Page 30 of Ghost of the Ton

The woman sighed. “Better if ye dinnae say what ye think of us after yesterday. But, as I always say to Mr. Bron, a new day brings with it a clear head, a forgiving heart, and the chance to begin again.”

“Mr. Bron?” Mia said.

“My husband. He’s the butler and served the old laird before Master Hamish. I’m Mrs. Bron.”

Mia raised her eyebrows.

“The housekeeper,” the woman continued. She cast her gaze over Mia’s gown. “Did yer maid not travel with ye?”

“I have no maid, Mrs. Bron.”

“Well, I daresay Elspeth could take care of ye if ye wish. Och, lass—ye should have asked her to tend to ye last night, at least to help ye change into yer nightgown.”

“I don’t need a maid to do that, Mrs. Bron.”

“Then why are ye wearing the same gown ye had on yesterday?”

Mia lowered her gaze, swallowing her shame. Then a hand took hers, the fingers gnarled with callouses.

“Perhaps I’m mistaken,” Mrs. Bron said. “I know nothing of ladies’ gowns—one looks the same as any other. But with a gown that flimsy, ye’ll catch yer death. Once ye’ve seen Master Hamish, I’ll ask Elspeth to fit ye out with something better suited to our climate.”

Mia didn’t know which was worse—the fact that the housekeeper realized that she had only one gown in the world or the woman’s kindness in refraining from mentioning it outright.

“Thank you, that would be…” Mia hesitated. “Forgive me…once I’ve seen Master Hamish?”

“He’s sent for ye,” Mrs. Bron said. “Best be quick—he disnae like to be kept waiting.” She cast her gaze over Mia’s gown. “Do ye have a shawl? Ye should see him looking yer best.” She flinched as her gaze flicked over Mia’s face. “I meant yer gown looking its best. I hope I didnae give offense.”

“No offense was taken,” Mia said with as much dignity as she could summon. “Besides, I’ve heard worse from…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Now wasn’t the time to wallow in self-pity.

“I understand,” came the reply. “Rest assured, ye’ll hear none of that from me—or the rest of the household, if I have my way. Be sure to tell me if anyone fails to give ye the respect ye deserve.”

At that moment, a clock struck somewhere in the distance, nine times.

“Bless me, where does the time go!” The housekeeper scuttled across the floor toward a wooden trunk and opened it. She pulled out a plaid shawl, nodded, then shook it, sneezing at a puff of dust. “One of Her Ladyship’s old shawls,” she said. “It’ll keep ye warm.”

She placed the shawl about Mia’s shoulders then secured it with a pin.

“There!” she said. “Ye look very fine. Quick, now—ye dinnae want to keep him waiting.”

The housekeeper led Mia through a series of passageways, down a flight of steps, and past a handful of servants who stared open-mouthed at Mia. They reached a thick, dark wooden door in the shape of an arch, with a huge ringed handle fashioned from iron in the shape of twisted rope, and Mrs. Bron knocked three times.

Mia’s stomach fluttered as a deep voice called out. The housekeeper opened the door, ushered her inside, then closed it, leaving Mia alone with her husband.

He sat behind a squat wooden desk, decorated with carvings of trees, stags, and other beasts. His chair—more of a throne, given its size and shape—formed the shape of an arch at the back, and was covered in dark metal studs. The chair would have engulfed Mia’s frame, but it looked as if it had been made for Hamish, as if they had both been carved from solid, hard wood. But the figure in the chair was a living, breathing man.

The room itself radiated an aura of primal strength. The candle sconces were fashioned from a metal so black that they seemed to absorb the light. The walls were absent of tapestries, bearing instead an array of mounted deer heads, five in total, which stared malevolently at Mia as she stood, awaiting instruction.

The man behind the desk leaned forward, bringing his face into the light, and gestured to the chair in front of the desk.

Her legs threatening to give way, Mia approached the chair and sat, wincing at the scrape of wood against stone.

He remained silent, and Mia studied his face, looking for signs of the kindness that she’d clung to during the long journey to Scotland. But there was none. His face seemed to have been chiseled from granite—a strong, square jaw and a straight nose bearing a slight indent in the middle, as if he’d been engaged in a fight…

Doubtless, his opponent had come off worse, judging by the size of the hands that rested on the top of the desk.

The hands of a warrior.