‘They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,’ Izzy quipped easily.
‘Not mine,’ he said, his face going blank as he drew a wallet from his pocket. ‘How much do you want for the meals?’
The offer irked her but she couldn’t say why, after all the only reason he was staying was because she did need his money. ‘I’m not completely mercenary. I think you’re paying enough already,’ she said a touch primly.
‘Tell me about it. Xanthe drives a hard bargain but she guaranteed me absolute peace and quiet. I don’t like being disturbed when I’m working.’
‘So I gathered,’ she said.
He quirked that dark eyebrow again. ‘I’m not going to apologise. I’m paying for the privilege.’
Izzy nodded, wondering whether he’d want to stay once they got started on the renovation work. Some of it was bound to be a bit noisy.
‘Although that view from my window… It’s worth every penny.’
She turned and smiled at him. ‘Isn’t it? This is such a beautiful spot, there seems to be a gorgeous view from every window. I can’t wait to see what all the different seasons bring.’
He nodded and Izzy felt her pulse misstep as his blue eyes crinkled into a warm smile.
‘Yes, although the light is … a bit too distracting sometimes when I’m supposed to be working.’
‘Xanthe says you’re writing a book.’
‘Yes.’
Despite the tone of his voice not inviting any more questions, she asked anyway, telling herself she was being friendly. ‘What sort of thing are you writing?’
‘Nothing very interesting,’ he said, his face adopting a bland look that immediately made Izzy think he wasn’t telling the truth. ‘A history book. I teach at Edinburgh University but I’m taking a sabbatical to get this book written.’
‘What period of history?’ she asked, her eyes sharpening at his evasive and rather vague answer.
‘Jacobite Scotland, of course,’ he said with a wry smile.
‘Bonnie Prince Charlie and all that.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I’m sure my great uncle said that he stayed here once. Is that why you wanted to come here?’
Ross snorted. ‘If local legend is to be believed the man stayed in every castle in Scotland.’
‘A bit like Mary, Queen of Scots, then.’
‘Aye. The pair of them were a right set of gadabouts.’
‘Is that a historical term?’ asked Izzy.
‘Not officially. And I wanted to stay here because the lady at the post office said it was empty. I knew I wouldn’t get asked lots of questions about what I was writing.’
‘Well, that’s told me,’ said Izzy.
‘No, I’m just explaining, McBride Izzy.’ He gave her a rare grin, which lit up his face and made him – disturbingly – even more attractive. Damn, when his eyes sparkled like that, crinkling around the edges, her hormones jumped to attention.
‘When you’re staying somewhere and people know you’re a writer, they ask what you’re writing, tell you they’ve always thought they should write a book and then proceed to tell you that you can write it for them and they’ll split the proceeds. If I’m really lucky they don’t ask me to read their work. Telling them I write dusty history books tends to put most people off.’
‘Clever,’ said Izzy. ‘This soup will be ready in a few minutes. Do you want to wait or come back later?’ She was waiting for the carrots to soften before she blitzed the mix in the blender. ‘And do you want a cup of tea or anything in the meantime?’
He stood for a moment as if weighing the question up. ‘Tell you what, McBride Izzy. Why don’t I make it while I wait for the soup? I know my way around.’
