No. It took everything within him to angle his gaze to her and force a “lighthearted” grin. “Nothing that a strong mulled cider won’t cure.”
Like his admission turned he and Lucy into kindred souls, a wide-smiling Lucy nodded.
“My mum used to say a Scot doesn’t need any fancy kitchen curiosities to make magical biscuits,” she shared. Her long fingers, the skin dry, were the hands of a real woman. A woman who used her hands and did so without shame, but with confidence. They possessed a natural strength befitting Scathach, the legendary queen of Skye and trainer of hero, Cúchulainn. What it would be like to have those strong fingers wrapped around his—
Arran took a deep drink—a very deep one.
“Though I do confess, I’ve always wondered if she said that because she knew they were unattainable…” That murmuring came faraway and soft, in the way it did when she accidentally spoke to herself. A trait he’d gleaned after such a short time of knowing her.
Side by side, they proceeded to work.
It didn’t feel like work.
There was a calm to what they did.
Lucy moved with great efficiency.
Arran? Not so much.
The silence with Lucy was as companionable as the conversation with her.
Arran placed a diamond-shaped piece of dough upon the tray next to Lucy’s heart.
Being here with her, who was the only person in this residence removed from the wrong he’d done. At least, it felt as though she was. Arran could not say what, if, or how much Campbell shared with her.
Then they carried the trays to the ovens. Despite her protestations, Arran placed the pans within the high heat, and there was nothing to do but sit, wait, and partake in more mulled cider.
Arran refilled their mugs. He and Lucy sat, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, with their backs braced against the edge of the table and their stares directed at the ovens.
It’d been so long since he’d felt…this. Just warm and at peace.
The quiet crackling of the fire in the hearth along with the effects of the spiced spirits left Arran with a soothing warmth inside.
Is it the fire, or the young woman pressed against your side like it was the most natural thing in the world?
Drawn as any moth to the fire, he glanced at the top of Lucy’s head. “What is your favorite part of the Yuletide Season, Lucy?”
She sighed softly. “Wassailing. Decking the halls.”
There could be no doubting the whimsical, enthralling Lucy LeBeau was devoid of deceit. She was…very much who she claimed to be. Campbell’s future bride.
That revelation left him hollow inside.
And Arran silently railed.
“What of you, Arran?”
What of me? I’m going to hell for so many reasons.
He grunted. “I really enjoy it all.” Or he had.
Until this year.
Until he’d gone and caused conflict and contention in the McQuoid-Smith family.
Lucy turned slightly on the bench.
Feeling her focus on him, he angled his head.
