The cook wipes her hands on her apron and trundles over, her entire attention focused on Callum. Which I hope means she didn’t notice how close we were.
“Aoife,” he says warmly.
Sothat’sher name. It sounds like he’s sayingee-fa. His accent is clearer than hers, and I make a mental note to have him confirm it for me next time we’re alone.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?” She smacks his cheek with affection. “Come tae claim the new scullion lass, have ye?”
Her gaze cuts to me, and I know immediately—we didn’t get away with anything. Understanding is vivid on her face.
But then that face softens. “Have ye seen what me Callum-laddie made?” She grabs a candle from the table, blows out the flame, and extends the holder to me.
I hesitate, but she bobs it closer. Insistent. “Go oan. Look.”
I take it, tipping it toward the firelight for a better look. I thought it was just a simple wrought-iron dish, but surprisingly delicate floral filigree decorates the edge.
“Wow.” My eyes meet his. “You made this?”
His expression doesn’t change much, but I see it—the slight lift of his cheek, the curve of his lips. He’s touched.
Who is this guy?
Hefights with swords.
And makes a lovely gift for a woman who spends her days toiling forgotten in the depths of a castle.
Aoife is beaming. “Forme, he made it.”
“Anything for you, old woman.”
“I’ll show ye who’s auld.” Playful indignation explodes onto her face, and she grabs for him, but he easily dodges her. She waves her hands with a huff, like she didn’t care anyway. “Enough. Bugger aff wi’ ye.”
She snatches back the candle holder, inspecting it like she’s won a prize. “Go oan. The pair of ye. I want ye oot from here.”
I look from her to Callum and back again. I only understand about half her words on a good day, but it sure sounds like I’m getting the evening off.
“I thought you needed me to clean up?”
“There’s tae be a Martinmas cèilidh in the back garden. Archie brung his fiddle. Mayhap the dancing later.” She turns her back to us like we’re dismissed. “Noo I said aff wi’ ye.”
Wait.
“Did she saydancing?”
A wide grin dawns on Callum’s face. “Aye. A cèilidh means stories by the fire. And definitely music.”
He holds out his hand, palm up, waiting. His voice is soft, almost teasing as he asks, “Give me a dance?”
Chapter
Twenty
That hand. I’ve been sneaking glances at it since I arrived, stealing the briefest of touches, and now he’s extending it to me. As if I could just reach out and take it. Lace my fingers with his.
Should I? Could I even?
What would be the harm? People dance. It’s innocent.
I’m lonely, sad, scared. I long for the simple touch of another person. I ache for it. I can’t help it.
