As if she’d be tempted by hiskneesof all things.
Willing her blush away, Arabella looked down at her soup. Not only was she starving, but it was a relief to have something to focus her attention on besides her grandmother’s ill-mannered guest. Her gaze skirted from one side of her soup bowl to the other, searching for a spoon.
“Grandmother,” she said at last, attempting to keep the irritation from her voice. “I don’t seem to have a spoon.”
“A spoon?” Mr. McKenzie picked up his knife. “Nae, ye wouldn’t. We dinnae bother with spoons. Or forks. A good, sharp knife is the only utensil ye need.”
She lifted her hands in exasperation. “You cannot be serious. One cannot eat soup with aknife.”
In answer, he speared one of the pieces of fish from his stew, then raised his brows in question as if to say,Is anything the matter?
In the space of a few short hours, they’d managed to develop a wordless communication they both understood perfectly. Which was ideal since there were plenty of things Arabella wanted to say to him that she didn’t want her grandmother hearing.
She was beginning, however, to wish she knew a few more curse words.
Holding her gaze, Mr. McKenzie raised the fish to his mouth, lips closing around his knife as he slowly pulled the utensil away.
Arabella could only stare at him, hating the way her toes curled in her slippers at the sensual way he’d taken a bite of fish stew. With aknifeof all things.
A knife! She refused to believe it.
Scots were known for kilts and plaids, their propensity for drinking...
Butthis? No.
This had to be some ghastly joke.
Surely Scots used spoons and forks.
Surely.
Beside her, Grandmother stabbed a piece of fish and took a bite.
Arabella drew in a slow breath. “But one cannot eat broth with a knife.”
“Of course not,” Mr. McKenzie said, winking at her for the second time this evening.
If ever any man was asking to be slapped, it was him.
“Ye drink it, like so.” He picked up his bowl and lifted it to his mouth, slurping down the broth.
Her jaw dropped. In less than a day, every one of her worst fears about Scotland had been confirmed. If anything, her parents had downplayed the ills of the country to which they’d relegated her.
She watched her grandmother and Mr. McKenzie eat for several minutes, stabbing at pieces of fish with their knives, then drinking the broth.
Arabella’s stomach growled, loudly.
“Yer famished, Arabella.” Grandmother frowned. “Well, go on. The fish won’t bite ye.”
Arabella glanced down at her knife. She couldn’t.Wouldn’t. But the alternative was what, exactly? Refuse to eat on principle? Starve herself for the entire summer?
Tentatively she picked up her knife, eyed the largest piece of fish in her bowl, then speared. As she did, she could almost imagine the gates of hell through which Dante had passed, inscribed, “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.”
Or, in English, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!”
She put the fish on the tip of the knife to her lips and took a bite, swallowing hard.
One bite, then another, then another.
