the flickering light generated by the blazing fire and numerous clusters of fat beeswax candles danced about the wooden wainscoting and the low-beamed ceiling. The curtains of burgundy red velvet were drawn against the cold, drear night. The weather had deteriorated; the wind had picked up and squalls of rain hit the windowpanes, making them rattle intermittently. Thunder growled in the distance.
Hamish congratulated himself on making the decision to spend the night here as he dropped into a sturdy Jacobean-style chair of blackened oak at the dining table already set for dinner and poured himself a glass of claret. While there was a pressing need to get to Skye as soon as possible, there was no sense putting everyone in danger by continuing on through the darkness, doing battle with the elements.
He was particularly aware that he now had a duty of care toward not only Tilda but also Miss Morland. What a dashed nuisance it was that he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the young woman in wholly inappropriate ways. The fact that he’d had been obliged to install Miss Morland and Tilda in the chamber adjacent to his wasn’t helping matters—the inn was full to its bursting point, no doubt due to the onset of the inclement weather. Of course, the presence of the child would assuredly have a dampening effect upon his unseemly desire, but just the thought of Miss Lavinia Morland next door to him in any state of dishabille was still damnably arousing.
To ensure he had any chance of sleeping tonight, it was best he get well and truly soused. To that end, Hamish promptly downed his claret and refilled his glass . . . and then there was a knock at the door. Daniels, who stood on duty, opened it to reveal Miss Morland and Tilda.
Even though Miss Morland was one of his staff, he rose as any gentleman would and bowed as she entered. “You’re early,” he remarked as she and Tilda approached the table. The clock on the wooden mantel revealed the time to be ten minutes to seven.
“And so are you, my lord,” she replied with a shy smile. The candlelight lent her dark brown eyes a mysterious, luminous quality he found most appealing. “In any case, it would be poor f-form indeed to keep my employer waiting.”
“Indeed.”
The footman drew close, perhaps to seat the new arrivals at the table, but Hamish waved him away, yet again unaccountably disgruntled by the young man’s eagerness to court the nursemaid’s attention. “Daniels, make yourself useful and chase up our meal,” he instructed, pulling out a nearby chair for Miss Morland instead. “And then consider yourself dismissed for the evening. We shall dine à la française.”
“Aye, my lord.” Daniels’s face fell, but nevertheless he complied. However, Hamish didn’t miss the longing look he threw the nursemaid before the door closed behind him. The lad would be better off chasing the barmaids in the taproom.
Miss Morland hovered by her seat. A slight frown pleated her brow. “I suspect Tilda will need to sit upon a cushion or two to reach the table, my lord.”
“Yes. You’re quite right.” He snagged two cushions from a damask-upholstered sofa by the fireside and stacked them on another chair before lifting the light-as-a-feather child and placing her on top. “Will that do, Miss Tilda?” he asked, pushing the chair in carefully so the cushions wouldn’t wobble too much. He didn’t want her to fall.
The child stared wide-eyed at him for several seconds before nodding. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured.
An unexpected warmth spread inside Hamish’s chest. It pleased him that the bairn didn’t find him quite so frightening anymore. Perhaps she might eventually be coaxed into talking to him more about her mysterious mama. “You’re very welcome, wee one.”
“Yes, thank you, my lord.” Miss Morland sat gracefully, and once again Hamish wondered about her background. The deep purple gown she wore was of fine wool and well cut even if it was far too spinsterish for his liking—the neckline was high, concealing the lass’s lovely décolletage. Miss Morland might claim she was a poor relative of the de Veres, but her family hadn’t scrimped on providing her with a decent, albeit sedate, wardrobe.
Come to think of it, Tilda’s gown seemed to be of a superior quality too. Hamish studied the little girl’s white muslin gown with its bright blue sash as he reclaimed his seat at the table. Not that he was an authority on children’s clothing, by any means,