Everyone laughed at that; even Mr. Beckwith smiled.
“If ye’re no’ a witch,” Jamie doggedly pressed on, “then why are ye here? Ye are a Lockhart, aye? Quality, ye are. But ’tis the daughter of a Lockhart,” he said, turning excitedly to the others, “who is cursed until she looks in the eye of a’ diabhal—”
“Belly,” Mared said with a smile, resigning herself to the notion that he might as well recite the curse correctly if he was to mention it at all.
“Eh, what?” Jamie asked, startled.
“The daughter of a Lockhart must look in the belly of the beast. No’ his eye.” At Jamie’s look of confusion, she sighed. “If ye are to tell my secrets, Jamie, I’d have ye tell them correctly. ’Tis said that the daughter of a Lockhart will no’ marry until she looks into the belly of the beast,” she informed them, “which ye may take to mean the devil, but for all I know, I should look in the belly of an old coo!”
Alan laughed again, but none of the others laughed. They just looked at her curiously, their fascination plainly evident.
“’Tis true, then,” Jamie said, his voice lower, his eyes fixed on her. “They say any man who comes round with the intent of offering marriage to her will lose his life…or she hers,” he said ominously and glanced around at the others. “Ye recall his lordship fell off the terrace the night of the ball? He was no’ alone on that terrace—’tis common knowledge. And it’s right odd that the balustrade would give way as it did that night.”
“Odd, indeed,” Mared said and tapped him on the arm. “But ye forget one important fact, sir. The laird was no’ intent on offering for me.”
“But…Miss Douglas said that he was!” Una whispered, wide-eyed.
“That’s quite enough!” Beckwith said sharply, slapping his hand down on the table and startling them all. “I willna abide any tales of witches and fairies, and furthermore, the laird was no’ set to offer for any lass. If there is to be an offer, it will likely be for Miss Crowley, and ye—”
He stopped, quickly raising a hand for everyone to remain silent. They all heard it then—the tingling of the bell. “He’s arrived,” Beckwith said, and stood abruptly. “Jamie,” he said. “Ye are with me.”
Jamie did not hesitate to rise and toss his napkin aside and follow Beckwith out.
The rest of them began gathering plates and serving platters. Mared did, too, but as she walked into the kitchen, she noticed Mrs. Mackerell quickly crossing herself.
Eleven
P ayton had ridden out with Sarah’s coach, then had kept on riding to get as far from Eilean Ros as possible. He could not imagine now what he’d been thinking when he’d conjured up this preposterous scheme. Oh, aye, he wanted some revenge, but he took no pleasure in Mared’s anger or her tears as he thought he would. And now she would bedevil him—inexplicably cheerful, entirely inept as a housekeeper, and even worse, those green eyes were now everywhere in his house.
He rode about the vast acreage of his estate looking at sheep and calling on tenants, trying desperately to clear his mind. But as it was obvious those hearty souls had more important work to do than speculate with him about the date of the first frost, he’d gone on to Aberfoyle. After two generous drams of whiskey at the local tavern, he called to Finella, a serving wench he knew intimately, and proceeded upstairs with her.
In the room, he locked the door at his back, turned to a smiling Finella, who was well accustomed to their couplings, and was already massaging her breast in anticipation of what was to come.
“Undress,” he commanded her and stood there, his back to the door, watching her as she disrobed. It was something he enjoyed, watching a woman remove her clothing a piece at a time, but for once, Finella’s disrobing did not spark the least bit of interest in him.
And again, when he sank between Finella’s fleshy thighs and put his mouth to her large breast, her body did not arouse his usual lusty response. It was, he thought indignantly, Mared he thought of, Mared he saw when he closed his eyes and plunged into Finella.
And it was that abominably angry kiss he thought of, too—the moment he had lost control and taken her lips in anger.
The memory made his tryst laborious—it seemed forever before he found his release, long after Finella had found hers and lost interest. But he wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. It seemed a door-die mission, as if completing this single act would prove that Mared hadn’t effectively neutered him.
When he at last found his pitiful release, Finella wiggled out from beneath him and began to gather up her clothing. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milord, but they’ll be looking for me below,” she said apologetically and slipped a foot into her stocking, which she rolled up her leg as her breasts swung from her chest.