said in a gruffer voice than Quentin had heard from him all afternoon. And with a stronger Scottish accent. Quentin had already noticed that the Highland burr in the lad’s speech was an unreliable visitor.
“Here, let me help you up.”
Quentin noticed Kit’s relieved expression as Hamish heaved him to his feet. They were attracting a crowd. Emily bustled over with Andy in tow, while William and Laing scrambled down the hill toward them. When William stumbled with tiredness as they approached, Laing picked him up and gave him a few encouraging words.
“Are ye in one piece, nephew?” Laing asked, once he was within earshot.
“Never better, Uncle,” Kit said.
“What a bouncer,” Quentin protested. “You must be black and blue after that tumble.”
The look that the boy shot him conveyed dislike – before the obedient servant expression descended again. “No real harm was done, sir,” Kit said in a wooden tone.
“Nonetheless, it was a nasty wee spill,” Laing said to his nephew. “Ye can sit up with me when we go back to the house.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” Kit said and turned to collect the sled from where it had landed upside down in the snow.
Quentin rushed to take it from the stable lad. “Go and sit on the cart. Nobody expects you to help pack up.” He hadn’t missed the way movement had made Kit hide a wince. “I think we should get the doctor in.”
Huge eyes fastened on him with horror. “No!”
Kit’s hands clenched on the sled. Just before fighting over the sled turned into a wrestle, the lad surrendered. He dropped his head and mumbled, “Thank ye for your concern, Mr. MacNab. I’m just a wee bit knocked about. My uncle has some liniment that will have me right as rain tomorrow.”
“Liniment for horses,” Quentin said, knowing that Kit wished him to Hades for his fussing.
Yet again, the lad didn’t meet his eyes. “We are all creatures under God’s eyes, I believe, sir.”
As Quentin burst into laughter, Kit turned away and moved with surprising speed toward the cart.
***
After supper in the servants’ hall, a meal enlivened by excitement about the looming Christmas celebrations, Kit slipped away from the cozy big house to the scarcely less cozy stables. At Glen Lyon, the horses lived in luxury. But then the estate was a good example of just how to manage a property. All the crofters’ cottages were in good repair, fencing and equipment were in fine fettle, nobody complained under Hamish and Emily Douglas’s authority. At the last place Kit had been, things hadn’t been nearly so well-run.
Aching from the aftereffects of his accident, he climbed the stairs to the room he’d been given near the head groom’s apartment. Because of his privileged position as Laing’s nephew, he didn’t have to share his quarters with anyone else.
Kit entered the room and bolted the door behind him. With a weary sigh, he sank against the door. He was sore and bruised, and his adventures with the runaway sled had roused far too much interest at dinner. Not to mention that Quentin MacNab’s kindness after the spill had left him thoroughly unsettled.
Quentin MacNab, handsome as the devil, with his thick, tawny hair and sharp hazel eyes that never missed a trick. Since Hamish’s nephew had evinced an interest in the new stableboy, Kit had done his best to stay out of the way. But today’s exploits had placed him firmly in Mr. MacNab’s sights, plague take it.
With another sigh, Kit straightened and stepped into the middle of the floor to undress. First to come off was the thick coat, followed by the woolen jerkin and the linen shirt. Then, very carefully, he unwound the binding that constricted his chest, swearing under his breath as he noted the purple marks blossoming over his white skin.
And just like that, Kit Laing became Christabel Urquhart.
Chapter 2
Along with most of the Glen Lyon household, Kit set out on the next afternoon’s expedition to gather greenery to decorate the house for the festive season. As they did most years, the laird and his lady were hosting a big house party for Christmas, and the guests were due to start arriving on Christmas Eve for a gala ball.
Kit had heard so many tales below stairs of an event brimming with glamour and fun. Because Emily was English and Hamish had spent most of his childhood in London, Christmas at Glen Lyon was a joyous mixture of traditions, unlike anything Kit had ever experienced before. The guests stayed over until Boxing