“That’s good.” He puffed out his cheeks and sighed. “Lady Sarah sometimes reads to me in the afternoons or takes me for walks through the gardens.”
“How nice.” She gave him a charming smile.
“Mama said ye were takin’ care of Lady Sarah.”
“I am.”
He considered this. “Are ye good at it?”
“Reasonably.”
He seemed to find this acceptable. He looked past her into the room, seemingly ascertained that there was no one within, pressing her to do anything of importance, then asked, “Since Lady Sarah is sick, will ye come outside and play with me?”
The garden paths were still wet from the rain, and Euan led her through the gate with the confidence of someone who had been navigating these paths since before he could walk properly, pointing out which stones were slippery and which were safe with the knowledgeable air of a little expert.
“That one there,” he said, pointing at a flat stone by the kitchen garden wall, “will flip right over if ye step on the edge. Archie found out the hard way.”
“Who is Archie?”
“The under-groom. He went completely sideways.” Euan demonstrated, with his whole body, what completely sideways looked like. “Laird MacRaeh had to pretend he wasnae laughin’.”
“You saw the Laird laughing?”
Euan looked at her with the withering patience of someone explaining something obvious. “He did at first, but then he hurried to help Archie.”
Isobel pressed her lips together.
They walked the garden circuit, and Euan showed her where the herb beds would be in summer, where he had buried a stone he was convinced was valuable, and where the cat had her kittens last spring. He talked the way small children do, without gaps, one thing connecting immediately to the next, and she listened, asked the right questions, and let herself be led.
At the end of the path, where it widened before the gate leading back to the inner courtyard, he paused and turned to face her with the expression of someone about to issue a formal challenge.
“Race,” he said.
“Really?”
“From here to the gate.” He pointed.
She rolled her ankles, testing the one she’d hurt previously while running through the field with Alasdair at her heels. “I am not sure it is such a good idea…”
“Go!”
She went.
She ran with her skirts lifted and her boots on the wet stones, and he ran beside her, small legs moving twice as fast as hers. His cherubic face was lit with the seriousness of accomplishing this task and winning the race. She kept pace with him easily forthe first half, then let him pull ahead, not so obviously that it looked intentional—just a slight lag, a boot that seemed to catch on a stone. He hit the gate first by four clear strides and threw both arms up victoriously.
“I win,” he announced.
“You were faster,” she said, honestly, because he had been, for his size. She was breathing harder than the run warranted.
“Again?” he questioned. A broad smile stretched his cheeks, making them look plump.
“You’ve already beaten me once,” she said. “Quit while you’re ahead.”
He considered this strategy and appeared to find it sound. He looked up at her with his dark eyes and said, with the abrupt candor of the very young, “Did ye let me win, me Lady?”
She smirked at him, then laid a hand over her heart and said solemnly, “I would never.”
* * *