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wood, beside a set of shelves. Several carved objects lay on the shelves, one of them a statue of an elf peering out from around a tree, so charmingly done she had to smile.
    There were woodworking tools, as well, and pieces of paper weighed down by another small block of wood. She could see the edges of a sketch emerging from beneath thepaperweight. Her fingers itched to pull the papers out and look at them, but even Violet’s rapacious curiosity could not make her breach the laws of polite behavior to that extent.
    Coll Munro had an artistic streak. She imagined his large, capable fingers working on a piece of wood, pulling forth the delicate traceries and whorls. Turning away, her eye fell on the opposite wall, where a sketch hung in a simple frame. The portrait, done in charcoal, was of a woman so lovely it took one’s breath away. Laughter shone in the subject’s large bright eyes, and her mouth was quirked up at one corner in the beginnings of a smile. Her hair was a mass of tumbling tresses, held back on one side by her hand as if to shield her curls from the wind. In the static drawing, Violet could see the motion, the almost tangible energy and vivacity that radiated from her.
    Was this the woman Coll loved? Affection and familiarity permeated every line of the drawing. A fiancée? A lost love? Violet took a step closer. The woman’s beauty was such that Violet could not help but admire it, yet she felt an unfamiliar twinge of envy. Violet had never wished she were more pleasing to the eye; indeed, Violet had found her looks more a detriment than a source of pride. But in this moment she knew a sharp, brief twist of longing. What must it be like to be a woman whom men cherished?
    The door opened behind her, and Violet whirled almost guiltily. Coll once more filled the room with his presence. He was fully dressed now and clean shaven as well—though bearing a thin, red line across his jaw that she suspected might have been the cause for the curses she had heard earlier.
    â€œI—um—was looking at the portrait.” Violet gestured vaguely toward it. “Did you draw it?”
    â€œAye. That’s Meg.”
    â€œShe’s beautiful.” The name tickled in Violet’s brain. She stared. “Meg? You mean—isn’t that the name in the earl’s letter? His new wife?”
    â€œAye.” Coll grimaced. “She’s Lady Mardoun now.”
    Violet swung back to study the drawing again. She had been surprised to read in Mardoun’s letter that he had married again. From her admittedly limited knowledge of the earl, he had not seemed a man who embraced the role of husband. That he had married a woman he’d met here—and after only a few weeks—made it even more curious. But now she understood. A woman as beautiful as this could turn the head of even the worldly Earl of Mardoun.
    Was Coll in love with the earl’s wife? Violet cast a speculative glance at him. He had gone to the fire to retrieve a kettle and was busy pouring water into it from a pitcher. The twist of his mouth when he said “Lady Mardoun” had indicated a certain displeasure, but he did not fit Violet’s picture of a heartbroken man.
    â€œWould you like a cup of tea? I have some of Sally McEwan’s scones here, too.”
    â€œNo, thank you,” Violet said automatically, though her stomach rumbled in protest. She had been too eager this morning to wait for breakfast.
    â€œYou haven’t tasted Sally’s scones.” He set a basket on the table, folding back the cloth to reveal a pile of golden-brown cakes. “They’re a bit of heaven.” He smiled, and a long dimple popped into one cheek, his blue eyes warm and vivid.
    Violet smiled back, taking an unconscious step toward him before she pulled herself up short. Sitting down to acompanionable breakfast with the man was not the way to establish her authority and professionalism.
    â€œI