The storm crackled outside and a giant peal of thunder split the air. Selene jumped, glancing up nervously, and for one delightful moment he thought she might fling herself into his arms.
She clutched the table instead, her hand drifting to her necklace. From observing her, he’d learned this was a gesture of hers that afforded her courage and reassurance. Comfort.
Then she spoke softly, her voice holding a slight tremor: “I’ve always been afraid of thunderstorms. This one isn’t too terrifying but… old stone walls make everything louder.”
Something in him loosened and he found himself smiling at her. “Aye. Our Scottish castles can be unforgiving places, especially fer someone unused tae them. Such as yerself.” He straightened – slowly, gingerly – and reached for a pot. “Come then, lass. I’ll prepare ye something proper tae assuage yer hunger pangs.”
“You cook?” She sounded altogether suspicious.
He shrugged. “Just because I’m the laird daesnae mean I dinnae ken how tae take care of me people.” He flung a handful of oats into a pot, poured in some water, added a pinch of salt, and stirred the mixture over the fire. “If it ever came tae it, I’d feed them all.”
She watched him, seemingly entranced, as he stirred, and he couldn’t help the enjoyment of basking in her unabashed attention.
As they waited for the porridge to cook, he filled the silence between them by launching into a tale about a ghost that inhabited the east tower. “’Tis a lass…”
Selene gasped, her eyes widening.
“Many have seen her. She walks the halls on stormy nights, clad all in white. She’s even been seen in the kitchen.”
Selene gasped, looking around, pulling her cloak tight to her shoulders. “Here? On nights like this?”
Kenneth reached for the big spoon to stir the porridge but Selene’s hand flew out seizing his. Her fingers held him tight.
Despite his wicked teasing, warmth stole up his arm where she clung to him. He placed his other hand on hers, lightly stroking her soft, smooth skin. She gazed up at him, eyes wide.
“Aye.” He met her grey-blue gaze and something inside him wavered with delighted mischief. “She walks in peals of thunder and flashing lightning just as exactly on nights such as this.”
Still clutching his arm, Selene leaned a little toward him. For one glorious moment he wished for nothing more than for her to fling herself into his arms so that he could embrace her and whisper into her hair that he would keep her safe.
“‘Tis said she moans and cries the name of her lost lover, searching fer him.”
Her eyes grew wider and wider still, so that she looked like a small child enlivened by a tale of fantasy. Holding him fast with one hand she raised the other hand to the curve of her throat. She was utterly entranced by his tale.
Hardly able to contain a chuckle he gave her delicate hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Oh, the poor wandering soul. Crying for her lost love. What was the name of this lover?”
He grinned, unable to resist her. “Why, Kenneth, of course.”
She gave him a hard, disbelieving look and snatched her hand away.
“You, Laird Kenneth MacDonald, are an awful tease.” She swatted his arm lightly, though a smile hovered on her lips. “I do not believe one word of yer silly tale.”
“Aye. But ye trembled at the thought she might come tae the kitchen.”
She harumphed and folded her arms, but the smile remained.
By now the porridge was done and he spooned some into an earthenware bowl, added cream and sugar and passed it to her along with a spoon while he filled another bowl for himself.
She tried a spoonful cautiously, while he waited for her reaction.
Looking up, she smiled. “This is… actually rather good.”
“All that’s required for Scottish food tae taste splendid is the right pair of hands in the making.”
She hesitated smiling. Then came a shy admission.
“It is strange. I can understand what you say. At times you almost sound like an Englishman. But, by and large, yourpeople’s accents are so strong. Half the time I have no idea what anyone is saying.”
