She backed from the room, shutting the door between them.
By the time Ian judged himself presentable as soap and water could render him, enticing smells had thickened on the air belling the window curtains inward. His stomach writhed as he smoothed back his hair and bound it with the least offensive of his ribbons, letting the tail curl over a neckcloth that felt noose-tight in the heat but lent him a semblance of respectability—every scrap of which he’d need if he meant to win over his uncle’s patently unimpressed wife.
“‘First impressions being a vital thing,’” he quoted at the quill-free, slicked-down image of himself in the glass above the washbasin.
He donned his only decent coat, a slate-blue specimen he’d brushed nearly clean.
Hearing the scuff of shifted trunks across the passageway, he yanked the door inward and strode into the hall, intending to have a word with Thomas—and instead caught a passing forehead square on the point of his chin. The impact clashed his teeth together, with his tongue clamped between.
“Uhn!” he said. So did his inadvertent casualty, a young woman. Her unpinned hair coiled in dark profusion over his coat sleeve as she staggered; he grabbed her to prevent a fall.
“Are ye all right, miss?”
Black lashes swept upward. Large, startled eyes caught the light spilling from his room—green eyes with flecks of amber at their centers. Eyes like the creek he’d just crossed, strewn with mossy pebbles, dazzled with reflected sunlight. He couldn’t look away from them.
Gradually it dawned on him he ought to look away, that he was practically embracing the girl, to whom he’d yet to be introduced.
He unwound his arms from her and stepped back, leaving her standing in the light from the bedchamber. He knew within two guesses who she must be, though she didn’t in the least resemble that cool, rigid lady belowstairs. Her complexion held a deep, sun-drenched luster. Her brow and cheekbones were wide, her nose long and high-bridged but not the least pinched. And that mouth . . . so full and boldly shaped he had the quite improper urge to kiss it.
Bitten though it was, he found his tongue again. “Forgive me. I didn’t expect we’d meet ’til supper.” Grasping at the vestiges of his early education, he managed a proper bow. “Ian Cameron, your servant—and, happily, your cousin by marriage as well.”
The creek-water eyes stared at him unblinking.
“Ye’ll be Miss Bell,” he continued, thinking her shy as well as lovely. “But is it Rosalyn or . . . ?” What was the other one called? His mind had blanked.
Those vivid eyes rounded, but before his cousin could speak, another voice cut through the moment.
“Seona! Get down to the kitchen and quit pestering Master Hugh’s kin.” It was Maisy, the housemaid who’d brought the water, scowling up from the stairwell.
Rich color flooded the girl’s cheeks, but Ian for the first time noticed something beyond her face. The bodice of her gown was stained, the cuffs at her elbows bedraggled. More so the hem of her petticoat.
“Begging your pardon, Mister Ian,” she said, dipping a slight, apologetic curtsy, as if she felt at fault for their collision.
Ian was struck by the low, melodic quality of her voice—and the fact that she wore no shoes. Dirty bare feet flashed as she hurried down the stairs, leaving him tugging at a neckcloth now unbearably tight. What had the housemaid called her? It had sounded like Shona.
Not the name of either of his uncle’s stepdaughters.
A throat cleared behind him. In the doorway to the storeroom, Thomas stood with arms crossed, convulsed in silent mirth.
“How long have ye been standing there?” Ian demanded.
“Long enough.”
“Long enough to watch me play the fool. Why didn’t ye stop me?”
“Too busy having myself a look.” From below came the promised summons of a bell. Thomas drew near, frowning at Ian’s throat. “You’ve a stain—not to worry,” he added when Ian swore. Thomas tugged at the neckcloth, refolded it, then stood back to inspect him. “There. Least now you look the part.”
“And ye’d best start acting it.” Sweat beaded Ian’s brow, not all of it due to the heat. Thomas had removed his coat but hadn’t washed. Had anyone thought to provide the means? “There’s water in the pitcher, yonder in my room. Help yourself. Ye’ll find your way to the kitchen, see what they’re serving up?”
“Any dog can follow his nose.” Thomas raised his chin, sniffed, then met Ian’s gaze as no slave would his master’s.
“We need to talk, Thomas. About a lot of things.”
“You fret like a hen with one chick. Best worry about yourself.” Thomas leaned closer. “For in case you’ve failed to notice, what they’re serving up presently is you.”
Ian tested his bitten tongue against his teeth. “Aye, well. Pray there’s enough to go around.”
Brown eyes glinting with a familiar light, Thomas whispered, “Aonaibh ri chéile.”
Taken by surprise, Ian laughed. He’d half forgotten the rallying cry the two of them had used as lads bent on mischief in Boston’s winding, cobbled streets. The old Gaelic motto of Clan Cameron: Let us unite.
2
Seona ducked out the back of the big house and raced down the trellised breezeway, sidestepping Esther emerging from the kitchen with the gravy bowl.
“Seona! Miss Lucinda gonna scold, we keep Mister Ian waiting on his supper.”
“You know who’s bound to keep him waiting,” Seona replied. “It ain’t you and me.”
Esther batted her lashes like she was ogling herself in a glass, then giggled over the gravy as she hurried off. Seona paused inside the kitchen door, sensing the bustle within before her eyes could adjust to see.
Naomi’s bulk passed across the fire’s glow. “Get in here, child. Esther can’t tote the whole meal herself.”
Seona passed behind her mama, who was arranging apple fritters on a plate. Lily’s hair was coiled up smooth under her cap, her face agleam in the kitchen’s heat. “Ye’re flushed as a ripe strawberry, Seona. Where’d ye run off to?”
“Up to our room.” Not for the first time Seona wished herself as coppery brown as her mama so her blushes wouldn’t show for the world to see. He’d thought she was his kin, which meant he must be half-blind now. A pity. He had such pretty eyes. Still blue as a jay’s wing.
Since she and Esther got called in from the field, she’d been in motion, helping with the chopping, roasting, boiling, and baking. Finally she’d snatched a space and raced up to the garret to do what she’d itched to do since hearing their company named—have herself a look at that likeness she made of the boy who came to visit, all those years back.
“Ain’t nobody meant to be dashing about in this heat.” Naomi paused in salting pole beans to blot her streaming face.
“Girl-baby,” Lily said, “ye went all the way to the garret and didn’t think to put up your hair?”
Only then did she realize. Her braid had come undone! When she collided in the passage with Mister Ian? Or before?
“How many times Lily got to tell you that? Miss Lucinda might call you in to help Maisy serve.” Shaking her turbaned head, Naomi snatched a clean apron off a sideboard and thrust it at her. “Put this on, then wash your hands. Can’t have prints on the dishes.”