in a velvet glove.”
They passed an open door—a bedroom! how odd to find one on the ground floor—and the light from the open window shone on Eveleen. She was very pretty, even exotic-looking. Her clear skin was a lovely tan, her eyes were large, brown, and lined with dark lashes, and her shoulder-length hair was a magnificent mahogany color and caught at the nape of her neck with a bow. But her costume... it was very odd for a serving girl. Daring, even. Her dress was cut like a nightgown, with a low neckline, a marvelous amount of lace, and was created of a material that looked almost transparent. Perhaps the outfit might tease forth coins from stingy men’s purses.
No—Sorcha had learned a lot since she’d left the convent. Without a doubt that outfit would tease coins from any man’s purse.
“What’s your specialty?” Sorcha hoped this place used herbs to cook. So far on this journey Scotland’s cookery hadn’t impressed her.
“My specialty?” The girl glanced at her. “Blowing the hornpipe.”
“What’s that? Some sort of sausage dish?”
The girl laughed. “Ye could say that.” Then she stopped so quickly Sorcha, walking and gawking at yet another painting, almost ran her over. “Have ye done this before?”
“Eaten?” Surprise sent Sorcha’s tone into a more feminine register. Lowering it again, she asked, “What do you mean? Of course I’ve eaten.”
“Hmmm.” The girl ran her gaze over Sorcha. In a voice laden with suspicion, she asked, “Who sent ye?”
“MacMurtrae the horse trader.”
“Are ye sure it wasn’t the constable?”
“No.” The constable? Why would Eveleen think it had been the constable? “It was MacMurtrae. I just sold him two horses. Well, a horse and a pony.” Sorcha couldn’t resist bragging, “I got more than he wanted to give.”
Picking up Sorcha’s hand, Eveleen examined it. A sudden, gamine grin blossomed on her lovely face, and she folded the fingers into Sorcha’s palm. “This is too guid. Madam will never forgive me if I dunna include her in the jest.”
This place just got odder and odder. “What jest?”
Walking back to the big double doors, Eveleen knocked.
A low, cultured contralto voice called, “Come in.”
Opening the doors with a flourish, Eveleen gestured Sorcha inside.
The small parlor was decorated in aqua and furnished with tastefully feminine furniture. Potted flowers grew and bloomed in massive porcelain vases. Heavy drapes covered the windows, and candles lit the room. Their dancing flames illuminated the face of the extraordinary woman—an immense woman in height and breadth, dressed in a loose flowing robe and an all-encompassing, paint-splotched apron that emphasized her tremendous proportions. Her chins stairstepped from her chest to her face with nary a glimpse of her neck. Her jaw was square, her mouth a tiny red rosebud. Her nose was an indeterminate blob, but her eyes... her wise brown eyes reminded Sorcha of Mother Brigette.
The lady stood before an easel, holding a small brush laden with scarlet paint, and the acrid odor of mineral spirits mixed with the scent of flowers.
Posed against a background created by blue velvet stood a young woman of perhaps twenty-five, clad in nothing more than a flower over one ear and a sheet tied at one hip. She stood in silhouette, her blond hair rippling down her back, her arms outstretched to capture some unseen treasure.
Sorcha’s jaw dropped. She knew her grandmother would tell her that princesses were never nonplussed, but color climbed in her cheeks and she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the extraordinary scene.
Tear her gaze away? She couldn’t even blink.
“This is Madam Pinchon.” Eveleen shut the door behind her and leaned against it. “Madam, this youth”—she winked at Madam Pinchon—“came t’ the back door asking for something t’ eat.”
“Did he indeed?” Madam was the owner of the contralto voice—and, from the work on the canvas,
They passed an open door—a bedroom! how odd to find one on the ground floor—and the light from the open window shone on Eveleen. She was very pretty, even exotic-looking. Her clear skin was a lovely tan, her eyes were large, brown, and lined with dark lashes, and her shoulder-length hair was a magnificent mahogany color and caught at the nape of her neck with a bow. But her costume... it was very odd for a serving girl. Daring, even. Her dress was cut like a nightgown, with a low neckline, a marvelous amount of lace, and was created of a material that looked almost transparent. Perhaps the outfit might tease forth coins from stingy men’s purses.
No—Sorcha had learned a lot since she’d left the convent. Without a doubt that outfit would tease coins from any man’s purse.
“What’s your specialty?” Sorcha hoped this place used herbs to cook. So far on this journey Scotland’s cookery hadn’t impressed her.
“My specialty?” The girl glanced at her. “Blowing the hornpipe.”
“What’s that? Some sort of sausage dish?”
The girl laughed. “Ye could say that.” Then she stopped so quickly Sorcha, walking and gawking at yet another painting, almost ran her over. “Have ye done this before?”
“Eaten?” Surprise sent Sorcha’s tone into a more feminine register. Lowering it again, she asked, “What do you mean? Of course I’ve eaten.”
“Hmmm.” The girl ran her gaze over Sorcha. In a voice laden with suspicion, she asked, “Who sent ye?”
“MacMurtrae the horse trader.”
“Are ye sure it wasn’t the constable?”
“No.” The constable? Why would Eveleen think it had been the constable? “It was MacMurtrae. I just sold him two horses. Well, a horse and a pony.” Sorcha couldn’t resist bragging, “I got more than he wanted to give.”
Picking up Sorcha’s hand, Eveleen examined it. A sudden, gamine grin blossomed on her lovely face, and she folded the fingers into Sorcha’s palm. “This is too guid. Madam will never forgive me if I dunna include her in the jest.”
This place just got odder and odder. “What jest?”
Walking back to the big double doors, Eveleen knocked.
A low, cultured contralto voice called, “Come in.”
Opening the doors with a flourish, Eveleen gestured Sorcha inside.
The small parlor was decorated in aqua and furnished with tastefully feminine furniture. Potted flowers grew and bloomed in massive porcelain vases. Heavy drapes covered the windows, and candles lit the room. Their dancing flames illuminated the face of the extraordinary woman—an immense woman in height and breadth, dressed in a loose flowing robe and an all-encompassing, paint-splotched apron that emphasized her tremendous proportions. Her chins stairstepped from her chest to her face with nary a glimpse of her neck. Her jaw was square, her mouth a tiny red rosebud. Her nose was an indeterminate blob, but her eyes... her wise brown eyes reminded Sorcha of Mother Brigette.
The lady stood before an easel, holding a small brush laden with scarlet paint, and the acrid odor of mineral spirits mixed with the scent of flowers.
Posed against a background created by blue velvet stood a young woman of perhaps twenty-five, clad in nothing more than a flower over one ear and a sheet tied at one hip. She stood in silhouette, her blond hair rippling down her back, her arms outstretched to capture some unseen treasure.
Sorcha’s jaw dropped. She knew her grandmother would tell her that princesses were never nonplussed, but color climbed in her cheeks and she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the extraordinary scene.
Tear her gaze away? She couldn’t even blink.
“This is Madam Pinchon.” Eveleen shut the door behind her and leaned against it. “Madam, this youth”—she winked at Madam Pinchon—“came t’ the back door asking for something t’ eat.”
“Did he indeed?” Madam was the owner of the contralto voice—and, from the work on the canvas,
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