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From the opposite end of the room, Mrs. MacGillivray groaned. “I send ye to do one thing, Sister. One bluidy thing.”
Mrs. MacGillivray’s twin sister gave an uneven blink. Unlike Henny, this sister’s right eye glinted sharply while the left eye was white and, as far as Euphemia could tell, completely blind.
She focused on Mr. Farrington. “Well, now, ye’re a braw bit of guid fortune for our wee cousin, aye?” She aimed an arching grin at Euphemia before sliding back to him. “Mary MacBean, maker of potions and cures for ailments of every sort.”
“I know who you are,” he said flatly.
A puzzled frown. “Ye do?”
“We met this morning at the inn. You offered to sell me liniment for my knuckles.”
“I did?”
Silence.
Mrs. MacBean shifted her gaze to Euphemia. “His temper’s a wee bit pickled. Dinnae fash. He’ll feel better after ye’re wedded and bedded. The possessive ones always do.”
Mrs. MacBean and Mrs. MacGillivray had been born Mary and Henny Sinclair. They were Euphemia’s family, but right now, she wanted to tell them to go to the devil. They insisted the swan chest could only be transferred to a married Sinclair female. Hence, her desperate, short-lived bargain with Mr. Gibbs and her current predicament with Mr. Farrington.
Did he actually mean to marry her? Surely not.
“We should start the ceremony now,” he muttered.
Her eyes rounded on his face. He looked… serious. His jaw clenched in just that fashion when he spied a treasure he meant to acquire.
Mary and Henny nodded as though he’d said something rational.
The innkeeper withdrew a watch from his pocket. “Aye. I must return to the inn soon. We’ve a full house for the night.”
Euphemia waited for Mr. Farrington to reveal he was jesting. He had a delightful sense of humor when he wasn’t out of sorts. But he didn’t even smile.
Instead, he braced a hand beneath her elbow and drew her to her feet. Then, he cupped her waist and guided her to where the sisters stood near the table.
Shaking her head, Euphemia struggled to gather her wits. She’d lost them when her employer had appeared out of nowhere, charged across the innyard, and landed three blows upon Mr. Gibbs’ face before she could squeak out a protest.
The door opened again, admitting a tall young man with a soot-stained cap and no whiskers. The Ross lad, she presumed.
She shook her head again and returned to her argument. “Mr. Farrington, you needn’t do this—”
“Let’s begin.” He addressed the sisters while squeezing Euphemia’s waist in a warning fashion. “If the inn is full, I should like an early start on finding lodging.”
“Aye, then,” said Mrs. MacGillivray. “We’ve gathered here on this grand winter’s eve—”
“Beggin’ yer pardon,” interjected the Ross boy. “’Tis nae yet noon.”
“Och, laddie. Right ye are. We’re here on this fine day—”
The boy cleared his throat. “’Tis a right blizzard outside.”
The innkeeper grunted. “Let her finish a sentence, lad. I havenae all day to waste, five shillin’s or no five shillin’s.”
Mrs. MacGillivray swatted her sister’s arm. “Ye paid himfiveshillin’s?”
“He wouldnae take less. But he did agree to bring his son. That’s two witnesses for the price of one. A bargain, aye?”
“The Ross lad isnae my son, ye daft auld woman,” grumbled the innkeeper. “He doesnae even luik like me.”
Euphemia made another attempt to insert rationality into the conversation. “Mrs. MacGillivray, Mrs. MacBean. I think this farce has gone far enough, don’t you?”
