She took a breath, adjusted the satchel in her hand, and marched purposefully down the corridor.
The door to the drawing room was closed, and she rapped softly, straining to hear any sound from within. A moment later, she heard his footfall, and the door swung open. When he saw her standing there, an expression passed over his face of something she felt deep in herself, something she could not name, but that reached to the very pit of her soul.
It passed quickly; he coldly gestured for her to come in.
“And a jolly good morning to you, sir,” she said smartly as she strode into the room and heaved the satchel onto a chair.
Grif quietly shut the door and leaned back against it, his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing only his waistcoat, and Anna could see the faint outline of his arm in the fabric. It reminded her of the feel of his arms and shoulders beneath her hand as they had kissed in the garden.
The memory angered her, and she jerked off her gloves and flung them on top of the satchel.
When she looked up, Grif was smiling a little sardonically. “Is that it, then?” he asked, nodding at the bag.
“What else would it be?” she asked peevishly.
He shrugged lightly. “Any number of things. A rock, although I wouldna recommend it, as that’s been done before. All Scottish Lockharts know to be vigilant of rocks.”
Anna gave him a snort as she untied her bonnet, and threw that, too, on top of the bag. “It’s there; your precious gargoyle is there.”
“Beastie,” he calmly corrected her. He pushed away from the door, strolled across the room to the bag. “May I?” he asked as he reached for it.
“By all means. Assure yourself that I am not a thief and that I honor my word,” she said, folding her arms tightly across her middle.
He grasped the leather handles of the satchel and pulled them apart, then quickly undid the buckle. He reached inside, pulled out a white bundle with tiny blue bows and lifted a brow. “What is this, then?” he asked, clearly amused.
“I had to have something to wrap it in!” she exclaimed, blushing at the sight of her drawers.
Grif chuckled again, unwound the drawers from the beastie, and made a sound of surprise as he held it up. “Diah,” he said, wrinkling his nose.
“It’s quite ugly, that thing. I can’t possibly imagine why it should hold such a place of honor in your family.”
“Legend has it that Lady Lockhart’s lover had it commissioned for her. She and her lover were executed when their affair was discovered by the laird of Lockhart.”
“Really?” Anna asked, dropping her arms and moving closer to view it. “Why should he have such a horrid thing made for her?”
Grif shrugged as he touched the ruby eyes. “No one knows, really. Our great grandfather speculated that the beastie held some sort of meaning for them. Whatever its meaning, it is cast of gold and boasts two dozen rubies. ’Tis priceless, and has been highly desired by the English and the Scottish Lockharts for centuries. But it rightfully belongs,” he said, carefully wrapping it in her drawers again, “to the Scottish Lockharts.”
“Well, there now, you have it,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You may happily trot back to Scotland with your booty.”
“Aye… thank ye, Anna.”
“Why? Why are you thanking me?” she demanded, feeling cross again. “We had an agreement, you and I, and you, well…I suppose you held your end, and naturally I did the same.”
“And thank ye for holding yer end of it. Women canna always be trusted,” he said, as if it were a scientifically documented fact.
“That’s absurd!” she exclaimed. “Women are no more or less trustworthy than men!”
“Ach, do ye truly believe that?” he asked as he stuffed the statue into the satchel.
“Of course I do!”
“Then I can trust that ye will honor yer word and marry Lockhart when he offers for ye?”
Why in God’s name that should make tears spring to her eyes, Anna could not say, and horrified by them, she abruptly whirled away from Grif and stalked blindly to the window.
“What is it now, Anna? Why should this make ye sad?”
“I’m not sad,” she insisted, squeezing her eyes shut to keep tears from leaking.
“Ye should be happy. Ye’ve earned his affection. Why, I can see ye now, bouncing a wee bairn on yer knee, yer new sister, Barbara, at the pianoforte, yer dear husband quietly reading. What a lovely portrait it would make.”
“Stop it,” she said through gritted teeth.
“But why? It is a lovely portrait, is it no’?”
She realized she was clenching her hands into fists, and her nails were biting into her palms as she tried to maintain her composure.