“Mmmm,” commented Mrs. MacKellar. “We’ve lasses aplenty in Inverary Village.”
“Och,” protested Kelpie, “but ’tis experience I’ve had! And,” she added pitifully, “they will be having homes, and I with nowhere to turn.”
Mrs. MacKellar softened, but only slightly. “To tell the truth,” she said bluntly, “there is something—I’m not altogether liking the look of you! How am I knowing you are what you say?”
“But and whyever else would I be coming to Mac Cailein Mor?” demanded Kelpie artlessly.
“Mmmm, that will be the question,” retorted Mrs. MacKellar. “No, now, I’m thinking—”
What she thought was never said, for from the corner of her eye Kelpie saw a tall figure just passing the foot of the stairs—not Argyll, but his tallness, his long face, red hair, and manner of dress suggested that he must be Argyll’s son. Kelpie took a chance.
She turned away blindly from the imminent refusal, carefully stumbled a bit, and tumbled herself neatly down the steps to land in a pathetic heap in front of the startled young man.
“My sorrow!” he ejaculated.
Kelpie swiftly decided against being injured, as this might prove inconvenient. So she gave a small scared glance upward at the faint frown above her and shrank back against the wall. “Och, your pardon!” she whispered. “Please do not be beating me!”
The young man—she was quite sure now that he must be Lord Lorne, son of Argyll—gave a short laugh. “Whatever you may have heard, I am no beater of bairns.”