She shrugged, the gesture so natural that he wondered if she might be French, although he thought her accent was something more unusual.
“Where are you from?” he asked, trying to keep his tone more circumspect.
“The kitchens.” With a mocking smile, she turned and placed the decanter on the table at his side.
She was now out of his reach, yet still tantalizingly close.“Nae, I mean what country are you from?”
“Does it matter?”
He frowned. Bloody hell, she’s secretive, this one. “At least tell me your name. It seems unfair that you know mine while I am denied yours.”
Her gaze flickered over his face, then his clothing, resting on his cravat and tailored coat with a calm, assessing look. After a moment, she said, “Mr. Drummond does not wish me to talk to the customers.”
That’s odd. Most innkeepers require that their attractive maids do just that. He recalled Drummond’s hesitation when he’d mentioned the maid earlier. Why? Buchan wished he’d asked more questions of the usually chatty innkeeper. “Let me be plain. Every Friday I rent this parlor. When I am here, this chamber is mine and I may speak to whomever I wish. And that includes kitchen maids.”
“Ah, how nice for you. But I am too busy to make time for such; I have much to do in the kitchen. If you will excuse me, I will leave you to your meal.” She started to turn away when he caught sight of her hand.
“Wait.”
She stopped, looking over her shoulder at him. “Pardon?”
“What happened?” He captured her hand and turned it palm up.
Angry red blisters stared up at him, her tender skin cracked and swollen where her slender fingers met her palm. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.
She flushed and yanked her hand free, her fingers curling over her palm. With quick steps, she moved out of his reach. “It is nothing.”
“I think it is.” Buchan watched her under his lashes. “Those are nae the hands of a lass used to chores. You’ve never been a maid before, that much I know.” He reached for the decanter and refilled his tumbler. “Who are you, and how did you come to be here?”
For a long moment, she didn’t speak. He could tell she was evaluating his words, wondering how much she could and should trust him. Finally, she asked, “Why should I tell you anything?”
“Perhaps I could help.”
“The Drummonds are helping me. And they do not require payment. You, I think, would require payment.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m a gentleman.”
“So you say.” Her gaze narrowed and she examined him from head to toe. “Do you want to know what I really think?”
He raised his brows.
“I think you should eat your venison pie. It grows cold.” With that, she spun on her heel and left, a flurry of swirling skirts and unyielding womanhood.
For a long, long time, Buchan stared at the empty doorway, his thoughts in a tangle. Who was this woman? He had no idea, but he was not a man to allow a challenge go unanswered. One way or another, he’d solve the mystery of the new maid.
Chapter 2
Tatiana Romanovin wiped the last plate and placed it on the stack, her tired gaze flickering over the piles of dishes she’d just scrubbed. She dropped the cloth on the table and rubbed her aching back. To distract herself, she listened to the dull roar that came from the common room, a mixture of coarse male laughter and heavy footfalls, the noise echoing down the narrow hallway outside of the kitchen.
Glad she wasn’t a part of the revelry, Tatiana picked up the drying towel and carried it to a basket left in the corner and then returned to the dishes. As she passed the stew cooking in a large pot over the fire, the aromas of thyme and garlic rose to meet her. The familiar scents eased her dark thoughts and made her mouth water. Nearby, fragrant and fresh, sat thick slices of brown bread that would accompany each bowl of hearty stew.
Added to those savory smells was that of the roasted goose turning on a spit over the fire, propelled by a heavy weight that had to be winched back in place every hour. The goose was almost done, its crispy skin covered in crushed rosemary and salt, the scent of it almost too perfect for description. Though she could help herself to the stew (Mrs. Drummond had said so many times), the goose was for Lord Buchan alone.
Tatiana remembered the look on his face when he’d seen her chafed and blistered hands, his expression one of dismay and deep, genuine concern. She curled her fingers over her palms, covering the now-healing blisters, and stared with unseeing eyes at her broken nails.
It had been a month since she’d become stranded at the Red Lion, and three weeks since she’d first seen the dark, caustic lord. Lord Buchan had arrived each Friday night without fail for his usual meal, but she’d made a point of avoiding him. Not because she was afraid of him or irritated by his demanding behavior—pah! She was used to such from the men of her family, all of them too strong-willed for their own good. Nyet, she avoided him because there had been something about him that unsettled her. Even now, when she caught sight of him as he came or went, his gaze made her feel exposed somehow, as if he could see through her, or wished to.
Buchan’s tone had been demanding, almost arrogant, and he obviously expected the world to bend before him. Her cousins were much the same, but they were princes and had reason to expect it. It would take a strong, strong woman to bring a man like Lord Buchan to heel.
And she was not that woman. She had things to do, places to go, kingdoms to conquer. Still, she had to admit there was something about the mysterious Scotsman that piqued her interest. His directness was refreshing. He’d been hard and peremptory in his tone, but he’d been honest, too, and she suspected he would always be so. Brutally, if one allowed it.
Tatiana paused to spoon the drippings over the goose, the heat bathing her uncomfortably. A twinge of guilt hit her as she remembered all the hot baths her maids and footmen had carried to her large copper tub one pail at a time, all of the heavy trays servants had brought to her whenever she felt the slightest pang of hunger, and all of the gowns she’d carelessly stepped out of and left on the floor to be picked up, washed, pressed, and hung back in her wardrobe. “I had no idea,” she murmured. “But I do now.”
She tugged at her coarse wool gown, which scratched wherever her chemise didn’t keep it from touching her skin. She hated both this gown and the too-large, worn-out boots she’d been given. Hated working dawn to dark until her back and feet ached. Hated the fact that she was dependent upon the Drummonds for her room and board, though they’d been more than kind.
She had to get home, and soon, for she’d already been here a month, and she felt as if each day she was losing her way a bit more. What if I never find my way from here?
A weight pressed against her heart, and she traced the almost healed wound hidden beneath the curls on her temple. A wound she couldn’t remember getting. It felt much, much longer than a month since the day her carriage had overturned and, dazed and confused, she’d somehow wandered away from her servants. And now here she was, trying to earn her keep as a maid.
It was galling, to have been forced into this position. She was a royal princess, by God, and had never been prepared for this. “I wasn’t prepared for anything,” she muttered under her breath. “Not one damn thing.”
She sighed, then went to put the plates she’d washed and dried back into their cupboard.
“There ye are, lass!” Mrs. Drummond bustled into the kitchen, a bundle of energy and cheerfulness as her bright eyes flickered over the dishes with satisfaction. “And you’ve done the dishes, too. Guid! We’ll need those, as we’re packed to the ceiling wi’ people wishin’ fer supper.” She went to stir the stew, tasting it and then adding a bit of salt. “Nae rain at all this evening, so everyone is oot and aboot and the common room is nigh filled. Meanwhile, Mr. Drummond is beside himself as we’re low on ale. He asked tha’ ye set
oot some pitchers from the larder. Oh, and whilst ye’re in there, bring the plum pudding tha’ is in the red bowl by the door as Lord Buchan just arrived, and I think ‘twill be especially tasty with the goose.”
Tatiana had just turned away to fetch the ale, but the mention of Buchan gave her pause. “He’s back, then.”
“Every Friday, like a clock, only withoot a smiling face.”
“He scowls like a big bear.” She walked into the larder, past the long table holding Mrs. Drummond’s neatly labeled tonics and the large casks of Mr. Drummond’s fine whiskey, to the shelves holding the pitchers of ale and the bowl of pudding. It was a neatly organized larder, filled to the ceiling with small barrels of salted meats, dried vegetables, and such, all organized under Mrs. Drummond’s discerning eye. Once she’d found the ale and pudding, Tatiana carried them back into the kitchen.
“Dinnae be too harsh on Lord Buchan.” Mrs. Drummond ladled goose drippings into a small pan. “He’s in pain, he is. I thought aboot slipping him a bit of tonic in one of his meals, fer I’m certain ’twould help, but Mr. Drummond refused to countenance it.”
“It’s commendable that you wish to help his lordship.” Tatiana had been cautious about asking too many questions about him, for she’d noted he was a favorite of the Drummonds, but each week her curiosity was stirred anew. At least he has manners. She couldn’t say as much for the other men who’d visited the inn, most of whom leered at her or worse. One drunken sot in the common room had actually attempted to pat her behind as she walked past. She’d put an end to his presumption by dumping her pitcher of ale right over the lout’s head.
The loss of so much good ale had caused Mr. Drummond no small amount of lament. After that he’d decided she would be of more help in the kitchen, and so here she now stayed, safe but increasingly lonely.
“Puir, puir, Lord Buchan.” Mrs. Drummond’s plump face folded into a sad frown, but she brightened as she looked at the goose. “At least he’ll be pleased wi’ dinner. I’ve goose and gravy, Cullen skink, buttered tatties, fresh bannocks, steamed leeks and—weel, I dinna need to tell you. You helped prepare most of it.”
She had, and Tatiana felt a bit of pride in that. She’d never imagined she might enjoy cooking, but she did. “I don’t know how he couldn’t be pleased. The goose smells delicious.” Tatiana found the silver tray used to serve Lord Buchan his dinner and placed it on the counter. “Did you see him arrive?”
“Aye, and he is nae happy aboot the noise comin’ fra’ the common room.”
Of course he isn’t.
“Miss Tatiana, be a dear and fetch the silver vase fra’ the pantry. ’Tis oop on the top shelf near the door.”
Tatiana found the vase in the pantry among a small collection of silver and carried it to the kitchen, arriving just as Mrs. Drummond lifted the lid on a small pot that hung beside the spit, the scent of apples and cinnamon wafting through the air.
Tatiana’s stomach growled as she set the vase fra’ the worktable. “That smells . . . how do you say, krasivyi?”
Mrs. Drummond’s brow creased. “Kras—?”
Tatiana sighed. “It is good. Very good.” It wasn’t exactly the word she needed, but it would do.
The older woman beamed. “The secret is in tha’ dash of nutmeg I had you add when we first put the apples in the pot. It brings oot the flavor of fall, it does.” The innkeeper’s wife dug in a cabinet and pulled out her best china, then arranged it on the silver tray. “These stewed apples will win a smile fra’ Lord Buchan. He has a lovely smile, he does.”
Tatiana didn’t think the man ever smiled. Well . . . there had been one moment when she’d thought he might. His face had softened ever so slightly, and his lips—so tight and unwelcoming—had curved just the faintest bit. For that one second, he’d looked younger, and almost handsome. It’s odd how an expression can change a person. I wonder if my face changes as much?
Mrs. Drummond pulled the lid off the pot holding the Cullen skink, the smoky scent rising with the steam, and spooned some into a small bowl. “We’re fortunate Lord Buchan comes every Friday, for he pays weel fer use of the private parlor. Nae tha’ he has a choice, for I know fer a fact tha’ the cook at Auchmacoy is nae the best.”
“Auchmacoy?”
“His lordship’s family estate. A lovelier hoose you’ve ne’er seen. ’Tis grand, four stories tall, and there must be a hundred windows. When the sun shines and hits those windowpanes, the whole house sparkles like a jewel, it does.” Mrs. Drummond tapped the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot and replaced the lid. “Mr. Drummond and I ha’ known the Buchan family all our lives. ’Tis sad Lord Buchan was injured so. And it wasnae just the leg injury, but he caught the shivering sickness, too. He was verrah ill when he returned.”
“He didn’t seem to be shivering when I met him.”
“The shivering sickness lurks in one’s internal spirits, and only comes oot when there’s a weakening.” Mrs. Drummond shook her head. “Altogether, the illness and his injury, it changed him, it did. Too much, if you ask me.”
Tatiana remembered how Buchan had leaned so heavily upon his cane, each step stiff and unyielding, much like the man himself. But even though he moved so cumbersomely, she couldn’t think of him as an invalid. His presence was too strong, his wit too sharp, and those eyes, a deep and rich brown like the dark chocolate her mother had so loved, were unflinching in their regard. “How was Lord Buchan injured?”
“He went to India on a Navy ship; a lieutenant he was. There was a battle of some sort—I dinnae know all the details, but he was injured there.” Mrs. Drummond placed a small iron pot with the goose drippings onto a hook over the fire. “’Tis a strong and passionate family, the Buchans. They’ve been on this land since William the Conqueror, and though fortune has been placed in their hands, their history is dotted with tragedies, most caused by their own behavior. ’Tis said tha’ when a Buchan hates, they hate forever. But when they love—och, then they love forever and a day.”
Tatiana tried to imagine the stern-faced Lord Buchan in love and laughing, or even smiling, but she couldn’t. He seemed to keep the world at bay, with his barking and ordering people about as if they were beneath him.
“Where’s the blasted ale!” Mr. Drummond hurried into the room, his face red and his hair mussed, a smudge on one cheek. “Three more customers ha’ come, and I’ve nae wish to make them wait. Iona, they are clamorin’ fer some stew, too.”
Mrs. Drummond took down a stack of wooden bowls and placed them on a wooden tray. “I’ll bring some right away.”
“Tha’ will be a great help.” He collected the pitchers Tatiana had set out and hurried back to the doorway, but slid to an abrupt stop that sloshed the ale. “Och, I almost forgot aboot Lord Buchan!”
Mrs. Drummond wiped her hands on her apron and then untied it. “I’ll take his tray oop now.”
“Nae. We need the stew in the common room or there will be unrest, so bring tha’ along now. I’ll serve oop the ale and then return to get Lord Buchan’s tray. I dinnae like it, but he’ll just ha’ to wait—”
“I’ll take it to him.”
Mr. and Mrs. Drummond stared at Tatiana.
She didn’t blame them; she’d surprised herself with her offer. But there was no one to do it but her, and to her surprise, she found that she didn’t mind. At least she didn’t have to worry he might try to pat her behind like the louts in the common room.
“Nae.” Mrs. Drummond shook her head.
Mr. Drummond didn’t look so certain. “Dinnae be hasty, Iona. Why nae let the lassie carry the tray?”
“Because she—” Mrs. Drummond caught Tatiana’s questioning gaze and broke off, flushing.
“I am not afraid of Lord Buchan or his ill temper.” Even as Tatiana said the words, she remembered when he’d caught her hand and turned it palm up to reveal her blisters. It had only been for
a moment, but his touch had been gentle, almost cautious. “I will be safe.” The man was ruled a bit by his impulses, perhaps, but not to a dangerous extent. “He’s a gentleman; I know, for he told me so himself.”
Mr. Drummond looked at his wife. “Come, Iona, let the lassie help. We’ve customers yellin’ fer ale and stew, and I cannae carry everything myself.”
“Verrah weel.” Mrs. Drummond sent a concerned look at Tatiana. “Take the tray to his lordship, but nae lingerin’.”
Tatiana had to suppress a very real desire to hop with excitement. It said a lot about the cost of her isolation in the kitchens that she was excited just to carry a tray to the handsome, short-tempered Scotsman. “I will be back in the kitchen before the two of you are done serving dinner in the common room.”
“Guid lass,” Mr. Drummond declared. “Come, Iona.” The innkeeper hurried off with the pitchers of ale.
Mrs. Drummond wrapped a hot pad about the handle of the stewpot and lifted it from the fire. “I’ll be back to fetch the bowls. Lord Buchan’s tray is almost ready. Just add a spoon fer the soup.” She hurried to the door and followed her husband.
Tatiana finished fixing the tray, then carefully carried it to the private parlor. There she found Lord Buchan standing by the fire, leaning on his cane as he stared into the flames, his broad shoulders dwarfing the room. His thick black hair, longer than what was normally worn by the men of this country, fell about his rugged face, the firelight playing across his golden skin. If he only smiled, he would be a very handsome man. I wonder if I can make him do so? The thought tickled her bored sense of fancy.
She carried the tray to the large table, shooting him a look from under her lashes as she passed—and she caught his gaze locked upon her, his brows lifted in surprise.
She lowered her lashes, her face hot at having been caught looking in his direction. Yet she couldn’t help it—he looked so different from the men of the Oxenburg court who came calling on her. Handsome in their own right, with their silk garb and soft words, none was as masculine as Buchan. This man had no softness to him—not in his clothing, nor his words.