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Chapter Three
Euphemia watched hernew husband reading the same page for the fourth time and wondered if the poor man had truly taken ill. Was there an illness that caused both fever and abnormal repetition?
Earlier, he’d repaired her spectacles. After gently fitting them to her face and ears multiple times, he’d acted pained. Then, he’d gone outside again to gather yet more water. She’d suspected he was using the privy, but he’d denied having a digestive complaint.
A while later, as winter’s early night fell, they’d dined together. He’d seemed more relaxed, laughing with her over Mrs. MacBean’s daftness.
“But is she truly daft?” Euphemia mused, taking a bite of tender stewed beef followed by a sip of wine. “I’m not so certain. The innkeeper and the Ross boy do share a resemblance.”
“Hmm. When I first met her, she kept calling me Andrew Brodie. Offered to sell me liniment for my knuckles as if I’m an arthritic old man.”
She’d eyed his bruised, reddened hands and clicked her tongue. “To be fair, you did damage them on Mr. Gibbs’ face.”
His mouth had tightened. Bronze-brown eyes had flickered over her and lingered. “That was later. I met her inside the inn before I spotted you and Gibbs.”
“Before? Then, how did she know?”
He’d shrugged, his gaze dropping to her throat and glowing with such intensity that she’d thought perhaps she’d spilled food or wine on her dressing gown. When she’d brushed at her bodice to be certain, he’d closed his eyes, downed his wine, and shoved to his feet. Then, he’d rushed outside again, saying something about more water.
She found his behavior bewildering. He’d only acted this way on a handful of other occasions—once while they were in Bergamo, once in France, and once while they were visiting his dear cousin Charlotte in Northumberland.
The peculiar restlessness combined with signs of physical distress—pain, really—had worried her sick the first time she’d observed it. She’d assumed he was ill and had fussed over him like a goose with a new gosling… or a wife with a stubborn husband. Strangely, he’d reacted with even greater distress, finally begging her to let him be and disappearing for the evening. He’d been much improved when she’d joined him the following morning for breakfast in thecaffé.
Thereafter, whenever he’d acted similarly, she’d held her tongue and let the odd behavior pass. Plainly, he didn’t wish to burden her with his affliction. But seeing the symptoms again had her nibbling her lip in concern.
He flipped a page in the “dismally dry” Gaelic dictionary and flipped it back to read it again. Flip and back again. Flip and back.
“Andrew,” she murmured. “That’s your seventh reading. Gaelic verb conjugation cannot possibly be that absorbing.”
He glanced up and closed the book. “Depends on the verb. To drink.” He saluted her with his glass of whisky. “To taste.” He took a sip. “To kiss.” His tongue swiped over his lower lip. “To copulate.”
She snorted. “Pray, what is the Scottish Gaelic term for ‘copulate’?”
“All I know is that it has a great many vowels and sounds a bit like clearing one’s throat.”
Smiling at his silliness, she finished tying off the seam she was repairing in her pelisse’s torn sleeve. “Done!” She draped the pelisse on the drying rack between her stockings and gown. “Now, I can concentrate on exploring the swan chest.”
Andrew chuckled. “At long last. The suspense was killing me.”
She planted her hands on her hips and arched a brow. “You could have begun without me.”
He stood and hefted the dark wooden box onto the table between the upholstered chairs. “I value my neck too much.” He grinned, his dimples showing. “M’lady is not best pleased to be distracted from her current task or usurped in her next one, methinks.”
She laughed. “M’lord is wise in the ways of women.”
The moment stretched as she admired his handsome features—the even teeth, the firm mouth, the slim-yet-square jawline, the corner-crinkled eyes beneath straight, sandy brows. And, of course, the dimples. Those made her heart skip every time.
“Well,” she said breathlessly. “Shall we?”
He nodded and stepped back, gesturing for her open the chest.
She unfastened the leather strap and raised the hinged top. A musty smell of dust and old herbs wafted upward. Inside, a folded plaid of faded green tartan lay atop a tray of assorted jewelry. “How old do you suppose the chest is?” she murmured.
His arm brushed her shoulder. His heat surrounded her from behind. Scents of vanilla, lemon, and rosemary tickled her senses. “Early sixteenth century, I’d say. Oak. Panel construction. Dovetail joinery.” He reached past her to trace the lines of the two swans’ necks. “Expensive for its day. The carvings are splendid.”
Her breath caught as an ache settled low in her belly. Mouth dry, she tried to focus on something other than his nearness. The feel of his strength at her back. The warmth of his breath playing with her hair.
“Did your cousins say what the chest is for?”
