His gaze locked with hers, he slowly lowered the towel to his waist, allowing it to drape across the tempting package that she had already registered into theoh-my-goodnesscorner of her mind—reserved for only the most impressive sights she had ever seen in her lifetime. Amusement and something akin to seduction gleamed in his liquid silver gaze.“Mistress?”
“Uhm.” She tightened her grip on the tray and did her damnedest not to let her gaze dip below his waist again in the hopes the towel had shifted to one side. “I brought—” She lifted the tray. “—supper. I brought supper.”
Could she possibly sound any more stupid?She forced her attention to the wide round table in the corner of the room. “I’ll just set it up over there. I bet you’re starving.” She lowered the heavy tray to it, then pulled the tote from around her neck, extricating the contents of the bag and setting two places. “Eliza didn’t want you to eat alone so I brought mine up here too.” Okay. Enough babbling. It wasn’t like he was the first man she had ever seen without his clothes. An involuntary shudder shook through her. Who was she kidding? She had never seen a man built like Ronan . . . not naked . . . and not this close with enough privacy to lead to any number of delightful possibilities.
“Be sure to thank Mistress Eliza, and I appreciate yer willingness to dine with me.”
Was he making fun of her? She glanced up from the small cast iron pot holding the stew and focused on his aura. The deep indigo shade vibrating around him immediately pulled at her heart. Indigo. The color of the third eye chakra. Intelligence. Psychic power. The color of still waters running deep and mysterious. Indigo. Her favorite color.No. Ronan was not making fun of her.
She placed the lid back on the pot and motioned toward the bathroom. “Why don’t you go and get dressed while I fix our plates? Eliza insists the stew is best when it’s piping hot.”
With one hand fisted in the towel at his waist, he nodded. “Aye. Mistress Eliza said she left a change of clothes in the wardrobe. I’ll at least slip on a pair of trews.” He paused beside her, reached across the table, and tore a bit of cheese from the wedge.
The heat of him, the warm clean scent of him, stroked her senses, making her ache to turn and smooth her hands across those burnished planes of muscle. She fisted her hands, rubbing her knuckles against the tabletop while easing in deep controlling breaths.
“Uhm . . .” She eased a pace away, shaking herself free of the erotic spell. “Eliza sent her favorite Rhenish too.” She glanced around the room, spying the crystal decanters and wine glasses neatly arranged on top of the buffet in the corner. “Glasses. Good. I’ll finish setting up.” She swallowed hard and weakly waved him toward the bathroom. “Hurry and get dressed. Supper is getting cold.”
He dipped his chin in a polite nod while a warm smile tickled the corners of his mouth. “Aye, lass. Rest easy. I’ll hurry back to ye.” As he turned and strolled from the room, he allowed the towel to slip from his waist just as he walked out the doorway.
Mairi leaned to keep Ronan’s finely sculpted posterior in view until he passed through the bedroom door on the other side of the bathroom. Damn. A drink. She needed one. Now.She propped the food tray against the bookcase and retrieved a pair of wine glasses from the rack built into the top of the buffet.
Eying the assortment of crystal decanters lined up on the shelf, she wrinkled her nose. She’d never cared for whisky. Always associated it with head colds because Granny’s home remedy for coughing was a healthy shot of whisky mixed with honey, then cut with a tablespoon of lemon juice. Port. She would stick with the port. Much better than the Rhenish.
She filled her glass with the heady liquid, downed half of it, then topped it off again. With the decanter tucked in the crook of her arm, she looped her pinky around another stemmed glass and took everything over to the table.
“This looks to be a fine feast. I thank ye.” He towered just past the bathroom doorway. The man probably had to duck when he passed between the rooms. Snug black jeans hugged his body as though he’d been melted and poured into them. He smiled and nodded at her as he finished buttoning the soft gray shirt stretched taut across his chest.
“Uhm . . . Eliza’s a fantastic cook.” Mairi mentally shook herself and busied her trembling hands with filling the bowls from the small cast iron pot nestled tight in the quilted cozy. As long as she had something to focus on, maybe she wouldn’t babble like a fool. “This is her own special twist on ratatouille.” She paused with the grater and a hard rind of parmesan held above a bowl. “Parmesan?”
He slid into the seat beside her and dipped his head. “Aye.” He reached across the table, selected the Rhenish, and filled his glass, then hovered the bottle close to her nearly empty glass. “Rhenish?” He eyed the other decanter she’d placed on the table. “Or do ye wish another glass of port?”
She downed the last bit of port and held out her glass. “Rhenish, please.” The port had done its job. She felt relaxed enough now to avoid acting the fool and maybe even be downright sociable. Eliza would be proud. She patted the cloth sack piled atop the table. “There doesn’t seem to be a knife for the bread. I promise my hands are clean. Would it offend you if I served it up in torn-off chunks?”
“Somehow I doubt I would ever find anything ye do offensive.” He slowly sipped his wine, all the while watching her above the rim of his glass.
She tore off a chunk and propped it next to his bowl. “Eat your soup. It’s getting cold.” A strange sense of déjà vu washed across her. Sitting with Ronan, sharing the evening meal, seemed the most natural thing in the world. Somehow, it felt as though they had shared this moment a hundred times before.
Ronan helped himself to a heaping spoonful of the stew. A confused expression registered on his face as his chewing slowed.
“You don’t like it.” She lowered her spoon back into her bowl. If Ronan didn’t like the ratatouille, she could always hop downstairs and get more cheese and fruit.
He held up a hand as though to stave off her words. “Nay. It is quite good.” He chewed a bit longer, then swallowed. “But I do have a question.”
“What’s that?”
“Did Mistress Eliza use any of the soy birds in the making of this soup?”
“Soy birds?” Mairi stirred her spoon through the vegetables, looking for anything resembling bird parts. What was he talking about?
“Aye.” He took a crust of the bread, sopped it in the bowl, then popped it in his mouth. “This doesna smell like the wretched soy balls from earlier, but I wondered if perhaps some fresher birds had been found for the making of this stew.”
“Soy balls?” She stared at the earnest expression on his face. The man was dead serious, but what was he talking about? Surely, he couldn’t have gotten a whiff of the rancid leftovers she’d thrown out earlier while trying to find something to feed the dog. She’d resealed the container and tossed the whole thing into the bin. And what did soy balls have to do with birds? “Earlier when? Did you see some on sale in the market and they smelled like they had gone bad or something?”
His eyes suddenly flared wider. Something akin to panic flickered in their depths. He reached for the wine and quickly refilled his glass. “Aye. That was it. It was a foul-smelling package indeed that I’ll not soon forget.”
Mairi made a mental note to ask Eliza about soy balls or some kind of soy product marketed as birds. From the look on his face, they must’ve been pretty dreadful.
“Where are ye from, Mairi?” He ripped off another chunk of bread and offered it to her. “Ye dinna speak as though ye come from Scotland.”
