Page 24 of Her Magnificent Mistake
Finally his expression eased just slightly, the skin around his eyes softening. “Ihavebecome entranced by the sound of a stream, I suppose.”
Oh, so he liked nature? Marcia could work with that. She’d been practically raised on that. She slid around to stand at his side, to invite further conversation as they walked. “Oh, yes, I have heard the burns in Cowal are just stunning.”I would not know for sure, of course, because I have not been invited toseeany.
“They used to be, true.” The butler cleared his throat. “Has my lady had the chance to see Beinn Mhòr? It used to be truly stunning.”
At last! A chink in his armor! Beaming at finally finding an in with the staid old butler, Marcia clasped her hands in a passable imitation of excitement. “Oh, how I would love to see that! You must be a true lover of the natural world!”
They reached the end of the corridor and Artrip stopped, clearly intending to turn toward the servants’ stairway. “I have often thought that the infinite beauties of the nature around us are the most important thing in this short life.” He gave a shallow bow. “Can I help you with anything else, my lady?”
Ah, the interview was at an end then? But she’d made headway, she knew it! Huzzah to progress! Huzzah to achievement! Huzzah to…well, it was a small victory, but it was not as though she were inundated with them. “Could you, perhaps, point me toward the baron? I should like to ask him to make time to escort me to see the mountain.”
His expression blank, Artrip nodded once. “Certainly. He is currently sitting in the rose garden.” Was that a note of distaste in his voice? “Reading.”
Was the butler disapproving of the reading, or the doing it out of doors? It didn’t matter: it was progress. Marcia offered a bright smile. “Thank you ever so much, Artrip. From one nature lover to another, have a beautiful day!”
The old man wore the vaguest hint of a smile as he turned away, and she patted herself on the back—metaphorically of course, she wasn’tthatflexible—for finding a connection with him. Perhaps there were benefits to being as charming as Bull at times?
You can only be yourself.
When Marcia reached the gardens, she slowed. Tostinham truly was a beautiful estate, and although she could never understand why he would kill for it, she could understand why Hawk loved it so much.
Wished to possess it.
Her feet crunched on the gravel and she winced, knowing if he heard her, he’d find an excuse to disappear. At the end of the row Marcia hopped to the grass and sidled toward the gazebo. As she approached, she heard mutterings.
“Howmuch for feed? Good God, do the cows no’ eat grass? Is that no’ why we have grass? Or hay?” The sound of papers being flipped. “Ha! Last year’s expense was half…Fook, we bought cattle feed twice? Am I understanding this right?”
Marcia stopped, partially hidden by a large topiary of a peacock, to study Hawk as he shuffled papers about.
“Christ Almighty, wedid.” He huffed and slapped the papers down to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Either we bought the feed twice, or Michaelson is pulling something shady.” With asigh, he picked up another pile of paper to rifle through as he muttered, “Where’s the page with the blue smudge on top? The world’s truly gone to shite when a man cannae trust his own steward.”
Marcia eased herself further into the shadows of the peacock’s tail, her stomach suddenly knotted in anticipation.
Hawk was seated at a table in the middle of a gazebo, clearly brought out for just this purpose, with ledgers and folios and piles of paper before him. He had a pencil in one hand, another behind his right ear, and he muttered to himself as he jotted notes and flipped between the pages. There was a smear of ink on his cheek.
And her traitorous heart gave a little flip each time his hand crossed the shaft of sunlight which lit the gazebo.
She’d always loved his hands, scarred and callused as they were. They weren’t a gentleman’s hand, but the hands of a man who loved the outdoors, who reveled in the chance to pit himself against nature. In the last ten years, his hands had gained more scars—across the knuckles, across the palms, possibly from a slip of an ax or a poorly-held knife?—but she could still remember the way they felt.
On her skin. Against her lips. Deep within her.
Perhaps she made a noise—Heaven knew she was trying to rein in her unbridled arousal—because he suddenly looked up. Hawk’s expression went from surprise to pleasure to wariness in a blink.
“Marcia? What are ye doing here?”
Remember, you are flirting with him.Flirting with a murderer.“La, looking for you, of course,” she answered playfully, sashaying up the steps to the gazebo.
At least, shethoughtshe was sashaying. Having never actually seen someone sashay, it was difficult to mimic. So she compromised on a sort of hip-wriggling stumble. It was fortunate indeed that there were only three steps.
Hawk tossed his pencil down. “Are ye aright? Why are ye limping?”
So much for that. Marcia rolled her eyes and planted her hands on her hips. “I am not limping, you blind idiot, I am sashaying.”
“I beg yer?—”
“Sashaying—have you never seen a woman sashay before?”
“Sashaying? Why?”
