accompanied by various side dishes, before the silver dome was lifted from a platter of roast venison. With her appetite more than appeased, she dabbed her lips with her napkin and set herself to learning what she could. “I can see that this is, indeed, a celebratory feast — and a last supper of sorts for me.” Lifting her water glass, she met Scrope’s dark gaze. “I take it that, as you foreshadowed, McKinsey will come for me tomorrow?”
Scrope and his minions had been distinctly closemouthed, but presumably anything they told her now would no longer matter.
His dark gaze steady, Scrope considered her.
She sipped and did nothing more than faintly arch her brows.
Eventually, he nodded. “Your supposition is correct. I sent word to McKinsey, or whoever he is, before midday. I don’t know how long it’ll take to reach him — the delivery is not, you’ll understand, direct — but he led me to believe he would be in Edinburgh, waiting for you to arrive.”
From the other end of the table, Taylor, busy with a large helping of venison, flicked a glance at Scrope. “So we don’t have to wait for him to ride down from Inverness?”
“Inverness?” Eliza looked back at Scrope.
Scrope’s lips tightened, his dark eyes narrowing on the hapless Taylor.
Glancing back at the now wary coachman-cum-guard, Eliza airily said, “We already knew McKinsey is a highlander.” She shrugged. “Knowing he comes from Inverness is nothing new.”
Inverness was the southernmost large town in the highlands.
Scrope looked down at his plate and all but growled, “He doesn’t come from Inverness.” He flung another irate glance at Taylor. “Inverness is just the place through which the message I sent to him before was routed.”
Eliza considered that reply, then ventured, “You followed a message sent to him?”
Scrope turned his narrow-eyed gaze on her. “I like to know who I’m dealing with.”
She nodded. “Understandably. Did you learn anything more of his identity?”
“No.” Scrope’s frustration assured her that he spoke the truth. “The man’s as slippery as any damned highland nobleman ever birthed. The message vanished from the office in Inverness, and no one seemed to have the faintest clue as to where it went.”
“Hmm.” Eliza found Scrope’s tale revealing. She, Heather, and Angelica had discussed and speculated on the character and person of the mysterious laird for many hours. Given such telltale acts of power, the sort of power Cynsters intuitively recognized and understood, combined with the picture the various snippets of physical description had drawn of him, there was no denying that the figure the laird cut was one of considerable elemental and visceral attraction.
At least to Cynster females.
Nevertheless, despite her curiosity, Eliza had no wish to meet the man, at least not on his terms. Being hauled into the wilds of the highlands did not feature on her list of desirable diversions.
As for what he intended for her, that she was determinedly refusing to dwell on; Jeremy would rescue her first, so there was no need to imagine herself into a panic.
Eventually, Genevieve rose and, assisted by Taylor, cleared the table.
Scrope, reverting to his role of considerate host, offered Eliza a small glass of orgeat, which, on consideration, she deigned to accept.
“Tell me,” she said, seizing the moment when the other two were elsewhere, “why do you, who I assume was born a gentleman, take … jobs, for want of a better word, such as this.” She met his dark eyes. “I’m curious as to what drives you.”
Whoever had arranged the dinner menu had known the basics of gentle living; she was quite sure it wasn’t Genevieve, a lowly companion-nurse, who had chosen the dishes and arranged for them to be delivered in their warming pans and chafing dishes, as she assumed they must have been.
Scrope, she deduced, harbored gentlemanly aspirations. In her experience, gentlemen, if
Scrope and his minions had been distinctly closemouthed, but presumably anything they told her now would no longer matter.
His dark gaze steady, Scrope considered her.
She sipped and did nothing more than faintly arch her brows.
Eventually, he nodded. “Your supposition is correct. I sent word to McKinsey, or whoever he is, before midday. I don’t know how long it’ll take to reach him — the delivery is not, you’ll understand, direct — but he led me to believe he would be in Edinburgh, waiting for you to arrive.”
From the other end of the table, Taylor, busy with a large helping of venison, flicked a glance at Scrope. “So we don’t have to wait for him to ride down from Inverness?”
“Inverness?” Eliza looked back at Scrope.
Scrope’s lips tightened, his dark eyes narrowing on the hapless Taylor.
Glancing back at the now wary coachman-cum-guard, Eliza airily said, “We already knew McKinsey is a highlander.” She shrugged. “Knowing he comes from Inverness is nothing new.”
Inverness was the southernmost large town in the highlands.
Scrope looked down at his plate and all but growled, “He doesn’t come from Inverness.” He flung another irate glance at Taylor. “Inverness is just the place through which the message I sent to him before was routed.”
Eliza considered that reply, then ventured, “You followed a message sent to him?”
Scrope turned his narrow-eyed gaze on her. “I like to know who I’m dealing with.”
She nodded. “Understandably. Did you learn anything more of his identity?”
“No.” Scrope’s frustration assured her that he spoke the truth. “The man’s as slippery as any damned highland nobleman ever birthed. The message vanished from the office in Inverness, and no one seemed to have the faintest clue as to where it went.”
“Hmm.” Eliza found Scrope’s tale revealing. She, Heather, and Angelica had discussed and speculated on the character and person of the mysterious laird for many hours. Given such telltale acts of power, the sort of power Cynsters intuitively recognized and understood, combined with the picture the various snippets of physical description had drawn of him, there was no denying that the figure the laird cut was one of considerable elemental and visceral attraction.
At least to Cynster females.
Nevertheless, despite her curiosity, Eliza had no wish to meet the man, at least not on his terms. Being hauled into the wilds of the highlands did not feature on her list of desirable diversions.
As for what he intended for her, that she was determinedly refusing to dwell on; Jeremy would rescue her first, so there was no need to imagine herself into a panic.
Eventually, Genevieve rose and, assisted by Taylor, cleared the table.
Scrope, reverting to his role of considerate host, offered Eliza a small glass of orgeat, which, on consideration, she deigned to accept.
“Tell me,” she said, seizing the moment when the other two were elsewhere, “why do you, who I assume was born a gentleman, take … jobs, for want of a better word, such as this.” She met his dark eyes. “I’m curious as to what drives you.”
Whoever had arranged the dinner menu had known the basics of gentle living; she was quite sure it wasn’t Genevieve, a lowly companion-nurse, who had chosen the dishes and arranged for them to be delivered in their warming pans and chafing dishes, as she assumed they must have been.
Scrope, she deduced, harbored gentlemanly aspirations. In her experience, gentlemen, if
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