Maggie MacKeever Read Online Free Page A

that ye should be welcomin’ the riffraff of London into his home that the master set ye up here, which he wadna ha’ done had he heeded me! Och noo, he must take in the puir lassie! Aye, and look what’s come of it! A parcel of beggars and cutpurses eternally straivaiguin’ aboot the hoose and helpin’ themselves to whatever isna fastened doon!”
    “Hannah!” interrupted Morgan, bright of eye. “You are impertinent. I have asked you to fetch our tea.”
    “Whist!” The Scotswoman dropped a curtsy as unlovely as it was insincere. “Impertinent is it? Dinna fash yerself, milady; I willna soon again forget my place.” On that cryptic and distinctly ominous utterance she turned on her heel
     

Chapter Three
     
    The drawing room of Phyfe house was a large chamber done up with the utmost elegance. Doors, windows and chimneypiece were flanked by classical columns, moldings were carved with classical ornaments. Window curtains and wall hangings were fashioned of gold-fringed satin damask, a design of serpentine ribands and large flower sprays in white on a rose-colored ground. Pier glasses stood between the tall windows. The carpet boasted a heterogeneous collection of motifs in the Pompeian style, a large central medallion and narrow rectangular panels at each end. Yet in comparison with the lady stretched out so gracefully on the settee, all grandeur must pale into insignificance. Gloomily regarding the prostrate goddess, a second young lady sat in an oval-backed chair.
    “Zounds!” uttered Morgan, advancing purposefully into the drawing room. “I am prodigious sorry that you have been kept waiting here so long. Unfortunately, there was an occasion when an alleged clansman decamped with a large number of portable items, including a pair of silver candlesticks awarded an ancestor who distinguished himself in the service of Charles II— how, I would rather not say! But you must be weary from your journey. Rooms will be ready for you shortly, and in the interim we shall have our tea.” Having so concisely summed up the situation, Morgan paused, expecting that explanations would be put forth.
    Explanations were not. The dark-haired young lady continued silent, her gaze fixed on the carpet; the blond goddess did not stir. Could the creature be ill? Morgan might zealously thrust her nursing services upon the governors of Saint Bart’s, but she was not anxious to be tied by such duties to Phyfe House. She eyed Alister.
    The doctor was deep in contemplation, not of the visitors, but of the marvels of Phyfe House. So total was his admiration that when Morgan’s elbow recalled him sharply to the present, he started violently.
    Unapologetic, Morgan pointed. Obediently, Dr. Kilpatrick observed the settee. A fine piece of furniture it was; he particularly admired the three silken oval panels painted with classical figure subjects inserted in its back. Moreover, the lady stretched out thereupon might have herself served as an excellent subject for a figure study, so still did she lie.
    Lady? What the devil was a lady doing stretched out like a corpse on Miss Phyfe’s settee? “Is she dead?” he inquired critically.
    That possibility Morgan had not included among her various speculations upon why an alleged member of her family should assume so undignified a position. Frowning, she strode across the room and dropped down on her knees. Cautiously, she leaned closer to the prostrate form. The lady still breathed. Morgan touched her shoulder gingerly. The lady shifted position, uttering a delicate snore.
    Exquisite features and golden curls were thereby revealed. Morgan knew that incomparable face, though she had not glimpsed it for several years. “Perdition!” uttered Morgan, and rocked back on her heels. “Sidoney!”
    Trained, even in her sleep, to respond to her name—and very proud she was of the accomplishment—Lady Barbour blinked her huge blue eyes and immediately sat up. “Morgan, my dear, I am so glad to see