Page 21 of Taming the Scot
She squinted at him, her thoughts unreadable. “Thank ye.” Her voice was so soft, almost lost, and gone from it was all the fight she’d been giving him since she’d first arrived on his doorstep.
Bronwen cleaned her face, then stood, the cravat clutched in her hands. She was so tiny compared to him. He wanted to scoop her up and hold her against him. To soothe her and tell her all would be well. If only he knew what he was soothing her about.
“I’ll see that this is washed before it’s returned to ye, Captain. I do appreciate your kindness. Truly.”
“It was my pleasure, Miss Holmes. And I’ll see about making sure I’ve a handkerchief. Our lessons seem to be endless.”
“I’d give ye a passing grade on this one.” She smiled. “For even though ye failed to have a handkerchief to offer, ye did a verra gentlemanly act in sacrificing your cravat.”
“Alas, if we were at a ball, I’d have to excuse myself and go home, as I would now be seen as improperly dressed.”
The pinched look she wore so well faltered, and he caught a glimpse of humor in her that he wanted to hold onto for a while.
“Why do I get the feeling ye’ve been in that situation before? And that ye would no’ mind having to leave?” she said.
Euan laughed. “Ye would no’ be wrong in either case.”
She shook her head. “Best be careful, Captain. I think that instead of manners and etiquette, ye solely need lessons in decorum and propriety.”
He shrugged. “I said as much in the advert. But alas, I’ve made it this far in life, have I no’?”
“And at aged…” she drawled out in question.
“Twenty-eight.”
Miss Holmes blew a low whistle, and he got the feeling she was once more goading him, and he rather enjoyed it.
“At the grand old age of twenty-eight, ye’ve hired yourself a governess.”
Euan grinned. “Ah, touché.”
“I hope to see ye tomorrow morning at breakfast,” she said, the humor disappearing as she tugged on that stiff mask. “Bright and early. We’ll get a head start on our lessons.”
Euan chose to ignore her dismissal. “How do ye like your eggs?” he asked.
There was an annoying, dizzy feeling in his stomach at the prospect of dining with her so early, before his sisters had awakened and he could have her all to himself. Och, but he disgusted himself. Bronwen—nay, Miss Holmes—was here for one reason only, to teach him to be a better man. So he could get a wife. And she was not the conquest he sought.
“My eggs?” She cocked her head and wiped her mouth again with the cravat. “How do ye mean? From a chicken or a quail?”
Euan bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing because she seemed serious. “Well, that is one way to put it. But I meant for breakfast. I’ll have Cook prepare them any way ye like.”
“I like them the usual way.” She looked at him as if he were mad, then made a move toward him.
He suspected she expected him to move out of the way. But he didn’t want to be done with her so quickly. Here she was once more giving him answers that weren’t answers at all. “Is there an unusual way?” he asked.
“I suppose there is if ye’re asking me how I like them.” But before he could clarify, she succeeded in pushing past him and out into the garden, her slippers crunching on the gravel. “Good night, Captain.”
Euan refrained from following, even though every cell in his body yearned to do so. Instead, he watched her hurry toward the castle and disappear inside. She was a peculiar creature. And he was drawn to her in a way he shouldn’t be.
He wondered if perhaps his cook would know what “the usual way” meant when it came to breakfast eggs.
6
When Bronwen arrived at the breakfast room just past dawn, it was to find the sideboard filled with eggs prepared a half a dozen ways, and only one she recognized—hardboiled. Her mind was immediately swung back to the gazebo the night before when the captain had asked how she liked her eggs…
What in blazes?
“I told Cook to prepare them the usual way, and this is what she came up with.” Euan strolled up beside her, dressed in a pressed shirt, kilt and frockcoat. He stared down at the very unusual display. “We’ve got scrambled.” He pointed to a plate full of mashed up eggs that literally did look as though they’d been scrambled, then the hard-boiled eggs, which was how she had them at home all her life. “Quiche,” he said of eggs baked in a crust with other bits of things. “Fried eggs, omelets, poached, and the favorite of mine when I was a child—egg in a hole.” The latter was an egg cooked in the center of a piece of toast.
