Chapter Twelve
“So! Welcome to the One-Eyed Hare.” A big-bearded giant of a man loomed at their table, appearing almost magically as Melissa hadn’t noticed his approach.
She blinked now, for the man wasn’t easy to miss. His face was ruddy, with his cheeks almost apple-red, and his blue eyes twinkled, while his rust-colored hair matched his beard. He wore a green apron tied around his girth, and his smile was almost as bright as the two extra candles he placed on their table.
He could only be the innkeeper, Dod Swanney, and Melissa adored him already.
But after greeting her with a nod and a politely uttered‘My lady,’he fixed a friendly but speculative look on Lucian.
“Here for a Scottish Night, are ye?” He smiled, his eyes twinkling even more.
“We are, indeed.” Lucian returned his smile. “Can you make arrangements?”
“Here at the Hare, we’re always prepared.” The innkeeper’s smile became a grin.
“Will you be dining first?” He glanced at the finely-dressed table, then back to Lucian. “We’ll start ye with whisky, oatcakes, and cheese,” he declared, glancing at Melissa. “Then oyster soup and fresh-baked bread served with sweet, creamy butter, and our own One-Eyed Hare heather ale, followed by a rich, red venison steak with all the trimmings, including curried oysters, and to end, a variety of our best cakes, a fine port, and Atholl Brose.”
“Excellent.” Lucian nodded.
Melissa sat dumbstruck. She couldn’t possibly eat so much.
And…
She waited until the innkeeper strode away, then turned back to Lucian. “What is Atholl Brose?”
“Aye, well, ‘tis a centuries-old specialty credited to the ducal family of Atholl in the Highlands,” he told her. “Basically, it’s a delicious blend of thickened cream, heather honey, toasted oatmeal, and a dash of whisky.”
“It does sound good.” It did. Her mouth even watered, imagining how the dessert would taste.
“You’ll enjoy everything. It’s all good, wholesome Scottish fare,” he said, then paused as a serving lass in an apron and cap brought their oatcakes and cheese. He waited until she’d also served their drams, then reached across the table to tap his whisky glass against hers.
“To bonnie lasses who attend London balls with unbound hair and crones with red plaid shoelaces.”
Melissa smiled, finding his toast perfect. “And to dashing Highlanders bold enough to wear their kilts to the same.”
“Dashing, am I?” He lifted a brow, sipped his dram.
“You know you are.” She held his gaze. “I am surprised every woman in London wasn’t running after you.”
“Perhaps because you English hold us for being grumpy and dour?”
“I am half Scottish,” she reminded him, her words recalling something else…
“I really would like to put my stepmother and her daughters behind me before we journey even another mile into Scotland,” she said, not wanting their taint to follow them, sticking to her, and Lucian, even though so many miles stretched between them.
Leaning forward, she reached across the table to clutch his wrist. “Are you quite sure they will stay at your townhouse? Do you really believe they will leave me be now, not come chasing after us, hoping to ruin us or to pester you for more?”
“Aye, I am sure, sweeting.” He didn’t hesitate with an answer, and that made her feel better. “At the end of the day, all cowards slink off into the mist when confronted with their villainy. Their own backs are all that matters to them and they will do anything to preserve themselves.
“Lady Clarice knows we can ruin her, and her daughters, in an eye-blink.” He slipped free of her grasp and brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “She will appreciate having a fine roof over her head still, even if my townhouse is no’ so grand as Cranleigh Manor. She will no’ risk losing that security, and so neither she nor her girls will trouble us,” he said. “Certainly no’ here, in Scotland.”
“I hope you are right.” She sat back, not entirely sure.
“I am, sweetness.”
“You do sound certain.”
“That isn’t surprising,” he said, and a shadow crossed his face. “I know something of family trouble. I have told you some of the trials and tribulations that have plagued the MacRaes of Lyongate. Conley the Lion and his ‘curse,’ and the hardships and pitfalls that have befallen some of my ancestors.”
