One Little Sin by Liz Carlyle Read Free Book Online Page B

the devil do you mean?”
    “It isn’t enough that you’ve been cursed by a Gypsy,” Quin returned. “You’ve just been stuck with a ball of fire—and a dashed pretty one, too, especially when she blushes. I begin to think your eyesight has gone the way of your appetite, old chap.”
     
    Esmée rushed through MacLachlan’s town house, the fine carpets and elegant staircase nothing but a blur as she flew round the newel posts, holding Sorcha close to her side. Dear God in heaven. Could there have been a worse time to let her temper get hold of her tongue? At least her trunk was not yet unpacked. It would save everyone time and effort when her arse landed in the street again.
    She reached the nursery and burst through the door, only to come face-to-face with one of the footmen. The worn leather furniture was gone, and servants were clearing the last of the boxes from the shelves. “Your pardon, ma’am,” said one of them stiffly. “Wellings said Sir Alasdair wished the room cleared out.
    Cleared out was an apt description, thought Esmée, looking about the room. Nothing but an old Pembroke table and two wooden chairs remained. Even the stench of stale tobacco was waning. “Thank you,” she said to the footman. “I don’t suppose there is any more appropriate furniture to be had?”
    “Of what sort?” The low, rumbling voice came from behind her.
    Esmée spun round to see that Sir Alasdair MacLachlan had followed her into the room. Her heart leapt into her throat. “I—I beg your pardon?”
    “What do you need, Miss Hamilton?” he said more gently. “I shall send Wellings to fetch it.”
    Panicked, Esmée searched her mind. “Well, a…a worktable, I suppose,” she answered, setting Sorcha down. The child went at once to her toys.
    “Yes, go on,” he said. “What sort of worktable?”
    He did not mean to throw them out again? “Something low enough for Sorcha to use?” she managed. “With small chairs? And—and a child’s bed, perhaps?”
    MacLachlan smiled, his brown eyes warming. “Miss Hamilton, you are ending all your demands with question marks now,” he remarked. “It is most uncharacteristic of you. And surely Sorcha requires more than a table and a bed?”
    “Why, I—I daresay she does,” said Esmée, cursing her own stupidity. What did children need? She had but recently learned how to feed the child. How to keep her from tumbling into the fire. How to induce her to nap—well, sometimes. “Perhaps a high chair and a rocking chair?” she continued, struggling to remember what Lord Achanalt’s nursery had contained. “And one of those odd little buggies one sees in the parks?”
    “Ah, a yes, perambulator!” he said. “And a bigger, thicker carpet, perhaps? Just in case she decides to throw a tantrum?”
    Esmée felt her blush deepen. “She is a bit spirited, aye.”
    MacLachlan flashed his too-charming, toe-curling grin again. “Ah, the truth will out, won’t it, my dear?” he said. “Now, what was it you said last night? Ah, yes! ‘A good, quiet child! Not a drop of trouble to you, I swear it!’ ”
    Esmée looked away. “’Tis just the travel, I’m sure. The—er, the disruption in her life.”
    The smile softened at once. “Ah, well,” he returned. “Better a racehorse than a dray horse, I daresay.”
    The footman departed with the last box and gently pulled the door shut. MacLachlan strolled deeper into the room. He stopped before one of the windows and stared down into the street below. “You do not like me very much, do you, Miss Hamilton?” he finally said. “Indeed, I think it safe to say you quite loathe me.”
    Esmée opened and closed her mouth soundlessly for a moment. “I—I apologize for my behavior earlier,” she whispered.
    He made a strange choking sound. A stifled laugh? “You do have a dreadful temper,” he managed. “I’m not sure Merrick will ever be quite the same again.”
    “I cannot think what took hold of me.”
    The devil,