Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
“Hi. Nice to meet you.” Maybe “himself”, as Chrissy calls him, is here, too.
“Och, you shouldn’t have.” As my hand meets his, he takes the spring rose from my other hand. “See this, Chrissy. This is the way to greet someone when they return home. Not with a load of greetin’.”
Somehow, those two words don’t sound the same.
“I’ll give you greetin’ Dougal Mac!”
“Aye, and so you did.” Waa-waa! His mouth silently shapes those sounds as his balled fists make circles in front of his cheeks.
Now I know what greetin is.
“I’ll tell ye again, leave that oven in the state you did last time, and I’ll skep your arse!”
“I’ve said I’m sorry.” Dougal cocks a hip and brings the bloom to his nose. Inhaling deeply, he then bounces over to the other side of the kitchen and wraps his arms around Chrissy’s wide shoulders. “Forgive me?” He shoves my rose under her nose and kisses her cheek.
The man has a lot of energy. A lot of flamboyant, over-the-top energy.
“Can you no’ leave a body alone!” she complains, shooing him away. She shakes her head in such a way it makes me think this is a scene that’s been played out often. “Just clean up after yourself, and we won’t come to blows.”
“Darlin’, you’re not my type.” He shoots her a sassy wink.
“Enough of your cheek.” As quick as a flash, Chrissy whacks him across the ass with a plaid dishcloth.
“Oh, maybe ye are!” Hands on his knees, he sticks out his tush for a repeat. But he soon straightens because her expression is less than impressed.
With a sheepish smile, he makes his way back to me, handing me back the rose. “She’ll no’ be mad at me for long.” He gives a diffident shrug. “Not when I make a batch of petticoat tails. Shortbread,” he adds, reading my expression and leaning in as he whispers, “Her tooth is the only sweet part of her.”
“Ignore the bampot,” Chrissy retorts. “He doesn’t know his heid from his elbow.”
“She was gonnae say arsehole,” he almost whispers but not quite.
“Here you go.” Turning from the far side of the kitchen, Chrissy settles a loaded butler’s tray on the scrubbed pine table. “I thought ye might like to take this up to Lady Isla.”
“Or just Isla, as she’s told her to call her,” mutters a snippy Mari without lifting her attention from her phone.
“She’s in the small study,” Chrissy adds, ignoring her.
“Two cups?” One for Lady Isla and one for the duke?
“I’ve made you a brew as well.” She nods encouragingly before her attention flicks down to the tray. “See if you can coax her to eat one of those empire biscuits, would you, hen?”
I love how hen is a term of endearment in Scotland. It makes me feel all fluffy feathered, happy, and content.
“Shop-bought?” comes Dougal’s tart interruption to my mini-blissful state as Chrissy turns her withering expression his way.
“Made especially for her ladyship,” she says with a significant sniff. “You don’t have to work in a fancy French kitchen to ken how to cook.”
Hen is an endearment, and ken is to understand, and not be confused with Barbie’s boyfriend.
I’m almost certain the duke isn’t at home, though pause at the closed door to the study anyway. When I don’t hear the murmur of voices, I knock on the heavy walnut door, twist the brass handle, then push it open with my butt.
“Chrissy sent elevenses, did she?” Sitting behind a large pedestal desk, Lady Isla looks up from her computer. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and though her makeup is expertly applied, there’s no hiding those tear-tired eyes.
As for snacks, something tells me that Chrissy will make sure there’s elevenses at eleven before providing a hearty lunch and then deliver some kind of afternoon tea. She’s not happy Isla’s so skinny these days.
“I think this is more like . . .” My gaze flicks to the mahogany and gold clock standing on the mantel. It’s barely gone nine thirty. “This is more like breakfast dessert.” Except she probably didn’t have breakfast. I place the tray down on the coffee table as the overweight Labrador I’d met first in Cameron’s car lumbers around the desk. I now know that she belongs to Isla, and because of her husband’s “allergies”, she’d been consigned to the castle staff for safekeeping when Isla wasn’t around. That has all changed now that she’s living here, though I’m sure she isn’t aware of what has been said by the castle staff about her husband’s manhood, given that he let a bit of dog hair come between a woman and her beloved pooch.
“Shall I pour you a cup?”
“Yes, please. You’ll join me?” I nod, and she pushes back her chair and moves over to the small sofa setting, Gertie settling at her feet. I’m pleased to say she smells much better now that she’s back in the care of her favourite person. “Empire biscuits,” Isla says admiringly, lifting an iced cookie from the gold-rimmed tea plate. “These were my favourite as a child.” She gestures for me to sit, and I watch as she picks at the glacé cherry garnish, dropping it to the plate. “How were the boys on the way to school this morning?”