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Something he imagined Lady Minerva understood.

He threw together a hearty stew in the hopes the maid might want something to eat. It was unlikely something Lady Minerva ate often, but to his mind, you could not compete with a good stew for any ailments. He grinned to himself as he stirred the food. As his Ma would say, “A stew could fix almost anything.”

Whether she still said that, he did not know. After a bout of illness that no good Scottish food could fix, he had sent her down to England for the fresh air, and according to her letters, she was having quite the time scandalizing the proper English ladies of her age there.

“That smells delicious.”

He spun, wooden spoon in hand, to find Lady Minerva in the doorway of the kitchen. She looked entirely at odds against the rough, battered wood of the entrance way. Though wisps of hair had escaped a simple updo and her eyes were ringed with fatigue, her pale gown and gentle figure didn’t fit in with the chunky wood of the building.

She was soft. Everything here was hard. Including him.

It had never bothered him before. That was what life had done to him, and he was proud of the obstacles he had overcome to become the person he was.

It bothered him now, though. He wanted to be soft with her. To tell her that everything would be well. To commend her for her bravery and diligent care of her maid.

Instead, he gestured with the spoon to the table. “Have a seat.” He cursed to himself. “My lady,” he added.

He caught her smile before he turned away. “Please, call me Minerva.”

“Minerva,” he muttered, enjoying the sound of her name on his tongue far too much.

Chapter Four

A fire crackled in the generous fireplace, casting the cozy kitchen in an amber glow. The occasional pop of the wood offered comforting punctuation to the cloak of silence that hung over her and Mr. Sinclair. Every inch of Minerva’s body ached with tiredness. Even if she were good at conversing with strangers, the exhaustion making her eyelids heavy and her thoughts slow, prevented her from offering any form of companionship to Mr. Sinclair.

She glanced around the rugged interior of the room. There were many farms on her brother’s estate, and the various other estates attached to the family, but she rarely stepped foot in them. She could not say whether English farms and Scottish farms were any different, but she rather liked the warmth of the room.

Though much of the furnishings looked old, with splinters and chunks missing, flecked paint and worn fabric, it lacked the coldness that many rooms of the stately home she frequented suffered from. Their high ceilings, pale walls, and delicate and uncomfortable furnishings did not offer the same sense of warmth and coziness. Warmth that was very much needed at present. Wind battered the windows and rain tapped at the glass like the tiny fingernails of monsters desperate to get into the room. They were certainly not in England anymore.

Her gaze landed on the farmer while he ate the stew with gusto. The food was simple but delicious and satisfied her emptystomach—reminding her that she had not eaten all day. Mary had occupied her since their arrival, and while the farmer had checked on them briefly as promised, there was no sign of the doctor, and Mr. Sinclair assured her that there would not be until at least tomorrow afternoon, unfortunately.

Mr. Sinclair cleared his throat. She peeked up through her lashes, horribly aware of how the lamplight flickered over his features, highlighting the stubble along his jawline and the tiny little scars that were etched upon his face. Marks from his life as a farmer, perhaps? They did not diminish his attractiveness, however.

Though she could not claim he was much like the men with whom she usually acquainted—a distinct lack of pomade, for one thing—there was something innately appealing about him. Though they had little to converse about as yet, she did not feel uncomfortable near him. It could have been because Mr. Johnson was nearby, but Minerva knew very well that simply having people nearby did not always calm her fears. There was a stillness about him, something that hung over his broad shoulders and wide chest. His dark eyes were intense and assessing, as though constantly taking in everything that was occurring. He had the look of a man who would be able to act at a moment’s notice—a protector of sorts.

“So… how is your maid?” he asked.

“Better. I think. I hope.” She lowered her spoon. “She has settled a little, and her temperature has lowered.”

“With any luck, it should pass quickly. Then you can be on your way.”

Minerva nodded politely. Though his initial gruffness passed quickly, it was clear the man wanted them gone. She could not blame him. She doubted he had many visitors, and it seemed he lived alone, there was no wife or children to keep him company. She tilted her head to eye him.

He caught her look. “What is it?”

Heat rolled into her cheeks. “I was just er… Wondering…er… Why is it you are not married? I thought most farmers liked to have a wife to help.”

He gave her a brief smile. “This is not my farm.” He shrugged. “Well, it is in a manner of speaking. But I do not normally farm it. The farmer is visiting his daughter in Edinburgh, and I promised to take care of things for a while.”

Minerva frowned. “What exactly do you mean by a manner of speaking?”

“This is my land. You are travelling through it. I own several of the farms here.”

“Oh.”

A half-smile curved his lips, creating little indentations in his cheek that made her fingers twitch with the desire to touch them.

“You seem disappointed that I am no mere farmer.”