One of Quentin’s hands slashed the air. “But you didn’t tell me that you’re the Earl of Appin’s daughter.”
Chapter 4
Quentin saw her attention focus on the door. She tensed up, ready to scarper.
“Don’t try it, my lady.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said through stiff lips. He thought she’d been pale before, but now she was almost transparent.
“You’re heiress to a fortune.”
“Aye.”
“One of the greatest in Scotland.” He struggled to gather together what he recalled of the Urquhart family and title. It wasn’t much. “And you’re set up to become countess, because it’s one of the few titles that can run through the female line.”
“I am the countess,” she said, still in that horrid frozen way. She didn’t even sound like Kit anymore. Joseph Laing’s nephew had always been unusually well-spoken for a servant, but now she sounded like she attended a royal reception. All tight vowels and cut-glass consonants. “I’ve been the countess since Papa died.”
Quentin frowned in bewilderment. “So tell me – what the deuce is the Countess of Appin doing as my uncle’s stableboy? I hadn’t heard anything about you going missing.”
“I suspect Neil is keeping my disappearance quiet to avoid a scandal.” She slumped in front of him, suddenly looking exhausted and frightened and defeated. It was as if someone had snipped the strings that held her up. “Please, don’t tell anyone.”
He resisted the urge to take her arm. She didn’t yet trust him enough to let him close. “You have my word.”
Startled, she stared into his face. “You mean that?”
“You know I do.”
“But you don’t know why I’ve done this hare-brained thing.”
His hand swept through the air. “You must have your reasons – and good ones. I can imagine life as Hamish’s stableboy is a good deal more arduous than life as the Countess of Appin.”
The cynicism that twisted her lips made his heart ache. She was older than he’d originally thought her, but she was too young to look like that. “I’ve been happy at Glen Lyon.”
Which meant she hadn’t been happy at Appin. Of course she hadn’t been. If she had, she’d never have taken such appalling risks with her reputation and her person.
“I assume Hamish and Emily know who you are.”
“Aye.”
“Anyone else?”
“I haven’t told anyone, but I sometimes think Mrs. McCluskey might have guessed. That I’m a girl, at least.”
Mrs. McCluskey, the housekeeper, was one of the cleverest women Quentin knew. She was smart enough to have twigged that the new stableboy wasn’t all he appeared to be.
“You can’t hope to carry on this masquerade indefinitely,” he said. “If I noticed you’re not a boy, other people will, too. And as you say, the scandal will be horrendous.”
Kit still watched him as though he was a snake about to strike. “It’s only until Christmas.”
“What happens at Christmas? Do the fairies come down the chimney to save the princess?”
As he’d hoped, that made her smile. He’d noticed that when Kit wasn’t scared out of her mind, she liked to laugh. Yesterday during the sledding, she’d been bright and vivid and full of life. Quentin hated to be the person who dulled her light.
“I’ve spent the last two years wishing the fairies would come and save me. I don’t think they exist, even at Christmas.”
“Sit down and tell me.” He waved toward the stool. “You must know you can trust me.”
She didn’t move, and the eyes that traveled over him remained old beyond her years. His growing certainty that she was in serious trouble firmed. “Why would I know that, Mr. MacNab? Because you’re charming and handsome, and because you’re powerfully curious to get me to spill my secrets?”