Page 83 of How the Belle Stole Christmas
Will insisted on taking five minutes to gather some clean linen for himself and pack up what foodstuffs he had in the cottage.
As much as Catriona hated to leave the artifacts unguarded for a minute longer than absolutely necessary, she had to admit that increasing their store of provisions was probably wise.
After a delay during which she did an admittedly poor job of concealing her impatience, they stepped outside.
She peered at him in the bright light reflecting off the snow. Asking for his help was probably a terrible idea. When she’d asked him if he’d ever killed someone, he hadn’t denied it!
But he’d been irate at the prospect of harm coming to her artifacts. She truly believed they were united in their cause. And he had promised he wouldn’t kill her. Intentionally, anyway. And through some daft combination of idiocy and wishful thinking, she found herself believing him.
Well, there was a saying about beggars and choosers that definitely applied to her current circumstances. Besides, she wasn’t some wilting flower. She was a Scottish thistle, through and through. If he tried to pluck her, he would discover that she had spikes.
She turned to him. “So, Will.” She frowned. “Do ye mind if I call ye Will? Or should I be addressing ye as Lord Temple-whatever?”
“Will’s fine,” he replied, not bothering to correct her butchering of his title. “I don’t really think of myself as a viscount.”
She steered him around a large rock she knew was buried beneath the snow. “I thought ye upper-class nobs put a lot of stock in that sort of thing.”
“Most of them do, to be sure. But I was never supposed to inherit the title. I spent most of my life as the proverbial poor relation. I’m entirely the wrong kind of viscount.”
“Huh.” Catriona had never met a viscount before today, but she had to agree that Will didn’t fit her image of an English lord.
She’d never heard of a lord who went anywhere without an army of servants to press his clothes and draw his bath and probably wipe his arse while they were at it.
Will, on the other hand, lived alone, did his own washing up, and made surprisingly good eggs.
“So, what were ye doing before ye came into the title?” Catriona asked.
“I’ve been at Oxford since I turned eighteen,” Will answered. “First, as an undergraduate, and then, as a fellow.”
“Oxford, eh?” Catriona looked him up and down. “Sounds fancy to me.”
Will laughed. “Believe me, no one who has spent an evening in Oxford’s Senior Common Room would describe it as fancy.” He gestured toward the building looming before them. “So, tell me about Kilmore Castle.”
“The present structure dates from three different periods.”
“Late medieval, Jacobean, and Gothic Revival, unless I am very much mistaken.”
Catriona looked him up and down in a pantomime of being impressed. “Not bad for an Oxford man!”
Grinning, he gave a self-deprecating half-bow. “I did manage to learn one or two things while I was there.”
“Clearly ye did.” She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. Gracious, what was this fluttery feeling in the center of her chest? Had the eggs been undercooked?
Meaghan’s words sprang unbidden into her head.
He’s not what you’d call conventionally handsome.
Catriona snorted. That went to show how much her sister knew.
Bump in his nose or not, when Will Marley smiled at you with that intelligent twinkle in his brown eyes, he was as attractive as any man Catriona had ever encountered.
She looked away so sharply that her neck cracked. What was wrong with her? She had things to do, and important ones at that. She didn’t have a single minute to spend mooning over a man!
Clearing her throat, she gestured to a crumbling bit of masonry that was now little more than a folly.
“That’s about all that remains of the curtain wall.
As ye’ve probably gathered, few of the castle’s functional defenses remain.
For every fortified tower brimming with arrow slits, there’s a bay window that’s six feet across.
So don’t let the word castle fool ye. It won’t be easy to secure.
But I’m hoping that between the two of us—”
Will grabbed her shoulders, pushing her behind the remnants of the curtain wall. “Duck!”
There was a fluttering of wings followed by a familiar voice. “Weigh anchor, ye scurvy dog!”
Catriona laughed. Will had curled his body over hers, shielding her. She slipped beneath his arm. “It’s all right. ’Tis only my pet, coming to say good morning.”
Will’s mouth fell open when he saw the raven happily squawking on Catriona’s shoulder. “You have a pet raven?”
Catriona was busy cooing over Morrigan. “What? Oh, aye. Her name is Morrigan. Did ye not hear me mention her before?”
Will paused. “Well, yes. But I didn’t pay it much heed, as at the time, I believed you to be criminally insane.”
Catriona was about to retort that the Sussex Shovel Slayer wasn’t in a position to be casting any stones, but Morrigan beat her to the punch. “Ye scurvy dog!” the raven squawked, looking Will up and down.
If Will took offense, he gave no sign of it. “And she can talk?” At Catriona’s nod, Will all but exploded. “What a remarkable creature! I’ve never seen the like!”
He reached a tentative hand toward Morrigan, but the raven gave him her profile. “Cleave him to the brisket!”
“She’s so clever!” Will gushed, taking no offense at the bird’s death threat. “I see that I have put the wrong foot forward, but perhaps I can worm my way into your good graces, Mistress Morrigan.” He glanced at Catriona. “Does she always speak like a pirate?”
“For the most part.” Catriona felt heat rising to her cheeks. “At the time I acquired her, I was going through a bit of a pirate phase. I was nine, ye see.”
Will nodded sagely. “As one does.”
Catriona’s family would have added the modifier, as a boy does. They had not thought the same about their daughter.
But she could not detect any scorn in Will’s words.
He liked her raven, he valued her artifacts, he found her one-time obsession with pirates untroubling, and he was well-versed in medieval architecture.
To say nothing of the fact that he had thrown himself in front of her, using his body as a shield, when he believed Morrigan was swooping in for the attack.
Catriona couldn’t help but notice that her shoulders still tingled from the echo of his touch.
In summary, William Marley was surprisingly appealing, for a Sassenach viscount.
And a purported Shovel Slayer.
Catriona should probably not be finding anyone with the words Shovel Slayer associated with their name appealing.
Ah, well. This was why her parents despaired of her, wasn’t it?
Morrigan fluttered off as they reached the back door. Catriona unlocked it and ushered Will inside. “Now hurry. I’ll show ye where ye can stow yer things, and we’ll run the food down to the kitchen. Then I’ll tell ye what I have in mind for tonight.”