tea and toast. The maid will be back in a few minutes.”
He relaxed against the pillow. “I hope she’ll bring more than that. I’m starving.”
I sat up, pulling the covers around me. “We should get dressed.”
Ian frowned. “Why?”
“I don’t want her to find us like this.”
“Good Lord.” He looked genuinely surprised. “Why not?”
I didn’t answer, but my incredulity must have been obvious. His eyes danced with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed in front of the servants.”
“Aren’t you?”
He laughed. “Not at all. There isn’t a person in this entire castle who doesn’t know where I spent the night. Why do you think no one knocked on my door to ask if I wanted breakfast?”
I could feel the deep blush staining my chest and shoulders. Opening my mouth to speak, I was silenced by another knock.
“Your breakfast is here,” announced a feminine voice.
“Do you want me to leave?” Ian mouthed the words. I nodded. He threw back the covers, gathered his clothing, kissed me briefly on the forehead, and exited through the adjoining door.
“Come in,” I called out as the knock resounded once again.
The maid, carrying a tray of silver-covered dishes; two plates, cups, and saucers; and two sets of silverware, entered the room. She placed the tray on a nearby table and looked around. “Will you be breakfasting alone this morning, Miss Murray?”
“Yes.”
“Where will Mr. Douglas be eating?”
“I beg your pardon?” I couldn’t help myself. I was unprepared for such a matter-of-fact attitude toward sex.
“Where shall I take Mr. Douglas’s breakfast?” she asked, not at all disconcerted by the tumbled bedclothes, my bare shoulders, or chapped, kiss-swollen lips.
“He’s in the bathroom,” I muttered, acknowledging defeat. Ian was right. The habits of the duke of Atholl and his guests didn’t concern the servants in the least.
“Will he be returning or shall I take a tray to his room?” she asked politely.
Enough was enough. Wrapping the sheet around me, I stood, grateful for my inches. I was in control once again. “I’ll see that Mr. Douglas gets his breakfast,” I said firmly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to dress.”
“Of course, Miss Murray.” With a pleasant smile, she left the room. I didn’t relax until I heard the click of the bolt.
Pulling on a robe from the armoire, I walked to the bathroom and opened the door. Ian was shaving at the sink. He looked rested and healthy from the tracks in his shower-damp hair to the towel wrapped around his waist. “There’s breakfast for two in my room,” I announced.
He grinned, and I relaxed. “How did you know it wouldn’t matter?” I asked, leaning against the marbled sink.
He wiped the shaving cream from his face. “British society is still very status conscious, Christina. Those in service to the upper classes regard everything their employers do with a certain detached amusement that wouldn’t be tolerated within their own order.”
“Are you telling me that the duke of Atholl’s servants wouldn’t be comfortable associating with us?”
“Exactly.”
“Isn’t that a rather outdated assessment? After all, I’m a history teacher and you’re a farmer.”
Ian laughed. “True. But in this case, it makes no difference how we earn our living. On this island and in much of Europe, family is everything.”
“Do you approve of that philosophy?” I asked curiously.
“It doesn’t matter whether I do or not. I live here and change doesn’t occur overnight.”
He was wrong. It did matter, but I wasn’t sure how much. He turned away from the mirror and folded his arms across his chest. His face was smooth and completely expressionless. “Will you pour me some tea?” he asked.
I nodded and walked back into my room, conscious of his presence close behind me. He slipped beneath the bedcovers, while I poured the dark, fragrant liquid into a cup, added milk, and handed it to him. Ian ate and drank the same way he did everything, quickly and efficiently with a minimum of wasted motion. I watched him swallow his tea and wield a knife, carefully spreading the delicious Golden Shred marmalade across his toast with blunt, capable fingers. A sweet, piercing ache rose up inside me. There was something deeply personal about the sharing of breakfast after lovemaking. It was a promise, a sense of completeness, of well-being and security, that I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Later, after we’d dressed and were on our way back to the borders, I asked Ian about Jeanne Maxwell. “Did Jeanne die at Traquair House?”
He reached over and squeezed my hand. “Yes, but I wouldn’t