I will always find us a home. Or in the least, you shall always have a home with me, even if it be only a single room that I can afford.” She’d been very frugal with the money she’d received from selling their father’s artifacts. So much so, she even managed to put a small sum away for Nevan’s inheritance, in the event something should happen to her. It wasn’t much, but it was secure with a banker here in Edinburgh.
“I’m missing a tooth,” Nevan said.
“What?”
Her brother pointed to the collection. “I’ve lost one. Mature wolves have forty-two teeth and now I only have forty-one.”
“For the love of God, Nevan. Forget those damn things and go get changed for dinner.”
With a swipe of his hand, Nevan gathered his collection of teeth and carefully slid them into the sterling silver box their father had sent them in. “Well, at least it is a normal thing, this time.”
“Normal?” She hadn’t a clue what Nevan meant.
“The letter from Lord Lycansay. It did not reference those uncommon incidents father often wrote about, did it?”
“Since when did you learn of such of things?”
A red tint painted her brother’s cheeks.
“Master Nevan, have you been reading my private post?”
“Honestly, Sarina, for a woman of twenty-and-four, you are sometimes addlebrained.”
“Explain yourself.”
Nevan put down the silver box. “Your anger is misdirected. You should not be concerned with what I might or might not have read and therefore, done wrong. You should be more concerned with the fact that Father actually witnessed such things. That such things are indeed reality.”
She didn’t like the idea that her brother knew of such happenings, of such rumors men only whispered about in their most feared moments. “We shall not speak of those incidents again. Is that clear?”
Nevan nodded, stray strands of his unruly brown hair now dangling in his eyes.
“Especially once we arrive in Dundaire,” she added.
“Understood, Sister. For I am not a child.”
“You are twelve.”
Nevan sat back and adjusted his blue waistcoat as if he were a man about to take on the world. “As I said, I am not a child. And on that note, please realize I do mean to take care of you. I am the man of this family now that Father is dead, and I will not see you carry on as a spinster. I shall find a husband suited to you.”
Sarina stifled a laugh. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely. Perhaps I will even find you an appropriate man in Dundaire.”
She said nothing as a Highland brute was definitely not her idea of an ideal mate. Especially a man from Dundaire, as her father had mentioned several times in his letters that the males in that part of Scotland, believed they could sense their mate solely by scent. And she did not need a Highland brute sniffing her neck.
“There are unmarried men in Dundaire, are there not?” Nevan’s amber-eyed gaze drifted her way.
“I’ve never been, but I would imagine Dundaire is no different than any other part of Scotland. Eligible men and all.”
“Then it is settled. I shall find you a husband in Dundaire.”
She left it at that, her heart not caring to hurt her brother’s feelings.
With letter still in hand, Sarina pushed off the sofa, stood and crossed the drawing room. She headed for the desk. While it was too late to make today’s post, her response to Lord Lycansay would be on its way to Dundaire, first thing tomorrow.
She stepped into the ray of sunlight cutting across the room. Warmth radiated off the desk, its shiny walnut surface hot to the touch. She pulled out the dainty matching chair in front and sat before retrieving a leaf of paper from the main compartment. “Dinner will soon be served, Nevan. And since I don’t care to have to repeat myself a third time, run along and change so we won’t be late.”
“And what of your letter to Lord Lycansay? Shall you mention me in it?”
“Of course I shall. Now, go.”
Without further fuss, Nevan grabbed his box of teeth and fled the drawing room.
A calm settled over Sarina’s soul.
Alone, she sat at the desk and reached for a goose quill rather than the steel pen that lay next to it. The choice was an odd one, as she’d been writing with a pen for over a year now, but the quill reminded her of her father. Of the time he’d taught her how to write her name in ink.
She toyed with the quill, the feather’s edge smooth against her