“I am an itinerant ne’er-do-well.” He lowered his voice. “It pays much better.”
She smirked and took a bite of her biscuit.
Jonathan excelled at this kind of conversation. Amusing, frivolous, superficial. It was easy to be likable and charming when there was no risk of exposing one’s true self.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not using these biscuits to woo me, are you?”
He shook his head solemnly. “Confirmed bachelor, madam. My work takes me everywhere, which means no staying long enough to develop warm feelings.”
She arched a brow with obvious skepticism. “Heartless cad, are you?”
He nodded.
“So heartless, you brought three dozen biscuits to me for no reason, and gave away an equal amount?”
“Er,” he said. “How did you...”
“The bakery is just across the street. I saw Mrs. Griffiths step outside with the package. She did not appear to have expected your gift.”
“It wasn’t for her. It was for the children. They were suffering a biscuit deficiency.”
“Mm-hm.” She moved her empty plate aside and cleaned her hands with a pitcher and towel. “You may go. Leave the biscuits.”
He didn’t move.
She sighed. “All right. Take the biscuits, if you must.”
“I have nowhere to go,” he admitted. “I’m used to constant motion, to being busy. Instead, I’m... here.”
“Cressmouth has loads of things to do,” she said in surprise. “Haven’t you seen the gazette? No less than two entire pages of broadsheet are dedicated to all the Yuletide activities throughout the village. For example, there’s—”
“I don’t want any of that,” he interrupted. “Perhaps I should try to live like a local, rather than a tourist. That would be a wee adventure, wouldn’t it? A funny story to tell new acquaintances later. ‘Have you been to Cressmouth?’ they’ll ask. ‘The castle, the winter play, the snowy panorama, all the Christmastide activities?’ And I’ll say, ‘Pah to all that. I lived like a local!’”
She held up a loupe, inspecting him through one magnified eye as though he were a strange specimen. Her eye looked large and lovely. He wanted to paint it.
“Have you ever lived like a local anywhere?”
“Not in years,” he replied cheerfully. “I don’t even remember what it means. Do locals eat lots of biscuits? I’m good at that. I suppose I could find a temporary post. Are you in the market for an apprentice?”
“No,” she said flatly.
“I can pay you,” he said. “I have money.”
She crossed her arms. “I do not have time to train tourists. I’m after something bigger than money.”
Now that was interesting. He leaned closer.
“Whatdoyou want?”
Chapter 4
What did Angelica want?
A simple question that ought to have an equally simple answer. She wanted to be left alone so she could finish her work.
Butdidshe want him to leave?
He had brought her biscuits, which ought not to be a deciding factor in an adult woman’s decisions—and if not, surely spoke more to Angelica’s addiction to cakes, rather than any warm feelings toward Mr. MacLean specifically.
