happened. A trifle disconcerting, but never frightening.
Tasara twisted round to comb the kitchen entrance.
“Miss Faas.” The butler stood framed within the door’s opening. “His lordship requests your presence.”
Seonaid gave Tasara a brief hug. “I shall wait outside the study, and when you are done, we shall enjoy mint tea and shortbread.”
A few minutes later, Tasara sank into a well-used leather wingback chair facing Laird McTavish’s desk. She pulled her fringed shawl tighter around her shoulders, then fingered the fine cream muslin of her borrowed gown to calm her jitters.
This gloomy room, with its dreary stone walls and ancient weaponry, made her uneasy. The urge to peek inside the suits of armor to assure herself no ghosts or skeletons of long-dead McTavish ancestors hid within, overwhelmed her.
Folding her hands upon her lap, she slid Dat a sidelong look. She’d never seen her father this anxious or unsure.
Jaw taut, he sat rigid and tense, his attention directed straight ahead. He seemed to avoid her gaze.
Silly. Of course he’s not doing any such thing.
Laird McTavish relaxed against his chair, drumming the fingertips of one hand on his bent knee. His expression solemn, his gaze wavered between Tasara and her father.
If she knew what had transpired before her summons, she might put aside her disquiet. Thank goodness for Seonaid. Slightly younger than Tasara, the sweet girl took an instant liking to her, and became her almost constant companion, easing Tasara’s loneliness and confusion.
Not that she spoke of her feelings. Baring her emotions or burdening strangers with her troubles served no purpose. Neither did complaining, but Seonaid seemed to know what bothered Tasara without being told.
The epitome of kindness and hospitality, everyone at Craiglocky tried to put her at ease. Seonaid had gone so far as to lend Tasara clothing and even now, waited outside the study as promised.
Tasara looked directly at Dat , but his focus remained on Laird McTavish. She didn’t know if she’d be permitted to go home today. His lairdship had sent for her father, and once he’d arrived, straightaway sequestered them in the study for an hour before inviting her to join them.
She crossed and uncrossed her ankles then huffed an impatient little breath.
Come on. Out with it.
Why didn’t Laird McTavish say something? She cleared her throat.
Neither man spoke.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. What are they waiting for ?
“My laird, do you believe me this person my father thinks I am? This Baroness Alexandra Atterberry?” She twisted her mouth in irony. Was baroness right? Why the Scots insisted on calling a title holder equivalent to an English baron a Laird of Parliament boggled the mind. Who concocted such poppycock? Keeping the title balderdash straight proved nearly impossible.
She crossed her ankles again. She needed to stand and move about. When agitated, sitting never served her well. “Well, do you, Laird McTavish?”
“Quite possibly.” Smiling, he straightened and picked up a letter. He raised it for her inspection. Rows of neat writing covered most of the page. “This came in today’s post. Hugo and Bridget Needham—I suspect she is your maternal aunt—will be arriving any day.”
No longer able to sit for another moment, Tasara stood. “And then what happens?”
“They’ll confirm or disprove your identity.” He leveled her father a telling glance.
She frowned slightly. Something else went on here.
Her whole life had turned topsy-turvy— so blasted confusing —which agitated her all the more. She’d never been this lost and unsure, not even when held prisoner those three weeks. Yet, at least at Dounnich House she’d known who she was.
Inhaling a soothing breath, she resolutely squelched her dismay. She must put her emotions aside and face this situation with logic and reason. “And if I am this Alexandra Atterberry?”
“Well, I suppose that depends on you.” Laird
Tasara twisted round to comb the kitchen entrance.
“Miss Faas.” The butler stood framed within the door’s opening. “His lordship requests your presence.”
Seonaid gave Tasara a brief hug. “I shall wait outside the study, and when you are done, we shall enjoy mint tea and shortbread.”
A few minutes later, Tasara sank into a well-used leather wingback chair facing Laird McTavish’s desk. She pulled her fringed shawl tighter around her shoulders, then fingered the fine cream muslin of her borrowed gown to calm her jitters.
This gloomy room, with its dreary stone walls and ancient weaponry, made her uneasy. The urge to peek inside the suits of armor to assure herself no ghosts or skeletons of long-dead McTavish ancestors hid within, overwhelmed her.
Folding her hands upon her lap, she slid Dat a sidelong look. She’d never seen her father this anxious or unsure.
Jaw taut, he sat rigid and tense, his attention directed straight ahead. He seemed to avoid her gaze.
Silly. Of course he’s not doing any such thing.
Laird McTavish relaxed against his chair, drumming the fingertips of one hand on his bent knee. His expression solemn, his gaze wavered between Tasara and her father.
If she knew what had transpired before her summons, she might put aside her disquiet. Thank goodness for Seonaid. Slightly younger than Tasara, the sweet girl took an instant liking to her, and became her almost constant companion, easing Tasara’s loneliness and confusion.
Not that she spoke of her feelings. Baring her emotions or burdening strangers with her troubles served no purpose. Neither did complaining, but Seonaid seemed to know what bothered Tasara without being told.
The epitome of kindness and hospitality, everyone at Craiglocky tried to put her at ease. Seonaid had gone so far as to lend Tasara clothing and even now, waited outside the study as promised.
Tasara looked directly at Dat , but his focus remained on Laird McTavish. She didn’t know if she’d be permitted to go home today. His lairdship had sent for her father, and once he’d arrived, straightaway sequestered them in the study for an hour before inviting her to join them.
She crossed and uncrossed her ankles then huffed an impatient little breath.
Come on. Out with it.
Why didn’t Laird McTavish say something? She cleared her throat.
Neither man spoke.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. What are they waiting for ?
“My laird, do you believe me this person my father thinks I am? This Baroness Alexandra Atterberry?” She twisted her mouth in irony. Was baroness right? Why the Scots insisted on calling a title holder equivalent to an English baron a Laird of Parliament boggled the mind. Who concocted such poppycock? Keeping the title balderdash straight proved nearly impossible.
She crossed her ankles again. She needed to stand and move about. When agitated, sitting never served her well. “Well, do you, Laird McTavish?”
“Quite possibly.” Smiling, he straightened and picked up a letter. He raised it for her inspection. Rows of neat writing covered most of the page. “This came in today’s post. Hugo and Bridget Needham—I suspect she is your maternal aunt—will be arriving any day.”
No longer able to sit for another moment, Tasara stood. “And then what happens?”
“They’ll confirm or disprove your identity.” He leveled her father a telling glance.
She frowned slightly. Something else went on here.
Her whole life had turned topsy-turvy— so blasted confusing —which agitated her all the more. She’d never been this lost and unsure, not even when held prisoner those three weeks. Yet, at least at Dounnich House she’d known who she was.
Inhaling a soothing breath, she resolutely squelched her dismay. She must put her emotions aside and face this situation with logic and reason. “And if I am this Alexandra Atterberry?”
“Well, I suppose that depends on you.” Laird
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