In the Heart of the Highlander by Maggie Robinson Page A

couldn’t swear to remain pure if Alec touched her toes again.
    He opened the door a fraction, decided the coast was clear, and left her standing on one boot on her carpet.
    She needed to sit down. Looking up all that way at him made her disoriented.
    What a day so far! She was certainly earning every penny for the agency. Mary caught a glimpse of herself in the long mirror on the wardrobe door and she looked far too healthy—her cheeks were rosy, her eyes sparkled, and even her hair looked curlier. She would have to do something about that before she went downstairs for dinner.
    Mary ran her own bath. That was a little redundant after being scrubbed so vigorously by Hedwig, but the rose oil was giving her a tickle in the back of her throat. She imagined Alec was doing the very same thing, lowering his long body into the short copper tub in his suite.
    Each set of rooms had its own bathroom consisting of a Crapper, tub, and pedestal sink. Water for plumbing one hundred en suite bathrooms was plentiful in the Highlands—all that snow melted into the underground rivers and lakes, easily plumbed into the modern building.
    The hotel closed in the winter months since the roads were impassible, though. To live up here year-round must be a challenge. How had Lady Edith Raeburn managed before the hotel was built and she sought her dangerous liaison? As far as Mary knew, Alec’s young wife didn’t even go down to Edinburgh, but stayed immured at Raeburn Court like Rapunzel in her tower.
    Mary wondered if Alec and his brothers planned to spend their winter at Raeburn Court wrapped in the Raeburn tartan staring gloomily into the fire now that she was dead. It seemed Edith had driven the men out of their own home.
    She sank into the steaming water, far from relaxed, her mind spinning, only to jump when Oliver knocked some ten minutes later.
    “What ho, Mrs. Evensong?” he asked behind the door.
    “Hush, Oliver. The walls probably have ears.” She scrambled out of the tub, wrapping herself in a bath sheet. “I’ll be right out.”
    “Reporting in, I am.”
    “Hold your horses.” It didn’t really matter if Oliver saw her in dishabille—he wasn’t likely to feel any non-brotherly yearning. She dried off quickly and belted her robe. Oliver was in her bedroom, his feet up on her dressing table. It appeared from the bright pink of his forefinger he’d been messing with her rouge pot.
    “Absolutely not,” Mary said, sweeping the glass container out of his reach. “Not even for fun. How did you spend your day?”
    “Do you know how very boring golf is? All that whacking at a little white ball to get it into a little brown hole. And for what? Bragging rights? At least my caddie was a handsome laddie.”
    “Oliver!” Mary warned.
    “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t disgrace the mission. I’ve rounded up five fellows for cards tomorrow, and cream of the crop they are. Judge Whitley, who suffers from arthritis. Poor fellow kept dropping his club and I can’t imagine what he’ll do with the pasteboards. Stern old fellow, wrath of God in the courtroom. Big believer in right and wrong. I didn’t dare to cheat,” Oliver said, ticking off each guest on his fingers. “His friend barrister Richard Hurst, whose beloved young daughter is here for her asthma. Protector of the innocent and all that rot. Lord Peter Brantley, whose wife suffers from ‘nerves.’ Isn’t that your complaint, sis? But when she isn’t nervous, the woman is one of the biggest gossips in England and Brantley is not too far behind. Sir Jacob Rycroft, owner of
The London Ledger
and his brother Amos, both here for the fishing and a bit of brotherly bonding.
The Ledger
, you know, will print anything and worry about the truth later. I think we should be able to convince Bauer for the good of the hotel, which he owns shares in, he should resign and go back to yodeling in the Tyrol.”
    “I believe they yodel in Switzerland, not Austria,” Mary said,