She turned to Lucian. He was looking straight ahead, very stoically.
“Whatever made you choose this peculiar place?” she hissed.
“It’s the only one there is near the mine.”
They stood intimately close together, but given their strange surroundings, she was reluctant to put distance between them.
“It’s ghastly,” she said. “I expect the bear Alastair and his friends will all come alive at midnight and feed on the guests.”
Unexpectedly, he placed his hand on the small of her back and urged her a little closer. “There’s an etiquette guide that says a woman’s vocation is to be amicable, admirable, and delightful,” he murmured into her ear, his voice deep like a distant roll of thunder. “Consider reading it.”
“Hmm,” she murmured back, “sounds crusty—I’d consider burning it.”
Her pulse was high from his touch, but he withdrew his hand and his jaw clenched, very satisfying to behold.
Mr. Burns returned with his wife and two young women barely out of girlhood. Their brown hair hung in thick plaits over their shoulders and they regarded her with overtly curious blue eyes. “Miss Mhairi Burns and Miss Clara Burns,” Mrs. Burns introduced them. “At your service.”
Lucian turned to Mr. Burns. “They speak English?”
“They do,” said Mr. Burns. “The Drover’s Inn is frequented by international guests.”
Miss Clara Burns had a dusting of flour on her forehead, and Miss Mhairi’s hands were still red and damp from scrubbing something. How dreadful, to be adding to their chores.
She addressed the one who had been introduced as Mhairi. “You are the elder one?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The girl performed a wonky curtsy.
“A pleasure, Miss Burns,” Hattie said. “It is our honeymoon, you see, and it shall be so much more convenient with your assistance.”
The girls’ faces fell. “A honeymoon.” Mrs. Burns looked put out. Even Mr. Burns seemed taken aback. Lucian was looking at her warily from the corner of his eyes.
“Well,” Mr. Burns said brightly. “This is a first-class establishment. It is run very orderly, it is very quiet, very unique. An excellent choice for a honeymoon.”
His wife shot him a sour look.
He closed the ledger. “We’re at your service.”
“Wish you hadn’t forgotten there was a bride,” Mrs. Burns said to him. “We would have put a basket together.”
“Yes,” Mhairi said. “Ma’am should’ve had a newlywed basket.”
Hattie gave them all a tremulous smile. “How terribly kind.”
The women rallied. “It’s a delicious basket,” Miss Clara said enthusiastically. “We’ll add the best shortbread.”
“And blueberry jam.”
“And cured ham.”
“Well, go on, then,” Mrs. Burns barked, “don’t just stand there discussing it.” She turned back to Hattie. “Apologies for the delay of the basket, ma’am. Had we known there’s a bride …” She shook her head.
“You’ve the best room, with the best view.” Mr. Burns joined the collective effort to comfort her over her dismal honeymoon, inflicted upon her by a no doubt dismal husband, and to her dark delight she felt Lucian’s temper beginning to broil.
“We’ll add a bottle of Auchtermuchty, best vintage,” said Mrs. Burns.
“Auchtermuchty.” Mr. Burns gave Lucian a conspiring nod. “Best whisky in all of Fife.”
Their room upstairs was possibly the least best in all of Fife. It was small and tired and smelled like a basket full of old linen. The right side was occupied by a lumpy bed and a wardrobe. Straight ahead was a single window with a patched armchair underneath; to the left, the fireplace and a curtained side entrance. At the center of the chamber, a scarred table wrestled for space with their luggage. A black folder lay atop the table, and Lucian went to pick it up with a keen expression that said he had been expecting to find it here.
Hattie went to the window and pushed aside a careworn curtain. The view was drab: a dirt path winding through a heather field, and in the near distance, a double row of gray-stone cottages and what looked to be industrial structures. It was doubly drab because if it weren’t for her husband, she would now be overlooking the roofs of Paris or romantically fading lavender fields in Provence. You shan’t take France from me forever, she vowed silently.
“I had hoped for vast, proper mountains in Scotland,” she said out loud. “This looks like East Anglia, flat as a crumpet.”