Mr. Campbell chuckled. “Och, and ye know, yer grace, ’tis lucky ye are to have a Campbell who will deign to work fer ye.” The man turned to Maura and bowed his head low. “Yer Grace.”
Maura held out her hand and shook his soundly. “Mr. Campbell, a pleasure.”
Alec glanced at her. “Stay if you like, Maura. I shouldn’t be long.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
She walked to the bank of windows across the room, pretending to stare at the courtyard. Deliberately, she kept her back to the men. Foolish, unexpected tears burned the back of her throat. She fought to stanch them, to compose herself. Seeing Alec tease Mr. Campbell, the comfortable air between them wrought painful—yet, oh so endearing!—memories of Murdoch and her father. Like Murdoch, Mr. Campbell was a tall man, though he carried more girth than Murdoch’s rangy frame.
And her father…oh, Lord, how she missed him! Remembering the night of his death was like a knife through the heart. A twisting ache rent her breast when she thought of him. The hurt was still too fresh, the emptiness in her soul a yawning, gaping wound.
As for Alec, she remembered the way he’d teased her the night of the masquerade. She had yet to see his teasing air return, not until now, with Mr. Campbell. Of course, his aim had been to entice her into his bed, but she couldn’t fault him for that, now, could she? Not when she had played the coquette in equal measure.
It brought home her deceit even more, the way she had tricked him so she could come to Scotland. How she regretted her deceit! But it couldn’t be avoided. She must continue to be strong. She couldn’t allow such feelings to get in the way.
A pair of strong hands descended on her shoulders. Maura started. She hadn’t heard Mr. Campbell leave.
“Are you ready?” Alec asked lightly.
Maura turned. She kept her head high, her gaze downcast—not that it mattered, she soon discovered.
She was aware of him peering down at her. “What is it?” he asked.
“What is what?”
“Are you crying?” He sounded incredulous.
“No.” Maura gritted her teeth.
“You are.” With the pad of a finger, he swept up a trail of wetness and held it before her, as if it were a trophy.
“Look. Youarecrying.”
The oaf! Did he think she needed evidence? “I am not, Scotsman. I am done crying.”
For an instant his expression was utterly perplexed. Why, she wondered, were men always so astonished when a woman cried?
He persisted. “Why were you crying?”
She said nothing.
“If you’re unwell—” he began.
“I am not,” she said. When he showed no sign of moving, she waved a hand. “I—I was thinking of my father,” she admitted haltingly. “His study was much like this.” In truth, it was. Warm wood covered the walls. A large desk, leather chairs. The difference was that Alec’s was meticulously maintained, and furnished just as meticulously. Her father’s was minimally maintained, whenever she or Jen managed to get round to dusting it, and sparsely furnished. Last year they’d sold off a valuable painting to see to the tenants’ wintering.
There was a yawning silence. “I’m sorry,” Alec said finally. “I’d forgotten. You mentioned it earlier. And I remember now that your uncle said something about your father being the late earl.”
It was a supremely awkward moment.
“If you like, we can certainly postpone—”
She shook her head. “There is no need. I am perfectly fine. I should hate to lose my way to the dining room again and die of starvation.”
He smiled slightly. “We can’t have that now, can we?” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
Maura wiped away the traces of tears, blew her nose, and passed it back to him.
“I suppose my nose is bloody red now, isn’t it?”
