Page 43 of The Lady Needs a Rogue
“Might I suggest that the next time you feel the need to smuggle in a man, you borrow my departed husband’s cloak. I’d imagine it would be a better fit.” Mrs. Tuttle studied him. “The tweed would do justice to those broad shoulders.”
Finn stared at the polished oak planks, looking as if he longed to disappear into the woodwork.
Macie bit back a grin. “Why, Mrs. Tuttle, are my ears deceiving me? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to flatter my bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard?” Mrs. Tuttle’s cough was strategically timed. “Somehow, I don’t think this is what your brother intended.”
Macie shrugged. “Jon is not here to offer his opinion on the matter.”
Mrs. Tuttle folded her arms and offered a sage nod. “After what happened to you at that gloomy old house, I suppose it would not be a bad thing to have a man about the place.”
“Indeed. Mr. Caldwell insisted on staying on to watch over us. He is chivalrous to the bone, a knight in not-so-shiny armor.”
Mrs. Tuttle chuckled under her breath. “Chivalry? So that’s what they’re calling it now.”
Finn summoned his most disarming smile. He’d melted the icy shields around many a lass’s heart with that subtle curve of his mouth. Unfortunately, Mildred Tuttle was not one of those women. As the housekeeper met his gaze, the glimmer of amusement in her eyes disappeared, replaced by an Arctic-thick frost.
“Surely ye do not doubt my intentions. Jon Mason is an old friend. I would not betray his trust. Ye do know that, don’t ye now, Mrs. Tuttle?”
“If Macie trusts that guarding against villains is all you have on your mind tonight, who am I to be doubting you?” Mrs. Tuttle’s eyes narrowed, strategic as her little cough. “But keep this in mind—I am a light sleeper. And let me assure you, Finn Caldwell, you will not be getting anything polished tonight.” A slow smile lifted the corners of her thin mouth. “Not even your armor.”
*
Finn shifted restlesslyon the too-blasted-short settee that had served as his bed through the night. Drifting in that realm between sleep and awareness, he tugged the knitted blanket around him, still not quite ready to drag himself from slumberdespite the ache in his bones. In his thoughts, he drifted on what seemed a calm wave, while a low, rhythmic sound that brought to mind the one his grandfather had made when he dozed off before the fireplace filled his ears.
But why in blazes was the noise so close? And why did he feel a gentle, even breath brush the tip of his ear? Bollocks, what was that touching the nape of his neck?
Opening his eyes scarcely enough to let in light, he craned his neck.Bloody hell.A midnight-black cat lay on the back of the sofa, blinking its amber gold eyes as it stirred from rest. One paw dangled over the upholstery, just low enough to touch Finn’s neck, while the rest of the cat’s plump body balanced on the wood trim at the back of the settee. Was it his imagination, or did the creature look annoyed that Finn had moved just enough to disturb her? The cat regarded him for a long moment, then yawned.
So this was Cleo, fishy breath and all. Jon had warned him about the feline curmudgeon who possessed a penchant for sharpening its claws on expensive rugs, ornate upholstery, and the occasional trouser leg. Macie had toted the cat with her across the continent, and if Jon’s claims were true, the cat was the bane of Mrs. Tuttle’s existence. That alone was enough to make Finn like the wee beast. Jon had speculated that his sister had trained the cat to drive off unwanted callers. Was it possible to perform such a feat? If it were, Finn didn’t doubt that Macie would’ve figured out a way to do it.
Regarding Finn with lazy interest, Cleo stretched out a paw, lightly brushing it against his shoulder. No claws. No hisses. Simply a look of intense curiosity about the human who’d taken over her sleeping spot in the parlor.
With what looked to be an expression of feline disdain, Cleo shifted her attention to something or someone behind him. Blinking against the morning light that streamed in between thegap in the curtains, Finn turned to face Macie’s housekeeper. Mrs. Tuttle stood in the doorway, her mouth pinched in a look of annoyance.
Behind him, the cat yawned again, stretching her body over the back of the settee. Mrs. Tuttle’s eyes narrowed, nearly as pinched as her mouth. “There you are, you willful minx.”
Minx? He’d been called a lot of things in his twenty-nine years of life, but this was a first. Fortunately, his drowsy mind stirred to alertness and he realized she was speaking to the cat before he could embarrass himself with a reply.
“She isn’t supposed to be on the furniture,” the housekeeper said, as if he’d somehow been complicit in the cat’s disobedience.
Finn sat up straight, tugging his shirt tails down as his bare feet landed on the braided rug. He threw the cat a glance over his shoulder. Was it his imagination, or did the cat appear amused by Mrs. Tuttle’s reaction?
“Doesn’t anyone sleep in this house?” he asked while lazily stretching his arms over his head.
“There is work to be done, Mr. Caldwell.” She walked over to the windows and opened the curtains. Bright rays of morning sun streamed in. “The morning meal will not cook itself. I presume you have a hearty appetite.”
“So I’ve been told,” he said.
Planting her hands on her hips, she pinned him with her weary gray gaze. “I know why you’re here. I trust Mr. Jon would not have called upon you to watch over her if he did not trust you. But I cannot say that I share that faith.”
“I won’t let anyone harm her, Mrs. Tuttle. Ye can count on that.”
She regarded him silently for a long moment, seeming to consider his words. “Miss Macie is a good girl, she is. Despitethe worldly act she puts on.” Mrs. Tuttle met his gaze. “You will respect that.”
Despite the distrust in her eyes, Finn saw the protectiveness underlying the old woman’s hard veneer. The emotion in her voice touched him. More than he’d imagined possible.
“I will treat Miss Mason like the lady she is.” He spoke the truth. “Ye have my word.”
