waste.
Jamie was familiar with the Old Town, having been left as a babe on the doorstep of the Orphan’s Hospital in the shadow of Calton Hill. He didn’t think it proper he was guiding Miss Emily through these crowded streets. Not that anything about Ravensclaw’s household was proper. Jamie had squirmed down enough chimneys to realize that. “It’s no’ right,” he repeated. “A young lady like yersef shoulna be daverin’ aboot the Old Town alone.”
Emily eyed him with exasperation. “So you have said, several times! Must I point out again that I am hardly alone? You are with me, and Drogo is with both of us, which is hardly a blessing, but he refused to be left behind. Moreover, we aren’t davering. You are going to show me where Michael went.”
Jamie kicked at a piece of broken cobblestone. Drogo, tongue lolling, leaned against her thigh. “Och, weil. Nae need t’ be abstrakulous. I should hae gi’n him a cuddy lug.”
Emily could only guess what a ‘cuddy lug’ might be. She caught her companion’s shoulder and gave him a good shake. “No you should not! Listen to me, Jamie. I told you Mr. Ross may have something of mine. In truth, he may have stolen several somethings. He is not the gentleman he seems.” She didn’t bother to explain that the pilfered items weren’t hers but belonged to the Society, and were meant in time to pass to her descendants, although Emily’s papa may have been a trifle optimistic on that score.
Michael insisted they were betrothed. Did he justify his thefts as only taking what would eventually be his?
Well, they weren’t betrothed, nor would they be, if Emily had anything to say about it, which she did and would.
Jamie pulled away from her. “I wadna be surprised if ye’re no’ a wee bit daft! Come awa’ noo. ‘Afore Isidore finds out where I brought ye and gie me a skelpit dowp.”
“I’ll give you a skelpit dowp, whatever that is, if you don’t stop scolding. For the last time, show me where Mr. Ross went.”
The air was damp with a grey mist, the “haar” Jamie called it, that was blowing in from the Firth of Forth. Emily brushed rebellious tendrils of hair away from her face.
Along the High Street Jamie led her, toward the Royal Exchange. Emily regretted she had no time to stop and warm herself in a coffee shop, listen to gossip and peruse the latest newspapers to learn what folly Prinny’s Tory ministers had most recently committed and discover who of interest had lately gotten married, disgraced themselves, or died. She and Drogo followed Jamie down a flight of sloping stairs, worn from centuries of traffic, into another steep and winding street. They rounded a corner into a close — ‘closes’, he informed her, having once been private property, narrow canyon-like alleyways with buildings on each side that were gated to the public and often named after someone who had resided there, as opposed to ‘wynds’, open thoroughfares usually wide enough for a horse and cart to navigate.
Jamie pointed toward an archway. “He went in there.” Drogo growled deep in his throat.
Emily hesitated. The entry looked ominous. But so had Corby Castle, and she’d marched right up to the front door. Emily didn’t plan to accost Michael at his front door, of course, merely to pick the lock and have a quick look around. He shouldn’t be home at this hour. But if he was—
She’d cross that bridge when she came to it. Emily had sat back and done nothing for far too long. If only she had taken inventory earlier, and opened that lead-lined chest, instead of seeking to soothe the warring factions of the Society while attempting at the same time to deal with her own feelings of inadequacy and loss—
But she had, and here she was. Resolutely, she took a forward step.
Or attempted to. Still growling, Drogo blocked her path. “I dinna think,” protested Jamie, “that ye should go in there.”
“Stop it, the both of you. Oh, do get out of my way!”
Jamie was familiar with the Old Town, having been left as a babe on the doorstep of the Orphan’s Hospital in the shadow of Calton Hill. He didn’t think it proper he was guiding Miss Emily through these crowded streets. Not that anything about Ravensclaw’s household was proper. Jamie had squirmed down enough chimneys to realize that. “It’s no’ right,” he repeated. “A young lady like yersef shoulna be daverin’ aboot the Old Town alone.”
Emily eyed him with exasperation. “So you have said, several times! Must I point out again that I am hardly alone? You are with me, and Drogo is with both of us, which is hardly a blessing, but he refused to be left behind. Moreover, we aren’t davering. You are going to show me where Michael went.”
Jamie kicked at a piece of broken cobblestone. Drogo, tongue lolling, leaned against her thigh. “Och, weil. Nae need t’ be abstrakulous. I should hae gi’n him a cuddy lug.”
Emily could only guess what a ‘cuddy lug’ might be. She caught her companion’s shoulder and gave him a good shake. “No you should not! Listen to me, Jamie. I told you Mr. Ross may have something of mine. In truth, he may have stolen several somethings. He is not the gentleman he seems.” She didn’t bother to explain that the pilfered items weren’t hers but belonged to the Society, and were meant in time to pass to her descendants, although Emily’s papa may have been a trifle optimistic on that score.
Michael insisted they were betrothed. Did he justify his thefts as only taking what would eventually be his?
Well, they weren’t betrothed, nor would they be, if Emily had anything to say about it, which she did and would.
Jamie pulled away from her. “I wadna be surprised if ye’re no’ a wee bit daft! Come awa’ noo. ‘Afore Isidore finds out where I brought ye and gie me a skelpit dowp.”
“I’ll give you a skelpit dowp, whatever that is, if you don’t stop scolding. For the last time, show me where Mr. Ross went.”
The air was damp with a grey mist, the “haar” Jamie called it, that was blowing in from the Firth of Forth. Emily brushed rebellious tendrils of hair away from her face.
Along the High Street Jamie led her, toward the Royal Exchange. Emily regretted she had no time to stop and warm herself in a coffee shop, listen to gossip and peruse the latest newspapers to learn what folly Prinny’s Tory ministers had most recently committed and discover who of interest had lately gotten married, disgraced themselves, or died. She and Drogo followed Jamie down a flight of sloping stairs, worn from centuries of traffic, into another steep and winding street. They rounded a corner into a close — ‘closes’, he informed her, having once been private property, narrow canyon-like alleyways with buildings on each side that were gated to the public and often named after someone who had resided there, as opposed to ‘wynds’, open thoroughfares usually wide enough for a horse and cart to navigate.
Jamie pointed toward an archway. “He went in there.” Drogo growled deep in his throat.
Emily hesitated. The entry looked ominous. But so had Corby Castle, and she’d marched right up to the front door. Emily didn’t plan to accost Michael at his front door, of course, merely to pick the lock and have a quick look around. He shouldn’t be home at this hour. But if he was—
She’d cross that bridge when she came to it. Emily had sat back and done nothing for far too long. If only she had taken inventory earlier, and opened that lead-lined chest, instead of seeking to soothe the warring factions of the Society while attempting at the same time to deal with her own feelings of inadequacy and loss—
But she had, and here she was. Resolutely, she took a forward step.
Or attempted to. Still growling, Drogo blocked her path. “I dinna think,” protested Jamie, “that ye should go in there.”
“Stop it, the both of you. Oh, do get out of my way!”
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