“Mother?” Alan said.
All the occupants of the room swung toward him.
Mother appeared pleased by his arrival. The servants disinterested. Annista—
His wife.
A gleam appeared in her wide eyes. She swept him with a full-body glance, all the way to his boots and up again.
He wondered what that signified.
“Master Alan,” Marjorie said.
“Marjorie.” He found a smile for this woman who had often provided a bit of kindness for him when kindness was scarce. A piece of warm bannock. A place to hide out a while if Evan was on the hunt for him.
“Is all well?” he asked stupidly. He could see that it was.
“Aye, so. Annista asked to see the house. She has also asked to see the stables. Mayhap ye could show her that, and the gardens.”
Mayhap he could.
“Would ye like to go see the stables now?” he asked Annista.
“Aye, I would.”
He began to offer her his elbow and thought better of it. “Then let us go.”
She abandoned Mother and the kitchens with alacrity. They were not out the door before she broke her own rule and took his arm.
Only casually, he assured himself. Just in passing. Nay meaning at all in it.
Chapter Ten
Annista’s relief at escaping the world of the kitchen—unquestionably a world unto itself—and the confines of the house in general fair made her giddy. So much so that she’d grabbed hold of Alan’s arm before she realized it.
Only to make sure he did not get away from her, she assured herself. Her means of escape.
They went out the kitchen door which led to the more prosaic—and in Annista’s mind more interesting—areas of the manor. Though she supposed little could be more prosaic than the kitchen, seeing to basic needs as it did.
Out here, though, was a kitchen garden just coming into itself with the spring. Beyond that, a courtyard and outbuildings, including a stable.
No formal gardens here such as Annista had seen at other estates, which aped those farther south. The climate likely would not allow for that, even if anyone had the time or interest.
Scotland was not England, no matter how hard anyone pretended. And glad she was for it.
The man beside her, for instance, could never be mistaken for an Englishman, even if he failed to open his mouth. His face too rugged, perhaps, with a certain slant to its planes, and to those black brows that screamed Gael. A certain lack of polish—like the estate—despite the fact that he was well dressed.
Aye, if she dismissed his clothing, he might be some ancestor from ancient times, that black hair spilling down onto his shoulders and those smoke-gray eyes that looked paler out here in the strong light.
Hastily, she let go of his arm. “My apologies for—for touching ye.” Again. “’Twas—’twas only for show.”
“Understood. We are agreed on that point.”
“We are.”
He gazed away from her. His profile was very fine, with a proud nose and equally strong jaw.
The purported ancestor—if Alan did indeed resemble him—must have been a cursed fine-looking man.
