She had crept to her room by the servants’ stair, had felt only a giddy sense of relief not to have been discovered. But sleep had not come easily. Instead, she had remembered every moment of the hour she’d spent with Lachlan. She spoke his words over and over in her mind, as if to fix them there. The day passed with aching slowness, a warm spring day that lured her and beckoned her outdoors. She had no errands to perform, no visits to the village, no lists of items to procure at the various shops. Instead, she sat in the large and sunny parlor and read to Harriet while she sewed. Every sentence or so she was halted and made to read another passage, to obscure any hint of accent from her voice. She longed to ask Harriet what she planned to do once she was in Scotland. Was she going to make every Scot repeat his words until his speech sounded more English? “You are looking peaked, Janet,” Harriet said now, her gaze sharp. “Are you still ailing?” “No, Harriet. Shall I continue to read?”
