Lucy flicked a small piece of dough from the table, and hit him square in the center of his chest.
Stunned by that boldness and active defiance, he flared his eyes. “What was that for?”
“That is terribly vague,” she charged, a teasing ring to her lyrical voice.
Yes, because he’d never much given thought to the traditions. They’d simply been traditions. So customary as to be rote. He had failed to properly appreciate the moments for what they were.
Until they were no more.
“This,” he said quietly. “I am enjoying this.”
Lucy emitted an incredulous snort. “A hot kitchen without any Yuletide decorations?”
“The quiet.” A kind that wasn’t filled with guilt and regret. Or shame.
Lucy sipped her cider. “Not me,” she murmured contemplatively. “I always loved when the house was fullest, and noisiest.” Her brow scrunched up and the muscles of her upper arms rippled, showing her as a woman of strength. “Maybe we always want the opposite of what we have?”
Sometimes.
Not this time.
“Maybe,” he said.
Chapter 9
Maybe.
Arran’s was a throwaway word, one that slipped out almost on accident but, once released, revealed so very much—as did the small, wistful smile she wagered he didn’t know he wore.
Lucy eased her gaze over his face—a sculpted face that only softened when he smiled. His smiles came as frequently as a shooting star on a cloudy night, and when they did, they brought the same kind of magic and wonderment.
For as focused as he’d been on unearthing Lucy’s secrets, Lucy now found herself wanting to know his—for entirely different reasons.
She took another drink, only to realize she’d finished the warm, soothing contents.
Arran was instantly there to refill her mug; he handled that pewter pitcher as well as any innkeeper on the King’s roads.
A wave of wistfulness overtook her.
Lucy’s eyes drifted gradually closed at an image of her and Arran McQuoid tending patrons at her family’s inn.
When she opened them, she found Arran with his right elbow propped upon the table, holding his cheek up, and his bemused gaze was on her. “A closed mouth catches no flies, Lucy,” he said, a playfulness in his velvety smooth baritone.
Her heart danced.
Being at the border between England and Scotland, one heard all manner of tongues. But an English gentleman who spoke the old Scottish proverbs? Well, Campbell hadn’t even done that.
Her limbs feeling fluid, she turned languidly, so she straddled the bench, and faced him. “Ah never did much ken that one, Arran McQuoid.” A giggle bubbled up. “Why’d a lasswannae be a’catchin’ flies?” She punched him lightly in his non-leaning shoulder. “Why’d any lad or lass wannae?”
The slow-smiling gentleman tendered one of his rare heartbeat-escalating grins. “Your brogue is out, mo chridhe.”
My heart…
Heat flared beneath her lips. Lucy tried to force out a breezy response. “M-Mulled cider has tha’ effect.”
Arran chuckled. “Aye.” He shook the contents of his mug in a small, smooth circle. “Spirits do leave a person turned inside out.”
Ye do, Arran McQuoid…
