She wore a soft blue color today. This touch of gentleness was deceiving, he quickly realized. Up close, she felt as cool and remote as she did two days ago, when she had told him to keep his hands to himself.
“Ma’am. Mrs. MacKenzie.”
Catriona’s small smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you for setting up the game.”
Her voice was smooth as glass, without a particle of emotion, good or bad. She returned his scrutiny with a placid expression that filled him with vague unease.
He walked round her to assist with her seating. Her hair was in a loosely pinned braid, and two dark curls had escaped from the updo and nestled in the tender indent of her nape. The chaperone was watching him eye up the lady’s exposed neck. He pushed the chair under the lady’s bustle.
She put her spectacles on top of her head again, but it seemed her gloves stayed on today.
It was his turn, and his least self-destructive move was to put his pawn in a3. As he had predicted after their last round, she immediately eliminated his knight on c3 with her bishop and was now behind enemy lines. It made him feel vindicated—at least during this game he knew what was inside her head.
She looked up at him. “My father will be in London midweek,” she said. “We could have dinner with Mr. Leighton on Thursday or Friday, depending on his availability and preference. I could cable to him today to invite him.”
“That’s rather short notice,” he pointed out.
She nodded. “Nothing wagered, nothing gained.”
“You haven’t told your father the reason, have you?” he asked in Arabic to lock out the chaperone.
“No—I understood you wanted to discuss the matter with him face-to-face, prior to the dinner.”
It still impressed him, how effortlessly she switched between the languages. He launched a fresh pawn to destroy her pillaging bishop.
“As for Leighton,” he said, “in his invitation, we tell him that we want to share our progress with the classification. Nothing yet about my proposal.”
“As you wish.”
She studied the board rather briefly, then switched her king with her rook.
He narrowed his eyes. “Interesting.”
She seemed unflustered by the compliment, just graciously inclined her head. Blush, he willed her, or say something strange. Say nothing at all, if you must, but act normal. This was normal, he then realized—for probably the first time, she was acting perfectly in line with protocol. He contemplated his small army, wanting to do something reckless. An awareness of the greater picture was a must in chess as well as in life; to plan any possible scenario in too much detail, however, risked overlooking actual realities. Catriona probably lived life that way, though. He could just see her do it, classing people as pawns, knights, kings; intuiting their moves and switching her responses on and off accordingly. He brought his bishop into a position that would allow him to take her knight and penetrate deep into her ranks in a few moves’ time.
“What do you think about using some bait to lure Mr. Leighton to the dinner,” she asked. “We might need it, at such short notice.”
“Do you have anything in mind?”
“I could suggest an exhibition in the British Museum.”
He paused. “Take the pieces to London?”
“Aye. Such an opportunity would flatter the vanity of any collector.”
“You mean to just suggest it to him, or to actually do it, if he agrees?”
A small shrug. “If it came to it, I could certainly schedule an audience with the curator of the museum through Wester Ross.”
The fine hairs had risen on his nape. If the pieces were on a train, they were mobile. Anything in transit was vulnerable. He knew an opportunity when he saw one even if the use of it was yet unclear.
“It is a good idea,” he said evenly.
“Wonderful.” She took one of his frontline pawns with one of hers and gave him another meaningless glance. “I’m afraid I must go now. Shall we play another day?”
He suppressed the urge to put his hand on top of hers to keep her from getting up and leaving. She was still hurt, and he couldn’t fix it, not while her chaperone was staring on, anyway. With a tight smile, he bid her a good day. On her way out, she stopped to chat with a white-haired, rosy-faced fellow who sat reading a book in a chair near the entrance, and the curve of her cheek said she was smiling throughout the conversation. A hot stab of irritation went through Elias, and he realized he was glaring at an old man. For some time after she had left, he kept sitting at the little table, frustration prickling under his skin like an itch he couldn’t reach for scratching. Obviously, his desire to make up with her went far beyond general courtesy. He still wanted her. Bury it, forget it. For now, he had to endure her assistance, which grated on him enough—his instinct was to be of use to her, not put her to work—but soon, they would part. Then he would find himself a lover, one with a wide smile and richly perfumed hair, and he’d drown out the memories by focusing on his business.