLeod?”
“No morning is complete without it.” Excellent food and servants who knew his name—he could get used to this. His mood improving, he took a seat at the table.
“I’m Polly,” the maid said as dark brew splashed into his cup. “I’m to tell you that Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford will be up shortly.”
“Up?”
“Yes, sir. She’s in the cellar.”
“But you’re letting her out for good behavior.”
Polly giggled. “No sir. She’s checking on her latest batch of ale.”
“The lady of the house brews ale? Have I died and gone to heaven?”
Polly giggled again and migrated to the second cup on the table. “Well, you are one floor above River Eden Brewery. Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford has big plans for her business, she does. But you know that, sir.”
Did he?Hairs on Rory’s nape prickled. He flooded his throat with coffee, all the better to keep his mouth shut. There were only two place settings at the table, his and the fine silver resting on a folded cloth at the head of the table. Mr. Throckmorton-Rutherford’s seat, he presumed.
Where was his wife supposed to sit?
A humming Polly went to work, coaxing a lively flame from a log with an iron poker. Joyful chatter pitched on the other side of a closed door—the kitchen, by the song of clinking dishes. Rory jabbed fork and knife into a juicy sausage and sawed.
Everything was all so…cozy.
Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford kept a decent home, if one liked thatsnug bee in a boxfeeling.Women.They had weapons galore to snare a man, and Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford had laid traps aplenty this morning: a pleasant home, a crackling fire, good food, and don’t forget, her pretty face and subtle flair with words. She’d been a little rusty at first when flirting last night.
If the gentlewoman were his wife, he’d shower her with flirtation. And gifts. Women liked gifts.
Not that he was the marrying kind.
He speared a bite of sausage. His next question would be a shot across the bow, but what was life without a risk or two?
“Is Mr. Throckmorton-Rutherford also in the cellar?”
Polly whipped around, horrified. “I should think not. He’s been properly buried in a London graveyard.”
Rory chewed his meat slowly. So, the maid thought he was asking if Mr. Throckmorton-Rutherford was buried in the cellar? Interesting.
If he was a betting man, and he often was, he’d wager the maid assumed he had fair knowledge of her mistress. Delicacy was in order, and despite his brutish size, he was quite capable of maneuvering ticklish situations.
Thewhooshof an opening door saved him.
Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford swept in with a vivacious, “Goodness Polly. Aren’t you joining the others for church this morning? They’re waiting for you by the oak tree.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Rory sized up Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford while she found a plate at the sideboard. Prettier than he remembered, she was at the heart of this Gordian knot. Draped in dark blue wool. Her skin, finer than a porcelain dish. Her hair, shades of red.Shades of red?He could do better than that. Though he wore homespun breeches, he was no clumperton. Her hair deserved a rich description.
Was it scarlet laced with amber? No.
Her hair was a sunset of hues, he decided, while sipping coffee. Russet, gold, copper, streaks of sienna. A rich color, sienna, it reminded him of Spain and the joy he felt when traveling there.
One lock fell like shimmering trim on her shoulder. There’d be no touching the widow’s hair. The maid caught him staring at her mistress and angled the iron poker at him. A warning.
Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford must’ve sensed trouble. She twisted around, holding her plate elegantly. “Go on, Polly. You have an entire day to enjoy yourself. If I were you, I’d not waste another minute.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
