Read Online The Husband Hunt by Jillian Hunter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jillian Hunter
Tags: Romance
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in plain view?"
"I don't know, Mrs. Evans," he said. "But she looked lost to me."
Mrs. Evans cast a curious glance at the young woman and had to admit there was a lost quality about her. Who exactly was she, anyway? Word had already reached the lower echelons that the new arrival might not be all that she claimed. For example, no one had explained whether she was to be addressed as Lady Catriona, as befitting an earl's daughter, or simply as Miss Grant. No one had explained, either, where that old Scotsman had gone with that dog. And what, Mrs. Evans wondered, about those owls last night?
She curtsied, preferring to err on the side of correctness, covertly giving Howard a thump in the ribs. "Forgive him, I beg you. None of us have our wits about us this morning with those owls hooting half the night."
Catriona smiled back at her, apparently unaware that a proper lady would end this conversation on the spot. "Are you Welsh?"
The warmth of that smile might have won Mrs. Evans over for life, but her loyalty lay with the master, and she wasn't about to hand her allegiance to a hanger-on who might be gone in a month. "I am indeed. Hazel Evans is my name."
"Hazel is one of the most sacred trees in Celtic lore," Catriona said. "If one believed in such things, one might assume you had been born with certain supernatural gifts."
Mrs. Evans pressed her work-worn hand against her heart, momentarily at a loss for words. When she spoke, her voice was low with emotion. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to one who sees beyond the obvious."
The woman stared at her in understanding. "Then you are also—oh, my. Oh,
my."
"Do you have a pain in the chest, Mrs. Evans?"
"Nothing that you should worry about. It comes and goes."
Howard made a face. "All over the place. One day it's in her stomach, the next her heart."
"Shall we find out exactly where the trouble is?" Catriona asked.
"Can you do that?" Mrs. Evans said, lowering her hand.
"The stones can," Catriona said confidently. "They are centuries old and very powerful. I shall need a bucket, though."
A bucket was found as Catriona dug through her collection of pebbles at the bottom of her bag. Several more servants had emerged from the house, and Mrs. Evans, kneeling beside Catriona, was too intrigued by the proceedings to pay much attention to the tall man who hid behind the others in the shadows of a leafy tree.
Silence fell as Catriona filled the bucket with pond water and dropped the pebbles one by one to the bottom. She suspected that the viscount wouldn't approve of what she was doing, but she couldn't stop herself. How could she refuse to help someone? She would just have to follow her instincts and face the consequences later, even if those consequences came with steely-gray eyes and a broad-shouldered body that gave her the most delicious goose bumps.
"Well," she said after a moment, "it
isn't
your heart, or your lungs or liver. The problem appears to lie in your stomach."
"My stomach," Mrs. Evans exclaimed. "Why, I haven't eaten a thing all day."
"Except for half a pork pie," Howard said.
"And a few nips of brandy," one of the kitchen maids muttered.
"I believe you might be right," the housekeeper said thoughtfully. "The pain does seem to come after I eat certain foods."
"I shall brew you a tea to help."
"Tell her that the owls last night don't mean we all ought to be wearing chastity belts," Howard blurted out impetuously.
Mrs. Evans shot to her feet and cuffed his ear. "Don't you dare use such filthy talk to a lady, who, if I may hazard a guess, would appreciate the validity of genuine Welsh superstition. Mark my words: when an owl hoots, innocence is lost."
Catriona rose from the ground, the hem of her borrowed gown sopping wet. "That belief is a shade better than what the Romans claimed. In ancient days, it was thought an owl hooting meant someone would die."
"Better death than disgrace," Mrs. Evans said stoutly.
Catriona frowned. "Perhaps, but I fear those
"I don't know, Mrs. Evans," he said. "But she looked lost to me."
Mrs. Evans cast a curious glance at the young woman and had to admit there was a lost quality about her. Who exactly was she, anyway? Word had already reached the lower echelons that the new arrival might not be all that she claimed. For example, no one had explained whether she was to be addressed as Lady Catriona, as befitting an earl's daughter, or simply as Miss Grant. No one had explained, either, where that old Scotsman had gone with that dog. And what, Mrs. Evans wondered, about those owls last night?
She curtsied, preferring to err on the side of correctness, covertly giving Howard a thump in the ribs. "Forgive him, I beg you. None of us have our wits about us this morning with those owls hooting half the night."
Catriona smiled back at her, apparently unaware that a proper lady would end this conversation on the spot. "Are you Welsh?"
The warmth of that smile might have won Mrs. Evans over for life, but her loyalty lay with the master, and she wasn't about to hand her allegiance to a hanger-on who might be gone in a month. "I am indeed. Hazel Evans is my name."
"Hazel is one of the most sacred trees in Celtic lore," Catriona said. "If one believed in such things, one might assume you had been born with certain supernatural gifts."
Mrs. Evans pressed her work-worn hand against her heart, momentarily at a loss for words. When she spoke, her voice was low with emotion. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to one who sees beyond the obvious."
The woman stared at her in understanding. "Then you are also—oh, my. Oh,
my."
"Do you have a pain in the chest, Mrs. Evans?"
"Nothing that you should worry about. It comes and goes."
Howard made a face. "All over the place. One day it's in her stomach, the next her heart."
"Shall we find out exactly where the trouble is?" Catriona asked.
"Can you do that?" Mrs. Evans said, lowering her hand.
"The stones can," Catriona said confidently. "They are centuries old and very powerful. I shall need a bucket, though."
A bucket was found as Catriona dug through her collection of pebbles at the bottom of her bag. Several more servants had emerged from the house, and Mrs. Evans, kneeling beside Catriona, was too intrigued by the proceedings to pay much attention to the tall man who hid behind the others in the shadows of a leafy tree.
Silence fell as Catriona filled the bucket with pond water and dropped the pebbles one by one to the bottom. She suspected that the viscount wouldn't approve of what she was doing, but she couldn't stop herself. How could she refuse to help someone? She would just have to follow her instincts and face the consequences later, even if those consequences came with steely-gray eyes and a broad-shouldered body that gave her the most delicious goose bumps.
"Well," she said after a moment, "it
isn't
your heart, or your lungs or liver. The problem appears to lie in your stomach."
"My stomach," Mrs. Evans exclaimed. "Why, I haven't eaten a thing all day."
"Except for half a pork pie," Howard said.
"And a few nips of brandy," one of the kitchen maids muttered.
"I believe you might be right," the housekeeper said thoughtfully. "The pain does seem to come after I eat certain foods."
"I shall brew you a tea to help."
"Tell her that the owls last night don't mean we all ought to be wearing chastity belts," Howard blurted out impetuously.
Mrs. Evans shot to her feet and cuffed his ear. "Don't you dare use such filthy talk to a lady, who, if I may hazard a guess, would appreciate the validity of genuine Welsh superstition. Mark my words: when an owl hoots, innocence is lost."
Catriona rose from the ground, the hem of her borrowed gown sopping wet. "That belief is a shade better than what the Romans claimed. In ancient days, it was thought an owl hooting meant someone would die."
"Better death than disgrace," Mrs. Evans said stoutly.
Catriona frowned. "Perhaps, but I fear those
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