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Chapter Eight
“Do you speak Gaelic, Mr. Kelly?”
Cal took his time releasing Bridget Murray. She felt as though she belonged in his arms, was part of him, and his body was reluctant to amputate this new and necessary limb. He moved slowly for another reason as well. He thought he might very well fall over if he moved too quickly.
He’d kissed his fair share of women—maybe more than his fair share—but he had never felt what he’d felt when he kissed Bridget Murray. His senses, his reason, even, were still spinning.
But finally, he managed to untangle himself and look around. Feck. Baron was standing directly behind him. No chance the man hadn’t seen what he and The Keeper of the Clipboard had been doing just now.
“Pardon?” Cal asked, buying himself time to try and think of an explanation. He needed to find a way to keep Miss Murray out of trouble. He’d take the blame. He’d claim he seduced her, though at the moment it surely felt as though he was the one who’d been seduced.
“I asked if you speak Gaelic,” Baron repeated, his voice still level, his brow still arched. If this was a set down, it was a strange way to begin.
Cal cleared his throat. “Sure and I speak a little.”
“A little?” Baron seemed to consider.
Miss Murray made an odd sound and moved away from him.
“I know the odd phrase or two.”
“Or two. I see. Will you follow me, Mr. Kelly? You are needed at the farmhouse.”
“Why?” he asked, and Miss Murray made another sound. This one resembled that of a cat whose tail has been trod on. He looked at her over his shoulder. Christ Jaysus, but she was a vision. Her color was high in her cheeks, her green eyes bright in the darkness, her lips full and round and practically begging him to kiss them again.
She didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she seemed to be staring hard at the field past Baron’s head. “Is there anything else you require from me, my lord?” she said, voice tightly controlled.
“I’m afraid so, Miss Murray.”
She sighed, and Cal had the distinct impression she wanted to escape him.
“If you’ll fetch your pad and a pen, I need someone to take notes.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Cal decided to be amenable for the moment. He played the pup and followed them back to the farmhouse. Once inside, he soaked up the warmth in the entryway as Miss Murray retreated to what must be her office to collect her ever-present clipboard.
And there it was, he noted, when she emerged from her office.
“This way,” Baron said, gesturing for the two of them to follow him back outside.
Cal frowned and leaned over, whispering to Miss Murray. “What sort of punishment is this, do you think?”
“No punishment at all, Mr. Kelly,” Baron said, though how he’d heard was beyond Cal’s comprehension. The man must have the hearing of an eagle. “What you do on your own time is not my concern.”
Miss Murray made a strangled sound. For his part, Cal’s shoulders relaxed. He hadn’t expected a reprieve. Which meant Baron really did want to know if Cal spoke Gaelic. And now Cal wondered why. He’d been cagey in his response, and he was glad of it. He liked to know the stakes before he showed his cards. They followed Baron outside and around to the cellar. There Baron unlocked a door in the ground and lifted the doors, opening them. He climbed down the first few rungs of the ladder and lifted a lamp hanging at the top. Then he climbed the rest of the way into the dimly lit chamber.
“Go ahead, Mr. Kelly,” Bridget told him, when he stared into the hole after Baron.
“What’s down there?” Cal didn’t like this. Not at all.
“It’s a who, not a what, and I imagine we’ll spend the rest of the night piecing it all together.”
“Kelly!” Baron called from below, his voice echoing.
Cal started reluctantly down the ladder. Miss Murray followed last, pulling the doors closed above them and shrouding them in darkness.
The cellar was damp and cold but a good deal warmer than it had been outside. Cal wondered if this was some sort of test to see how he would react to being imprisoned underground, but if Baron intended to leave him here then why involve Miss Murray?
