“Don't forget we're supposed to go to Mercedes' tonight to watch ‘The Voice.'”

“Noooooooo, I don't want to go out. I want to stay in and have story time.”

“Blaine, I'm a little disturbed by how much you like this very bad story. Am I going to find a secret stash of Regency Romances under the bed?”

“No-ooo. Maybe. I just like it, okay?”

“You're a very disturbed man, Blaine Anderson.”

“Will you call Mercedes and cancel?”

“Which one of us has the migraine this time?”

Daylight was just beginning to streak across the horizon when Kurt McBurt pushed open the small servants' door to the bedchambers carrying a tray groaning with the weight of a sumptuous breakfast. When he saw Blaine sitting up from his makeshift bed on the floor, Kurt nearly dropped the tray, and the dishes clattered loudly.

Blaine rose swiftly, his tartan dropping to the floor. With a single bound, he crossed the room and took the heavy tray from Kurt's hands. Kurt stared at the muscular expanse of Blaine's lightly furred chest, a vee of hair traveling down to the smallclothes. Blaine's thighs and calves were heavily muscled from years of riding, running, working and fighting, and Kurt wanted to drop to his knees right there in the bedchamber and press his face into Blaine's crotch.

Kurt was shocked by his own thoughts, and his face burst into flames.

Blaine, turning from where he had laid the tray on a side table, saw Kurt's reddened face. In response, he quickly picked up his tartan, brought the edges around, and belted it with a practiced hand. This still left his shoulder bare, but it was something.

Kurt walked over to the tray on shaky legs and began laying the table. His thoughts raced. Blaine hadn't been in bed with Rachel. He hadn't! Kurt's heart swelled with happiness, and he smiled as he arranged bowls of berries, porridge, and bits of meat.

Blaine, watching Elizabeth, saw the smile and assumed that the cook's assistant was thinking of all the juicy gossip she could share with the others working in the house. It would not do to have it spread about that the MacAnders had not bed his wife on their wedding night. Blaine stalked to the table and grabbed Elizabeth by both arms, giving her a slight shake.

“Why do you smile, woman? Can you not wait to tell tales all over the manor?”

Kurt's eyes grew wide and he shook his head vehemently, “Oh no, you misunderstand. I was smiling only because I have a Laird who is so thoughtful of the feelings of his new wife. An English woman would need time to adjust to our ways. She is lucky that you understand that. I hope you will be very patient with her. One day I might be so lucky…but, never fear, what you do in the privacy of your own chambers is nothing I would speak of to others. Not ever.”

Blaine lost himself for a moment in Elizabeth's eyes as she spoke. She was so tall—taller than him, and her voice was so hauntingly beautiful that he sometimes forgot to listen to the meaning of the words when she talked, but somehow, this morning, the content trickled through to him.

He pulled Elizabeth to him and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, Elizabeth. I should never have doubted you.”

“Elizabeth, is it?” Rachel called from the bed, and Kurt and Blaine sprung apart as if burned. They had both forgotten about the bride tucked into the bed.

“Will you bring me my dressing gown, please?”

Kurt's face colored, but he gave a small curtsey and said, “Yes, my lady.”

Picking up the dressing gown from where it was draped over a chair, he carried it to the bed. Blaine turned his back to look at the fireplace, and Rachel stood as Kurt draped the robe around her naked form, helping her to adjust the gown.

Rachel was wealthy and spoiled, but she had never been stupid. She had seen the way that this servant had looked at the MacAnders; moreover, she had seen the way that Blaine looked at his cook's assistant. As Kurt moved around to make an adjustment to the front of Rachel's gown, Rachel saw something else as well: “Elizabeth's” throat.

There was only one type of “woman” who had an Adam's apple.

Suddenly Rachel's situation looked much brighter, indeed.

“Oh, please don't make Rachel evil. Is she going to out Kurt? I'm so worried.”

Kurt gave Blaine a squeeze. “It's called tension, Blaine. Without it, a story is just boring.”

“I guess,” Blaine said grudgingly. Then he teased Kurt, “You wrote that your own voice was ‘hauntingly beautiful.' I'm not sure there's room enough on the sofa for both of us and your ego.”

“You don't think my voice is hauntingly beautiful?” Kurt pretended to be hurt.

“Actually, I do. I very much think that,”

Blaine shifted up to kiss Kurt softly on the lips, “I like that you're Kurt when you're in your head and Elizabeth when you're in my head.”

“Good catch. Look who's a literary critic.”

“Don't forget, I got an A in my script analysis class.”

“You get A's in everything, Blaine. You're my talented, amazing, and smart boyfriend.”

“Fiancé,” Blaine corrected.

“Fiancé,” Kurt smiled.