She plastered a smile on her face, and cursed those penetrating hazel eyes, however much they might make her traitorous heart skip. “No, sir. But thank ye for asking.”
“I’ll take Miss Andy back to her mother,” Laing said, picking up the little girl, despite her grumbling. “She’s getting troublesome.”
“No…” Kit started to say, because Laing’s departure would leave her alone with Mr. MacNab. And while a reckless part of her might consider that the definition of bliss, native caution warned her to avoid him.
Mr. MacNab was surveying the handcart, with its poor array of holly and pine. “You go ahead, Laing. Kit and I will fill the cart and follow once we’re done.”
Laing bowed his head. “Aye, sir. There are usually better pickings down in the next glen.”
Kit tried to find some assurance in the fact that her stalwart protector saw no danger in sending her off with Quentin MacNab. But then Laing hadn’t caught Mr. MacNab’s arrested expression when he brushed the snow off her yesterday.
A fuss now would only draw undue attention. So she tugged down the ugly woolen hat she wore as part of her disguise and ducked her head. With reluctant steps, she followed Mr. MacNab deeper into the trees, praying that they came across the world’s biggest holly bush within the next few yards. If they filled the cart, they could turn for home and she could disappear into the stables safely away from him.
She told herself that she let her nerves get the better of her. He hadn’t said a word to indicate that he thought her anything but a servant and so far, her disguise had fooled everyone at Glen Lyon. She was just edgy around Mr. MacNab because she’d developed a foolish tendre for him. When he looked at her, he’d only see a skinny lad.
He took the cart’s handle and pulled it behind him across the snow. Because Kit was in a fret, they’d gone a quarter of a mile before she recognized how inappropriate it was for the laird’s nephew to do the heavy work.
“Let me take the cart, sir.” She added a rough edge to her voice in an attempt to sound more masculine.
“No, I’m fine.” He walked well ahead of her. Those long horseman’s legs ate up the yards in a way that she couldn’t match. “You must be suffering after yesterday.”
“A few bruises, that’s all. I’m well capable of hauling a half-empty cart.”
“Still, better not.”
She wanted to argue, but a stable lad didn’t defy the laird’s nephew.
When Mr. MacNab next spoke, they were descending a snowy path to the next glen. “How long have you been at Glen Lyon now, Kit?”
It was an innocent enough question, but every hair on her skin bristled in alarm. “A month, sir.”
“And do you enjoy your work?”
“Aye, sir.”
It was true. Most of her life, she’d been lonely, so the company of the other servants here had proven a welcome surprise. She liked the laird and his lady, too. They treated the people who worked for them with a consideration and respect that she appreciated. Glen Lyon had a happy, busy atmosphere that she loved.
“It must be nice to be with your uncle.”
“Aye, sir,” she said, turning to saw a ragged branch of holly from an unpromising bush. It was a hint that she didn’t want to make conversation. A hint Mr. MacNab ignored, to her chagrin.
He stopped a few feet away, and her shoulders twitched under the disreputable coat as she felt him studying her. “Where did you live before this?”
Unfortunately, “Aye, sir,” wouldn’t cover this one. “Near Inverness,” she said shortly, tossing the branch into the cart.
The surrounding quietness suddenly struck her as ominous. She’d imagined that other members of the party would have spread out into this glen, but she and Mr. MacNab seemed to be alone.
“Where, exactly? I know that part of the world quite well.”
She bit back an irritated sigh. He would, wouldn’t he? “It was a wee, wee village. I doubt you’d ken the place.”
“Try me.” He’d stepped away from the cart and watched her with a steady concentration that she was sure no humble stableboy merited.
Cold fear oozed down her backbone, and she glanced around the snowy woods in desperation, too flustered to think of making up a convincing lie.
She shivered, then shivered again. The air had turned freezing. Her jumpiness wasn’t the only thing making her blood run cold.
“I think we should head back, sir,” she said with a hint of urgency. “It’s going to snow.”
He didn’t shift. Nor did he give up on questioning her, devil take him. “Do you miss your parents?”
“I’m an orphan.” That at least was no lie. Although she did in fact come from an estate near Inverness further east. She now wished that she’d lied about that.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Aye, sir.”
She knew he was waiting for her to elaborate on what had happened to her family. But she remained stubbornly silent.
After a while, he heaved a sigh and cast her a wry look. “You’re not the world’s most talkative soul, are you, Kit?”
“No, sir,” she said and hoped he didn’t hear the satisfaction in her voice.
“Yet when you’re with Andy and William, you chatter away like a magpie.”
Heaven help her, this was getting worse and worse. His curiosity about her clearly hadn’t started this afternoon. Or even yesterday. He’d been observing her for a while.
So far, her disguise had got her through. Laing kept her away from the other staff as much as he could, and she’d acted the part of a shy, monosyllabic adolescent in the servants’ hall with great success. But she had no illusions that if anyone with sharp eyes checked too closely, they would soon dismantle the myth of Kit Laing, self-effacing stableboy. And Quentin MacNab had eyes both sharp and clever, curse him.
“They’re good bairns,” she said now.
Actually Mr. MacNab was right. Out of everyone on the whole estate, the children were the only people she could relax with. Now she questioned the wisdom of her behavior.
“When they feel like it,” Quentin said dryly.
“There’s nothing wrong with a bit of spirit, sir.” She added the “sir” as an afterthought.
“No, there’s not.” He continued to study her as if he guessed all her secrets.
Fear made her feel queasy, even as she told herself to bluff it out. There was no reason for Mr. MacNab to take enough interest in her to expose her true identity.
“How long ago did your parents pass away?”
She shifted under that unwavering stare that seemed to see far too much. “My mother died when I was a bairn. My father died two years ago.”
Also all true.
“I’m surprised you didn’t come to your uncle then.”
“My father had married again. I stayed with my stepmother.”
“Do you miss her?”
For tact’s sake, that question was better left unanswered. “She died, too. Last January.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank ye, sir.”
“So you were cast on local charity?”
“No, sir, I have a stepbrother.”