his aura of power, he exuded a lazy sensuality. His marvelous brown eyes danced with interest, and his straight nose and fine high cheekbones spoke of centuries of Scottish nobility.
She hid her opinion behind a bland smile. "Will there be anything else, my lord?"
"Aye." He plucked at the tassels on his sporran. "Tonight I've a craving for roast suckling pig, baked quinces, potatoes with parsley and butter, crusty bread, and a trifle big enough to"—he slid her a measuring glance—"to fill a washtub."
Wanting desperately to be away from him and his despotic ways, she replaced the quill, folded the paper, and got to her feet. "Will nine o'clock be soon enough?"
He looked at the lantern clock. It was just after six. "You can't manage it that fast, can you?"
With all the melodrama she could summon, she sighed and held out her arm. "Certainly I can." When he didn't immediately rise, she said, "I was thinking about a raisin and fig sauce for the pork." And a good dose of Elanna's come-to-me juice.
He licked his lips, but stayed where he was.
"Or," she drawled, pointing at the food tray, "I could warm up that rabbit."
Eyes narrowed, he said, "Blackmail is a poor way to start our business arrangement."
Despair weighted her shoulders. She couldn't woo him if all they did was bicker; even the strongest love potion couldn't turn enmity to affection. But if Malcolm didn't show his support for her by presenting her to the staff, she'd have an uphill battle gaining authority over the servants. Her arm ached, but she refused to drop it or lose the battle of wills they waged. "I only have myself to ransom. Now will you introduce me to the staff?"
His steady gaze held her immobile. "I've work to do here. The household ledgers need balancing. Even the grain stores haven't been inventoried since Mrs. Elliott left in February."
Another concession, but she could use the additional duties to her advantage. "I'll do your ciphering. I'm very good with numbers." Seeing his skeptical frown, she said, "And I'm honest. You can trust me."
He cleared his throat and pushed to his feet. As his hand closed over hers, Alpin had the distinct impression that Malcolm didn't trust her at all.
----
Chapter Four
Malcolm's mouth watered as he gazed at the feast before him, the exact foods he'd requested. "Did Lady Alpin prepare this?"
"Aye, my lord. She and the African." Dora shook her head and ran her finger along the edge of Malcolm's desk. "Who'd've thought a real lady'd roll up her sleeves and sweat over a cooking fire?"
Real lady. The changes in Alpin still baffled him, but not enough to make him forget the past or alter his plans for her future. He had plenty of time, though, and other priorities, namely the Highland Jacobites and their obsession with putting James Stewart on the throne. Pray Saladin returned with communiques that reflected a new moderation or at least the status quo on the part of the northern clan chiefs. "Where is Lady Alpin?"
Dora rubbed at a stain on her new apron. "Counting the stores in the pantry and waiting for her bathwater to heat." Whispering, the girl added, "She bathes every night and said so in front of the whole staff. The maids, you know—not the bootboy or any of the lads."
He speared a slice of roasted pork. Steam, fragrant with figs and raisins, filled his nose. An image of Alpin, naked in the wooden tub, filled his mind. Expectation of both lightened his mood. "She'll soon have you taking to a tub of an evening."
As he expected, Dora huffed up like a gentry matron who'd been pinched on the fanny. "I'd sooner be tied to my papa's plow and dragged to Edinburgh wearing nothing but my shift."
"'Twas only a jest, lass."
"Oh." Blushing, she went back to worrying the stain. "My lord… ? Is it true that Lady Alpin lived here once, when you were a lad?"
The savory meat almost melted in his mouth. "Aye. She ran away from her uncle's house."
"The bootboy said Mr. Lindsay said that old Angus MacDodd
She hid her opinion behind a bland smile. "Will there be anything else, my lord?"
"Aye." He plucked at the tassels on his sporran. "Tonight I've a craving for roast suckling pig, baked quinces, potatoes with parsley and butter, crusty bread, and a trifle big enough to"—he slid her a measuring glance—"to fill a washtub."
Wanting desperately to be away from him and his despotic ways, she replaced the quill, folded the paper, and got to her feet. "Will nine o'clock be soon enough?"
He looked at the lantern clock. It was just after six. "You can't manage it that fast, can you?"
With all the melodrama she could summon, she sighed and held out her arm. "Certainly I can." When he didn't immediately rise, she said, "I was thinking about a raisin and fig sauce for the pork." And a good dose of Elanna's come-to-me juice.
He licked his lips, but stayed where he was.
"Or," she drawled, pointing at the food tray, "I could warm up that rabbit."
Eyes narrowed, he said, "Blackmail is a poor way to start our business arrangement."
Despair weighted her shoulders. She couldn't woo him if all they did was bicker; even the strongest love potion couldn't turn enmity to affection. But if Malcolm didn't show his support for her by presenting her to the staff, she'd have an uphill battle gaining authority over the servants. Her arm ached, but she refused to drop it or lose the battle of wills they waged. "I only have myself to ransom. Now will you introduce me to the staff?"
His steady gaze held her immobile. "I've work to do here. The household ledgers need balancing. Even the grain stores haven't been inventoried since Mrs. Elliott left in February."
Another concession, but she could use the additional duties to her advantage. "I'll do your ciphering. I'm very good with numbers." Seeing his skeptical frown, she said, "And I'm honest. You can trust me."
He cleared his throat and pushed to his feet. As his hand closed over hers, Alpin had the distinct impression that Malcolm didn't trust her at all.
----
Chapter Four
Malcolm's mouth watered as he gazed at the feast before him, the exact foods he'd requested. "Did Lady Alpin prepare this?"
"Aye, my lord. She and the African." Dora shook her head and ran her finger along the edge of Malcolm's desk. "Who'd've thought a real lady'd roll up her sleeves and sweat over a cooking fire?"
Real lady. The changes in Alpin still baffled him, but not enough to make him forget the past or alter his plans for her future. He had plenty of time, though, and other priorities, namely the Highland Jacobites and their obsession with putting James Stewart on the throne. Pray Saladin returned with communiques that reflected a new moderation or at least the status quo on the part of the northern clan chiefs. "Where is Lady Alpin?"
Dora rubbed at a stain on her new apron. "Counting the stores in the pantry and waiting for her bathwater to heat." Whispering, the girl added, "She bathes every night and said so in front of the whole staff. The maids, you know—not the bootboy or any of the lads."
He speared a slice of roasted pork. Steam, fragrant with figs and raisins, filled his nose. An image of Alpin, naked in the wooden tub, filled his mind. Expectation of both lightened his mood. "She'll soon have you taking to a tub of an evening."
As he expected, Dora huffed up like a gentry matron who'd been pinched on the fanny. "I'd sooner be tied to my papa's plow and dragged to Edinburgh wearing nothing but my shift."
"'Twas only a jest, lass."
"Oh." Blushing, she went back to worrying the stain. "My lord… ? Is it true that Lady Alpin lived here once, when you were a lad?"
The savory meat almost melted in his mouth. "Aye. She ran away from her uncle's house."
"The bootboy said Mr. Lindsay said that old Angus MacDodd
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