Scottish Brides Read Free Page A

tower? Why the tower?”
    â€œWhy, that’s where th’ marriage kilt is.”
    â€œBeen listening at the door again?” Andra asked.
    â€œNot at all,” Sima said in lofty disdain. “Mr. Hadden talks t’ me, and he told me why he had come. Shocked, pure shocked I was that ye hadn’t shown him before.”
    Shocked. Nothing had shocked Sima for years. But on his first visit, she’d made her allegiance to Hadden clear. That could have been because he deliberately set out to enchant her, and every other female on the estate.
    â€œ I like women,” he said. “Especially strong, capable women. My sister is like that. Lady Valéry is like that. And you, Lady Andra . . . you’re like that”
    â€œSturdy, that’s me,” she answered with all the cheer she’d taught herself.
    â€œSturdy? Not at all.” His gaze ran over her with the care of a connoisseur. “You look almost fragile.”
    Sima interrupted with all the presumption of which she was capable. “She works too hard. She needs a man.”
    Andra could scarcely contain her horror. “Sima!”
    Hadden had only grinned at her. “A man to take care of her and do the heavy work. I couldn’t agree more.”
    After that, Sima had cared not that he was a foreigner. She, and every other foolish maid, had been vocal in their adoration.
    So when Andra had sent him away, Sima had been equally vocal with her opinion of Andra’s poor sense and unfeeling heart, and she dared insinuate that Andra used her indifference to hide a weakness.
    Foolishness, of course. Andra was strong. Self-sufficient. In need of no one. No one.
    â€œI also told him that ye had no bairn on the way. He seemed more than a wee bit concerned about that.” Smirking, Sima watched as color scorched Andra inside and out. “Although why he should be when ye’re not wed is beyond this auld woman’s understandin’.”
    Beyond her underapproaching, indeed. Sima understood human nature and needs with an almost fey comprehension, and Andra had no doubt the old woman was mixing a witch’s brew with her crooked finger. Only Andra couldn’t quite comprehend the plot. Thinking of the rickety stairway that circled around and around; the trapdoor in the floor; the big, dusty room with its windows so dirty they almost didn’t allow any light in, she asked suspiciously, “Why the tower?”
    â€œI’ve been worried about the effect of dampness on the old things.” Sima pulled the high-backed, armed, and cushioned chair away from the table.
    Andra took a step toward it.
    â€œMr. Hadden, you sit here,” Sima instructed.
    Andra stopped and watched, tense with resentment. Before, he had always insisted she take the master’s chair. He’d held it for her, seating her first with charm and courtesy. Now he accepted Sima’s homage with all the presumption of a noble, long-lost divinity, and seated himself with only a terse word of thanks to the manipulative old beldam.
    And Sima beamed as she pulled out the other, less formal, and quite armless chair. “Sit ye here, dearie, and rest yer tired feet. She’s been workin’, Mr. Hadden, way too hard since ye left. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she missed ye.”
    Without missing a beat, she continued, “Mistress, the tower’s dry, ye must admit; ye can see for miles, and there’s a good cross-breeze when the windows are open.”
    Torn between chagrin and gratitude, Andra seated herself, “Do you think the kilt is admiring the view?”
    As Sima patted her arm, she also plucked Andra’s shawl from her shoulders. “Ah, a witty tongue she has, isn’t it, Mr. Hadden?”
    â€œI have cherished her—” his gaze ran over her bosom, now exposed by the low neckline, “—wit.”
    Andra leaned forward, a hot retort on her lips.
    Sima’s fingers