“Hmmm, Irish.” Ramsey repeated, as if the words held no import. His whole attention was on Lyssa, and she felt a certain warmth rise to her cheeks under his full regard.
Birdy entered the room, carrying a tray of biscuits and, of all blessings, a teapot with steam rising from its stem that he set on a tea table beside Anice. “Would you care for a cup?” Anice offered.
“Gratefully,” Lyssa answered, sitting.
Ramsey dropped to sit beside Anice. He crossed his legs, spreading his arms along the back of the settee. Lyssa was conscious that he watched her every move. Ian came to stand behind her. Anice served them.
“How interesting you travel with a bodyguard,” Ramsey observed. “Did you bring other servants?”
Lyssa was in the act of taking a sip of her tea so Ian spoke for her. “We were waylaid by robbers. We had a maid with us but she was separated from our party.”
Ramsey sat up. “How unfortunate. Did you report the matter to the local magistrate?”
Ian replied smoothly, “Yes. All is taken care of.”
“Ah,” Ramsey said, drawing out the word. “Very good. And we have you here safe and sound, Cousin.”
Lyssa smiled and hid behind another sip of her tea, not displeased at Ian’s story. There followed an awkward moment of silence. Ramsey broke it by saying, “You look very much like your mother, Lyssa.”
“How do you know?” she wondered.
“From the painting. Did you not know about it?”
Immediately, Lyssa set down her teacup. “No. I mean, Father has portraits of Mother, but they were done after I was born.” And after she’d become ill. The color in her mother’s cheeks had all been artificial.
“We have the one our grandfather commissioned,” Ramsey said. “He had the painting done to show potential suitors far and wide what a jewel the Davidsons had to offer. I admit it is a masterpiece. The family lore is Isobel received no fewer than five offers for her hand on the basis of the painting alone.”
“I never knew this story,” Lyssa said.
Ramsey leaned forward. “I’m not surprised your father didn’t tell you. He must have thought it a grand jest, stealing her away from us the way he did.”
There was a proprietary air in his comment. “My grandfather must have been disappointed,” Lyssa said.
“He was outraged,” Ramsey agreed, but without heat. “His temper lasted for weeks. The family coffers needed to be replenished, we needed her to marry for money, and your mother’s choice of husbands did not honor her obligations.”
“My father has done well for himself since,” she said in her defense.
“Yes, he has.” Ramsey smiled. “Welcome home, Cousin.”
Lyssa didn’t know quite how to take his remarks. As with Anice, there seemed to be a hidden meaning as if he played some game with her. She didn’t know if she was particularly keen on him.
But then he asked, “Would you like to see the painting?”
Without hesitation, she said, “Yes, very much.”
Ramsey stood and offered his hand. “Then come.”
Lyssa placed her hand in his and came to her feet. Anice also rose and as they started from the room, Ian fell into place beside them. He had his knapsack slung over one shoulder and Lyssa sensed he would rather have his pistol out and ready.
Ramsey glanced at him. “Is he always this tiresome?”
“Yes,” she said proudly and could almost feel Ian grin behind her.
Ramsey led her into a long gallery that took up the rear of the house. The walls had more hunting trophies and the paint was plain. These were family quarters. The windows overlooked Loch Linnhe. Through a window off to the left, she could see rooftops.
“Those are the stables,” Ramsey said, noting where she’d been looking. “You’ve heard of the Davidson Stallion?”
“Yes.”
