A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,31
Was this piece new? He tried to remember if he’d seen it the last time he’d lingered here. They’d no doubt procured it to cover the door that led to—
Another small sneeze interrupted his thoughts. “Forgive me,” begged a British female voice before a delicate sniff. “Dust always makes me sneeze.” She cleared her throat. “It is kind of Dougal and Mr. Pitagowan to draw a bath. I feel it is the only way I’ll ever be warm again. And the room is really so charming, I’m certain I’ll be comfortable here. I might not have survived a march to the Cairngorm Tavern.”
John closed his eyes as a strange, incandescent vibration shimmered through him.
The new feminine voice was husky and smooth, like smoke exhaled over the most expensive brandy. It slid between his ribs like a smooth assassins’ blade, nicking at a heart that hadn’t ticked for at least a century. It both stirred and soothed him in equal measure.
“Like I said earlier, miss, this isna kindness, it’s a service. One ye paid generously for, so enjoy it with our blessing and warm yer wee bones before ye shiver right out of them.”
John had always been an appreciator of the Scottish brogue, but this woman’s pitch could likely offend sensitive dogs. It was especially jarring after the crisp, clear notes of British gentility.
He poked his head back through the wardrobe doors to find who belonged to such a sound, and realized immediately why he’d missed her before.
Dressed in the most peculiar plain grey wool cloak that’d been soaked through, the slip of a woman had flattened herself against the grey stone wall just inside the door, her skirts protecting an oddly shaped brown case on the floor beneath her. A plain, dark felt hat shadowed her features in the room only lit by two dim lanterns, but he could tell it had obviously not kept her ebony curls dry. The impression of a sharp jaw and shapely lips above a thick black scarf drew the rest of him from the wardrobe to investigate.
She’d been out in that bastard of a storm? This waifish girl? No wonder the Pitagowans had interrupted his peace to prepare the room for her. The laws of Highland hospitality—if there still was such a thing—would not have allowed them to deny anyone sanctuary.
“You have my gratitude all the same, Mrs. Pitagowan,” the woman said.
God, how he had missed the dulcet pronunciations of the gently bred ladies of his homeland. It’d been so long. He wanted to bid her to speak, to never stop.
“I told ye, call us Bess and Balthazar, everyone else does.” The innkeeper trundled over to the door and accepted a tray of tea, which she set on the small stand next to the bed. After, she squeezed around her husband, who’d returned with yet another cauldron of water, to the small brick fireplace on the far wall. Rolling up her sleeves, she squatted to arrange a fire.
“You must call me Vanessa, then.”
Vanessa. John tested the name on his tongue, and he thought he saw the woman tense beneath her layers.
Could she hear him already? The sun hadn’t gone down yet.
“Where are ye from, lass?” Bess asked, carrying on the conversation.
John found himself equally curious.
“My family resides in London, mostly,” Vanessa answered. “Though I am compelled to spend most of the time at our country estate in Derbyshire.”
John thought her reply rather curious, not only the phrase but the bleak note lurking beneath the false cheer she’d injected into her voice. Compelled. An interesting word.
If Bess thought it odd, she didn’t mention. “Where were ye headed in such a storm, if ye doona mind me asking?”
“Not at all.” Bending to drag the case with her, Vanessa rested it by the tea-laden table, out of the way of Balthazar’s and Dougal’s stomping feet. “I was on the road to Fort Augustus on Loch Ness when the blizzard overtook us.” She poured herself a cup of the steaming brew as she answered.
“Is yer family there?” Bess turned to cast a queer look at her. “Will they be fretting after ye?”
The lady didn’t bother to sweeten the tea; she simply lifted it to her soft mouth and puckered her lips to blow across the surface before taking a sip.
A strange, hollow longing overtook John as he watched her shiver with delight as she swallowed the warm liquid and let out an almost imperceptible sigh.