Page 43 of Ruined By the Ruthless Highlander
“I’m tellin’ ye. The English lady had the whole pantry turned about before noon…”
The words carried down the corridor, and Lachlan’s ears perked up at the mention of Marian.
Mairi? What is that about?
The thought came sharply, but he continued down his path, though the voices only grew louder with each step he took.
He did not like it.
“Aye,” another maid said, answering his thoughts. “She certainly won Mrs. MacBride over. I’ve never seen a thing like it.”
Lachlan slowed down despite himself.
Am I hearin’ things wrong?
“Ye think the old cook fancies the English lady now?”
“Certainly! Did ye ever see her laugh? I fancy the Lady, too. If only she werenae a?—”
“Watch yer tongue,” a third maid hissed.
Lachlan’s jaw tightened. After having the servants take away her blankets and serve her cold, solid oats for breakfast, the last thing he’d expected was for Marian to get familiar with them.
I ken it. ’Tis the damned English charm.
They continued to gossip.
“Did ye see the way the Lady spoke? Calm as anythin’…”
They were closer now, just beyond the bend, and their voices were loud enough to give away too much admiration for his liking.
“… and now, the pantry makes more sense than it ever did, thanks to her.”
Aye. The lass must think she belongs here now.
Lachlan stepped forward, his lips pressed tightly together, his brow furrowing along the line of his scar.
Their laughter died down at once, and they dropped into curtsies, their eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
“Me Laird,” they greeted, but he barely acknowledged it.
“What is it ye find so amusin’?” he asked in the flattest tone possible, making sure to feign disinterest even though his fists clenched slightly at his sides.
The maids exchanged looks.
“Nothin’, me Laird,” one of them answered quickly. “We were only?—”
’Tis pointless.
“Aye,” he cut in, his gaze sharpening.
He waved a hand, dismissing them as though it would stop thoughts of Marian from haunting his mind.
He did not need to do more. They hurried away, almost bumping into Mrs. Campbell, who had just turned the corner.
“Me Laird,” she greeted him once the commotion had died down, smoothing her apron out of habit.
“Mrs. Campbell,” he returned, stopping before her. They were alone in the corridor now, and yet he hesitated for a moment before asking, “What is this I hear of the kitchen?”
