by Caroline Lee
Almost like…magic.
Max frowned and reached for his checkbook. Magic? He was beginning to sound as crazy as his friends from back home, talking about weird old ladies—godmothers—who’d helped them find love—
Halfway through filling out a check for the builder, Max’s hand stilled. Godmothers? Was it possible there was some truth behind the stories? He recalled the women back home who’d always seemed to know what was going on and knew how to facilitate the best marriages. Women like Andrew Prince’s new wife, Christa, who hung out with that group of weird old ladies in the purple house on Perrault Street, as if they were in some sort of guild.
He hummed and shook himself, hurrying to complete the rest of the check, then sign the bill and shove them both into an envelope to be delivered that afternoon. He could move into his house if he wanted to, but suddenly, he was more motivated to find out if there was a collection of so-called godmothers in the Highlands. Was it possible groups like that—groups of meddling old ladies—were universal?
And if there were a group of them here in the Highlands, would they be able to tell him the truth about Ember? Was she a lady…or a simple hard worker like himself?
“So is this what ye do all day without me?”
At the interruption, Max looked up and smiled at seeing Roland saunter into his office. “You’re looking dapper. Were you successful in Inverness?”
“Aye, of course.” Roland dropped into one of the two chairs across from Max’s desk. “But ye’ve clearly been wasting away. What is this? Work?” He sniffed dismissively as he picked up an invoice, then dropped it into a different pile.
Max chuckled as he moved the paper back to its correct place. “You can play at the spoiled lordling all you want, Roland, but I’ve seen your estate and how hard you work to maintain it. It’s like my father’s ranch back home.”
“Nay, it’s better than yer father’s ranch, because I’m no’ an arse.”
“True.” Max slid a stack of invoices into a folder and turned to drop them into a drawer of the cabinet behind him. Over his shoulder, he asked, “So what brings you to Oliphant Engraving today? Just wanting to make sure I was working hard?”
“That, and I just adore the sounds of heavy machinery. What is that constant pounding noise? Do ye ken half yer engravers are wearing hearing protection?”
“Yep.” Chuckling, Max turned back to his friend. “I’m considering hiring a fiddler for them to listen to. I think it’d be good for morale.”
“No’ with that pounding—”
“That’s the press. It’s only used once a week or so to turn the sheet metal into plaques for the rifle stocks. Depending on the need, we either start with sheet metal and pound it, or raw ingots, which are melted and poured into molds. Tomorrow will be quieter, but will smell worse, because the metal will have to be filed and sanded.”
Roland cocked a brow. “Remind me no’ to visit tomorrow.”
“I’m still not sure why you visited today.”
His friend’s grin flashed brightly. “Because ye promised to come with me to the inn. Baroness Oliphant has invited me to tea with her daughters.”
“Hm. I don’t remember promising you.”
“Max.”
“You’re certain you want to get to know Vanessa better?” From what little Max had seen of her, she seemed spoiled and vain to him.
“If she’s my angel in pink, then aye,” Roland sighed.
Max shrugged. He hadn’t intended to return to the inn for a few more hours, but he had accomplished most of his tasks already, and since he’d stayed late the previous night, he was mostly caught up on the organization.
Better not think about what came of staying late last night.
Her lips, her breast in his palm, her heat…
He felt himself growing hard beneath the desk.
What part of ‘best not think about it’ did you not understand, cowboy?
When Roland slammed his palm against the desk, Max startled. “What?”
“Ye looked dreamy there for a moment. So are ye coming with me or no’?”
Max shrugged sheepishly, willing his arousal under control so he wouldn’t embarrass himself when he stood. “Alright, I’ll join you.”
Going back to the inn early would allow him plenty of time to pack his things to transfer to his new home.
They stepped out of his office, and Max turned to lock the door. He hadn’t seen any reason to distrust any of the employees, but now he knew Lawrence had a habit of giving permission to random Oliphants to use the equipment, it was better to be safe than sorry.
Not that Max would begrudge Ember using the lathe—it was clear she knew how to turn metal, if she truly were the creator of the remarkable shoes she’d worn to the ball. Shoes she wanted to try to talk him into producing, here in this very building.
The idea was intriguing.
Remembering his early question, Max tried for nonchalance when he asked his friend, “I’ve been looking for someone.”
“Someone in particular? A lady someone?”
“Well…yeah.” Max’s lips twitched as they stepped out into the afternoon sun. “But the one I’m asking about would be older—maybe a group of older ladies, ones who seem to always know what’s going on, and maybe meddle a bit more than they ought to?”
His friend hummed as they both shoved their hands into their pockets and headed for his curricle. “Aye, I can think of a few possibilities, and I willnae even ask ye why.”
The ride to the inn—though close enough to walk, but Max didn’t mind giving his legs a rest—was spent discussing the possibilities. When they arrived, they were met by a stable hand who took the horse’s bridle and assured them he’d take care of the animal and equipage.
“Being a lord gets you all sorts of special treatment, eh?” Max murmured.
Roland shot him a grin as they stepped inside. “It has its benefits.”
“My lords!” They both turned to see Baroness Oliphant—her graying hair pulled up in an ornate style likely intended to make her seem younger—hurrying toward them with her arms open. “So good of ye to grace our humble abode!”
Concerned she intended to embrace them, Max actually took a hasty step in retreat. But instead, when she reached them, the woman sunk into a deep curtsey. Max saw Roland glance at the deep decolletage on display, then quickly look away, flushing in embarrassment. Likely embarrassment for the woman.
Roland cleared his throat. “Aye, well, thank ye for inviting me.”
“How could I no’, milord?” Baroness Oliphant asked breathlessly as she stood. “When I received yer note expressing interest in meeting my beautiful, perfect daughter, I was thrilled. I deeply regret I cannae escort ye to the parlor, but if ye’ll follow Oliphant here—Oliphant, lead my lords to the private parlor—my daughters and I will join ye shortly.”
Roland’s brow twitched, but Max didn’t see anything wrong with the request. Likely had something to do with propriety or some such nonsense, but he just nodded to the butler—whom he assumed was the Oliphant she spoke of—and followed the older man.
After depositing them in an out-of-the-way parlor Max had never been in before, the butler bowed and backed out of the doorway, leaving it open.
Max dropped into one of the large chairs, his legs stretched out in front of him. “You do get the fancy treatment, huh?”
Roland was pacing, and it was almost amusing to see him so agitated.
“Dinnae think I dinnae notice how often ye get called ‘milord’ when ye’re with me.”
Max snorted. What would all the people who’d made that mistake think if they’d known he’d been born a slave?
“Look, Roland, I can’t even keep your fancy titles straight, much less anyone else’s. I’m happy being just me.”
“Aye, but being the guest of honor at that ball didnae hurt either.” Roland stopped pacing and planted his hands on his hips. “Ye’re a prize now as well. Maybe ye’ll enjoy meeting Vanessa�
��s sister.”
“Don’t forget, I’ve met them both already. When Baroness Oliphant found out ‘the Prince’s guest of honor’ was staying at her inn, she was overjoyed. I had dinner with them a few weeks back.”
“And?” Roland asked eagerly.
Not interested in popping his friend’s bubble of excitement when it came to Vanessa, Max just shrugged.
But before he could push for more, Roland’s head suddenly swung toward the door. “They’re coming!” he hissed, as he threw himself into the chair beside Max’s. “How do I look?”
Max’s brows rose, amused at his friend’s flustered actions. “Like a man anxious to meet a woman.”
Roland’s chuckle sounded rueful. “That about sums up humanity, eh?”
From the corridor, two different voices drifted into the room. “Oh, do stop fussing, Vanessa. Ye look lovely.”
“But do I look lovely enough for him? He’s here!”
Max watched his friend’s lips curl upward proudly.
“Ye look lovely enough for an earl.” That must be Bonnie, the other daughter.
Vanessa’s chuckle was throaty and low. Neither of them likely realized the door was open and they could be heard. “Oh, Bonnie, I’m no’ interested in the laird.”
“Then ye look lovely enough for an earl’s heir.” This sounded teasing.
“Goodness, no’ him! Did ye see him at the ball, Bonnie?” Vanessa chuckled again. “All scarred and broken and brutal. He was wearing a kilt, Bonnie, like some kind of—of—”
“Barbarian?”
“Aye, a barbarian! Can ye imagine having to sit across the table from—from that at meals?” Vanessa’s tone had hardened. “Or worse, listen to him talk. Hmm, do ye think he can talk, or does he just shout cold commands? And letting those hands touch ye—”
“That’s enough, Vanessa,” came Bonnie’s hushed voice, sounding hollow. Max wondered what her expression must look like.
But he didn’t have to guess about Roland’s because he was looking right at the man. His friend had paled as Vanessa had spoken, and now Roland’s lips were pressed together in anger. His pale eyes cut toward Max, who shrugged apologetically.
Okay, so he could’ve told Roland that Vanessa’s beauty made her prideful, but even he hadn’t realized how cruel she could be.
“She needs to be taught a lesson,” Roland hissed.
Max’s brow twitched in question. “What do you have in mind?”
“I dinnae ken, but I’ll think of something. A taste of her own medicine perhaps.”
Max nodded. “Do you want to make excuses and leave?”
Roland’s gaze darted to the door. “Too late.”
“There ye are, my beauties!” Baroness Oliphant crooned from the corridor. “Come along, we must no’ keep our honored guests waiting!” As she swept into the room first, Max saw Roland school his expression into polite interest and tried to mirror him. “Are ye ready for tea, milords?”
Both men had stood as they’d entered, and as the three ladies settled themselves—Bonnie looking embarrassed, and Vanessa preening as she tried to catch Roland’s eye—they sank stiffly back down.
Roland cleared his throat. “Tea would be excellent, thank ye.”
“Wonderful. My Vanessa is skilled at pouring and will do the honors as soon as it arrives.” How much skill did it take to pour tea? “I had to fetch a servant myself to bring it, if ye can believe it.”
“Good help is so hard to find these days,” Roland agreed stiffly.
Baroness Oliphant turned to include her daughters in the conversation. “She was in her father’s workshop of course. I told her to stand by in case we needed anything, but ye ken Ember.”
Ember…was a serving lass then?
Max cleared his throat. “Her father’s workshop? The inn’s servants also work in workshops?”
Baroness Oliphant waved her hand dismissively. “Ember is a…special case. When I married her father—he was quite wealthy, despite being common, ye understand—and since he revitalized the inn, I allowed him a small room near the kitchens for his workshop. Ember tries to escape her duties there.”
Roland didn’t seem impressed. “So this lass is yer daughter?”
Vanessa leaned forward, her fingers rising to rest delicately against her neck, likely to draw attention to her bare skin. “Stepdaughter, milord. She’s always worked as a servant at the inn.”
“Except she gets paid less,” murmured Bonnie.
Max sat back in his chair, trying to process this new information. Not only was Ember actually the serving lass he’d always believed her to be, but she was also the stepdaughter of a lady? Did that not make her a lady herself?
Is that why she’d gone to the ball?
You were at the ball, and you’re no lord. Maybe she just wanted an evening of fun like you did. It was a masquerade.
Max’s thoughts were interrupted by her arrival. Ember stepped into the parlor, her bright hair tucked under that silly cap, and her hands still bearing traces of the oil the engravers used. She was carrying a large tray with a silver tea service and a plate of what looked like small cakes.
“Tea, milady,” she intoned in a hollow voice. “Where would ye like it?”
As Max leaned forward, trying to catch her eye, her stepmother waved airily. “Set it down beside Mr. DeVille so Vanessa can reach it.”
If he hadn’t been looking right at Ember, he might’ve missed the way she jerked in response to the command. Her face paled, and her gaze swung around to meet his. “Mr. DeVille?” she squeaked.
“Aye, ye stupid girl. Put it down beside him. Surely ye ken the man; he’s been our guest for ages!”
Ember’s dark eyes were wide as she stepped toward him, her hands shaking enough to cause the silver service to rattle. He stood and reached for the tray.
Their fingers brushed, shooting that strange electric spark up his arm again, even as she flushed and dropped her gaze to her feet.
“Allow me,” he murmured, taking it from her. She didn’t look up again, but dropped a hasty curtsey, her cheeks flushing red, and hurried from the room.
“How strange,” said Vanessa. “Ember’s usually so calm.”
Yeah, she usually was. So what had caused her to react that way?
“Mr. DeVille, do set the tea down.”
Mr. DeVille.
As he complied with the command, Max thought back over the last few minutes. Mr. DeVille. It had been his name which had made her shut down like that. But why?
“Vanessa, dearest, do pour tea for our guests. Milord, would ye care for a cake?”
As Roland managed to agree that, aye, perhaps a cake would be enjoyable, Max stood there in the center of the room, feeling like a fool. He needed to set things right with Ember, but how?
He didn’t know, but at least he knew where she’d be.
“Um, if you’ll excuse me…” As he began speaking, all eyes in the room turned to him. The expressions ranged from concerned—Bonnie—to excited—Vanessa, likely at the thought of having Roland’s undivided attention, even though Roland just looked irritated. Max sent him an apologetic glance. “I’ve just recalled something I need from my room.”
“Of course,” murmured Baroness Oliphant with a smile.
Max sent a shrug to Roland, promising himself to make it up to his friend, then hurried out the door.
He needed to get to her father’s workshop.
Chapter 8
“Well, shite. That didnae go as planned, did it?”
“Trust in the outcome, sisters. Narrative causality, don’t you know.”
“I dinnae think that’s going to help us this time, Evangeline.”
Ember’s hand shook as she tried to place the tip of the graver into the divot she’d created just before her stepmother’s screeching demands had pulled her away. Tea! She’d had to serve tea to the front parlor, and Ember had decided it was easier to give in—as usual—than listen to Machara squawk.
Litt
le had she known who was waiting in that parlor.
Viscount Whatever-his-title-is had come to call on Vanessa, aye, but he’d brought his good friend, Mr. DeVille, along with him.
Max.
Forcing herself to take a deep breath, Ember shook out her hands and rolled her shoulders. Max was actually Mr. DeVille, the man she’d been set on impressing with this design. Last night, she’d blithely handed him her shoe, blathering on about how she hoped he’d put in a good word with his boss, Mr. DeVille.
And he never once thought to mention who he was!
Hot, angry tears threatened to leak from the corner of her eyes, so she squeezed them shut. Damn him! Had he been laughing at her, at her stupidity, the entire time? Chuckling how this stupid little serving lass hadn’t realized who he was?
Nay! She wasn’t at fault, he was! He was the one who’d lied to her!
Did he though? Ye only spoke about his boss last night, so maybe he assumed ye meant someone else.
Surely she’d referred to Mr. DeVille? Surely he’d heard her refer to them as separate people, and simply hadn’t bothered to correct her?
She was an idiot for thinking he could be trusted. For thinking he cared for her.
Ignoring the tracks of the tears down her cheeks, she bent back over her father’s vice. The heel was clamped between the jaws, ready for her to embellish it so it’d match the one she still had upstairs.
Assuming she could focus her attention and energy enough to continue engraving. Right now, her body and mind felt on fire; full of fierce, impotent anger.
“Ember?”
Hearing his voice, in her workshop, caused her to gasp and whirl around. When she saw him standing in the doorway, his hat held protectively in front of him, her grip tightened on the graver in her hand.
“What do ye want?” Her voice sounded raspy, gravelly, even to her own ears.
Slowly, he placed the hat on the workbench and shut the door. Good. No one needed to hear her rant at him, and as he took a step into the room—closer to her—she doubted she’d be able to keep her mouth shut and swallow down her hurt.