Throat tight, she slipped from beneath her blanket, rose to her feet, and skirted the faintly glowing hearth on tiptoe, careful not to wake her guest.
Moving behind the curtain, she dressed quickly.
When she emerged, Maclean was still asleep, one arm flung over his head, his dark hair tousled against the pillow. In sleep, the lines of tension that had marked his face yesterday had smoothed. He looked young. At peace. The blanket had slipped down, revealing his bandaged torso. The hair on his chest tapered down to a line that traced the center of his flat belly, arrowing straight down to—
Realizing she was staring, Hazel jerked her gaze away.
Best ye stop that, lass.Aye, he was a feast for the eyes, but if the chieftain woke up and found her ogling him, things would get uncomfortable indeed.
Turning, she set about rekindling the fire.
A wet nose nudged her hand then, and she glanced down to see a pair of soulful dark eyes gazing up at her. Maclean’s wolfhound had awoken and come looking for affection. Smiling, Hazel stroked his rough coat. Faolan was a big dog, with jaws that could do a lot of damage, yet there was a gentleness to him.
She scratched behind his ears before turning back to her task.
Once the flames were dancing merrily, she fetched her griddle and the bag of oat flour from the shelf. Often, she made herself porridge to break her fast.But today was special. She had company, and this morning, she’d prepare some bannocks. She even had heather honey to drizzle over the griddle scones.
Mixing the flour with water and a pinch of salt, she formed the dough with practiced hands. The task reminded her of the countless times she’d made griddle scones as she chatted to Siùsan. The memories were bittersweet, yet the familiar ritual soothed her, grounded her. Fashioning the dough into a flat round, she then placed it upon the griddle. It wasn’t long before a nutty aroma filled the cottage.
“Something smells good.”
Hazel startled. Turning, she found her guest sitting up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’d pulled on his lèine, and his hair was mussed. He looked deliciously rumpled.
Isla Macquarie is a lucky woman indeed, she thought ruefully.
“I hope ye like bannocks?” she replied, smiling.
“Aye.” He stood up, testing his ankle. A wince crossed his face, but he managed to walk to the table without limping too badly. “Love them.”
“How’s yer ankle?”
“Stiff … but not as painful as yesterday.”
Hazel nodded, pleased. The cut on his temple had scabbed well too. He was young and resilient. His hurts would heal fast.
“And yer ribs?”
He grimaced. “Sore. Every time I rolled over last night, pain woke me.”
“Cracked ribs hurt … as I said. Ye will need to rest for a day or two.”
He nodded, although she could tell by the glint in his eye that he wouldn’t heed her.
“Almost ready.”She turned back to the hot griddle and then flipped the bannock. Its base was golden brown, and her mouth watered. “I’m afraid I’ve no butter to offer ye. I’ve been meaning to get to market and buy some cream.”
“Honey will do just fine.”
Once the bannock was ready, she flipped it onto a wooden trencher and cut it up into wedges. Steam rose from the cake as she set it on the table between them. Then, she handed Craeg a jar of honey and a small wooden spoon. “Dig in.”
Smiling his thanks, he helped himself to a wedge of bannock and set about smearing honey onto it—not too much, she noticed, as if he was worried about using her precious stores. He then took a large bite and closed his eyes.
The groan that rumbled in his throat caused her to still. The masculine sound made heat flare in her lower belly.By the saints.
“Very good.”
“Glad ye like them.” She busied herself with her own bannock.
They ate in silence, and as the moments slid by, an easy, companionable sensation filtered through Hazel—as if they’d shared breakfast a hundred times before. The burn in her belly eased a little, as did the hollow sensation in her chest.
