“Adorable creature…with a taste for the ghoulish.” He tipped a brow.
“Do you think so?” She looked at him, eyes wide. So blue.
“Macabre or adorable? Both.” He went silent, working on the turnip, wondering if he had said too much, too soon. “Nor are you easily frightened.”
“I readFrankensteinby Mrs. Shelley twice last year and quite enjoyed it.”
“Impressive.” Gavin held up the turnip. “This wee monster is better cooked with potatoes, butter, and salt.”
“You must be hungry—ow!” As she spoke, the knife slipped, slicing her index finger. She sucked at the cut, wincing.
“Let me see.” He grabbed a clean linen cloth from a stack and reached for her hand. Dabbing at the cut, he held her finger snug in his hand. They stood together for a moment. Gavin sensed the throb of hearts and breath between them in the silence.
She reached for a thin slice of raw turnip and slipped it inside the cloth. “It will help the skin heal,” she explained.
“Folklore?” His glance met hers, his voice gruff, his hand over hers.
“Folk medicine. My grandmother applied raw turnips to our cuts and scrapes when Edgar and I were small. She taught me about Samhain and ghosts also, and showed me what to do. So I mean to try.”
Warmth grew between their cradled hands. “Elinor, I—”
A clap of thunder made her jump. “Oh! A storm is coming. I wonder if Edgar and Angus will be here soon.”
“If Edgar waited for court sessions to end, he may decide not to travel tonight. The clouds are heavy to the northeast. The weather might be fierce there.”
“That would leave us alone.” Slipping her hand from his, she stepped back.
“Does that trouble you?”
“No. But others may think poorly of it.”
“Let them. There must be bandages somewhere.” Opening a cupboard drawer, he found a box of linen strips, and Elinor extended her finger so that he could wrap it. When he was done, he lifted her finger to his lips and kissed it lightly.
“Better? My Highland grandmother taught me that.”
“Did she,” she whispered, her gaze wide-eyed, wondering. He broke the glance first, taking up the knife to work on the ugly turnip.
“I was surprised to find you at Braemore on Halloween,” she said. “Usually you stay in Edinburgh then—as I recall,” she added hastily.
“I come here as often as possible, though I still keep my house in the Canongate.” He swept turnip shavings into a bowl. “But you have it right, I usually avoid the place at Halloween.”
“You enjoyed it when you were young.”
“Oh, but it is scary now.” He grinned, teasing.
“Why stay this time?”
“Because you are here.”
“You did not expect me.” She began cleaning the table as well.
Time to stop dancing around what begged to be said, he thought. “I hoped you might visit,” he admitted. “When I read the story, I wondered if you had written it. Yet if Edgar was the author, I thought to invite him to consult on the ghosts—and hoped you might come too, being the expert.”
“You wanted to see me?” She turned, knife in hand.
“Aye, but not looking so murderous.” He lowered her hand gently.
“You wanted me to come back?” Tears glinted in her blue eyes.
