“You did no such thing,” Mena argued, though she couldn’t hide the answering smile he elicited.
“Ye’d have toppled hide over head down the stairs had I not caught ye,” he bragged.
“Yes, but ’twas you who crept up on me in the first place and startled me half to death. That was very wicked of you,” she scolded.
“I wasna creeping. It was ye who was lost in yer thoughts.” He chuckled, his eyes glimmering with impish delight as he glanced at the painting. “That isna to say I’m not a wicked man.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” She laughed. “Not that it isn’t a genuine pleasure to meet you again, Mr. St. James, but might I inquire as to what you are doing here dressed to the nines?”
His expression turned sheepish as he brushed at the cravat of his fine suit. “A wee bit of distillery business is all. I just returned from London with some good news for the marquess.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Though it’d take a bleeding miracle to coax a compliment from the old goat, if ye ask me.”
“Oh, do go on with you.” Mena suppressed a nervous laugh, scandalized by his audacity.
“I gather no introductions are necessary.” Ravencroft’s cavernous voice could have turned the lush Highlands into a brittle desert.
Blood deserted Mena’s extremities as she noted that Gavin St. James still held her arm above the elbow from when he’d reached to steady her. She pulled away from him, reaching for the solidity of the stone banister to hold her up as her suddenly trembling legs no longer seemed to feel the need to fulfill their occupation.
The marquess stood at the top of the staircase, legs splayed and arms folded over his wide chest as he glared down at them both in contemptuous condemnation. Though he was dressed in an impeccable suit, his ebony hair combed back into a tight queue, he appeared as stark and sinister as ever. Mena found herself concerned over the integrity of his suit, as his tense muscles strained the seams.
Now she knew what beauty lay beneath, and had to look away.
“Ye’re actually mistaken, Liam, as yer lovely governess and I have shared a previous … encounter, but have yet to be formally introduced.” He winked at Mena, who considered hurling herself down the stairs rather than glancing up to see the withering glare Ravencroft surely focused on them both.
Who was this man to address a marquess in so informal a manner? And why did he insist on making playful insinuations about their previous “encounter” in the woods? She’d nearly been sacked over the whole ordeal.
Gavin didn’t give her a chance to recover from her astonishment before he took her hand again and bowed theatrically low over it. “Allow me to introduce myself, English, as Lord Gavin St. James, Earl of Thorne and half brother to the most illustrious Marquess of Ravencroft, Laird Liam Mackenzie of Wester Ross.”
He pressed his lips to her hand, but Mena hardly felt it as she could have sworn she actually heard a growl rumble from the top of the stairs.
Snatching her hand back, she winced at the perceptive glance the earl gave her from behind amber lashes.
“Brother?” She wagged an incensed finger at the smirking Lord Thorne. “You cad! You led me to believe you were nothing more than the foreman at the distillery.”
“I beg yer pardon, English, but I didna lie to ye.” He flashed her a devastatingly handsome smile, and Mena found herself forgiving him instantly, not that she’d been that angry in the first place. “I spoke the truth when I said I was the distillery foreman. Had ye inquired about me, ye would have learned that I’m part owner and the rest.” Thorne shrugged, his eyes glinting with mirth. “I admit to being a wee bit wounded that ye didna.”
“It was, nevertheless, a falsehood by omission, Thorne.” Ravencroft censured him as he descended the stairs, his glare jumping back and forth between the two of them, narrowed with suspicion.
Mena actually retreated down a step, inwardly cringing at his undeniable position on the particular subject of omission.
Brothers, she marveled. Though she supposed she could see the resemblance now that they stood close to one another. As far as she could discern, their height was similar, though Ravencroft was undoubtedly the larger of the two. Like Dorian Blackwell, Liam was swarthy, where Gavin’s hair shone even more lambent than before, now that it wasn’t darkened by sea water.
Something electric crackled in the air between the men, charging it with such masculine tension, she could scarcely breathe.
Blessedly, the half-hour-to-dinner bell reverberated through the waves of aggression rolling off the brothers, and Mena blessed the chef and his compulsive timeliness.
Perceptibly pulling an air of geniality about him like a cloak, Lord Thorne turned once again to Mena. “Will I be seeing ye at dinner, English?”
“I—I suppose,” Mena answered, glancing uncertainly to her employer.
“In my house, you will address her as Miss Lockhart, as is appropriate,” the marquess ordered. “And I never invite ye to dinner.”
“And yet I always stay to dine.” Gavin flashed his brother another of his roguish smiles. “Come now, Liam, ye wouldna deprive my niece and nephew of my charming company, would ye? Now if ye’ll excuse me, I’m going to see what culinary delights that French genius of yers has in store for me tonight.” Turning on his heel, he jogged down the stairs, and strode in the direction of the kitchens. Not a retreat, per se, but a strategic withdrawal, in Mena’s opinion.
Judging by the wrath glittering in Ravencroft’s obsidian eyes, she applauded Lord Thorne’s decision.
Knuckles white on the banister and a vein pulsing above his flexed jaw, the marquess captured her attention with his furious glare. He said nothing, but scrutinized her features as if searching for the answer to a question he dare not ask.
Mena watched in fascination as a narrow spectrum of emotion played across his savage expression. Irritation, suspicion, fury, and … bleak misery?
The last one caused her no small amount of confusion and distress.
“My laird, I—”
“Doona I pay ye to spend yer days with my children, Miss Lockhart?” The insinuation that she shirked her duties stung.
Dumbfounded, she could do little but nod.
“Well, then,” he clipped, and dismissed her by descending the rest of the stairs two at a time, as though one didn’t pose enough of a challenge for his long stride.
Mena couldn’t bring herself to move until she started at the slam of a door.
* * *
For the first time in as long as she could remember, Mena couldn’t bring herself to eat. Stomach churning with nerves, she kept glancing toward the obsequious Earl of Thorne who insisted on saying something flirtatious every couple of minutes. Then she’d peek at the ominously silent marquess, whose glare gathered more dark fire with every refill of his whisky glass.
The aroma of parsnip and leek soup with white fish in a cream sauce tempted her appetite, but Mena could hardly look at it without feeling ill. Not only was she nervous about this strange dynamic between her and the two Mackenzie brothers, but Andrew was perched on her right squirming with apprehension about whether Lord Thorne would bring up the puppy.
Everyone, it seemed, was wound tight as a bowstring. The sound of the rain lashing against the windows and the clink of fine silver were the only sounds that permeated the uneasy silence that settled around the room like a thick blanket.