Free Somewhere My Lass by Beth Trissel Page A

been the same at the house of beauty, music emanating from the walls and most peculiar ballads to be sure, though she grasped the lament and yearning after love.
    Her heart quickened when she spied Neil. He glanced up from the couch where he sat eating one of those enormous sandwiches she recalled from the evening before and drinking from a steaming mug. He regarded her as he might a specter.
    Perhaps that explained matters. She was a ghost caught in purgatory. And yet, when she looked into his eyes, all torment faded except for the pang in her heart.
    He dropped the food onto a plate made of paper on the low table in front of him, set the cup down, and got to his feet. His damp hair was freshly combed, and he’d changed into those long-legged breeches Wrenie referred to as jeans. The fitted garment looked far better on him than anyone else she’d seen wearing them. Over these jeans he’d donned a charcoal gray shirt that matched his eyes and buttoned up the front. Mora’s gown closed up the back with an odd device called a zipper.
    Furrowing his brow, Neil said, “Wrenie, what have you done to her?”
    Fergus looked up from his chair, apparently unaware that a gentleman should rise when a lady entered the room. “It’s not nearly as much makeup as Wrenie wears.”
    Mora certainly hoped not. Wrenie wore enough cosmetics for an Egyptian queen, or so Mora had determined after a morning of beauty preparation.
    Fergus returned his attention to that glowing box in his lap. His fingers flew over the letters on the front and made soft clicking sounds. Whatever engrossed him there made no sense to her.
    Wrenie gestured with those odious fingernails. “All Max did was arch Mora’s brows a little to enhance her eyes and add a touch of liner and lip gloss. And a hint of blush to her cheeks, some foundation to cover those freckles—”
    “I like her freckles,” Neil broke in. “They’re part of her charm.”
    Charm? Did he think her bewitched?
    “What about her hair? I mean it’s pretty,” he hastened to add, “but why that particular style?”
    “She refused to have it cut.”
    “I should think so.” Neil frowned.
    “So Max thought it looked nice up on her head,” Wrenie said with a toss of her own.
    Mora wasn’t so sure.
    Neil didn’t appear convinced either. “Just the style for beauty pageants.”
    Fergus glanced around. “Or maybe they need a Christmas Queen at the mall.”
    The daft flow of words swirled over Mora’s head. Wrenie further contorted her bizarre features and made a face at him. Most churlish behavior.
    Yet, Neil let it pass. Instead, he swept his hand at Mora while speaking to her addled maid. “What have you done with her clothes?”
    “At the drycleaners.” Whatever that was.
    Wrenie left her beaded purse on the stand inside the door. “Did you know she even wears a corset?”
    Mora’s toes curled, and her cheeks warmed.
    Neil assessed her at a glance then narrowed his eyes at Wrenie. “We don’t need to know that.”
    “TMI, dudette,” Fergus scolded, unintelligibly.
    “Fine.” Wrenie set the bag of cosmetics beside her purse. “I’m getting a soda. Anybody want one?”
    Mora had nearly gagged at her taste of the noxious drink. She’d silently vowed never to have another. “Wrenie and I drank some sweet beverage she called ice tea. Delicious, though I did wonder why it was filled with chunks of ice.”
    The ghost of a smile touched Neil’s lips. “You’re in the South. We load ice in everything. Nothing more for us now, thanks Wrenie. What do I owe you for this expedition?”
    “Oh, don’t worry about the shop. I opened an account in your name,” she answered over her shoulder, walking from the room. “Max billed your credit card.”
    “I’m sure he was thrilled,” Neil muttered.
    “Extremely!” Wrenie called from the kitchen. “He expects you to come in regularly to get your hair styled.”
    Neil opened his mouth to argue, “I don’t get it styled, just