Page 59 of The Laird’s Wrong Wife

“I came to determine whether Tommy’s wound required a healer or merely honey.” He studied his son’s intent face. “If honeyed bannocks can cure a scraped knee, then half me warriors will be limpin’ by supper.”

Ceana’s eyes brightened, and her mouth curved. “Then ye had better guard the honey stores.”

A few oats dropped near the table, making Ness abandon the crust and cross the room. Oscar turned just in time to watch Tommy spring from the stool, gasping when the scrape pulled.

“Tommy, wait!”

The boy caught the table to steady himself, but it was too late. His elbow struck the shallow bowl used to dust the work surface just as Oscar caught him beneath the arms.

The bowl tipped across Oscar’s shoulder, sleeve, and chest before the remaining flour spilled over the board. Luckily, the spill missed the bannocks and the hot girdle.

For the better half of a minute, every servant stopped moving.

Tommy regained his feet and placed himself before Ness. “She only followed what I dropped.” His chin trembled. “Please, Da, daenae send her away.”

Oscar looked down at his hands and the flour all over them. He could feel some on his face as well, but one problem at a time.

“Take her back and tie her lead securely,” he instructed. “Then return to yer stool.”

Tommy obeyed.

Behind him, Ceana stifled a chuckle. Oscar turned slowly to look at her, blowing the last of the flour from his lips. He narrowed his eyes at her, studying the way her lips pressed together.

“Does me appearance amuse ye?” he drawled.

Ceana covered her mouth, trying to muffle a proper laugh this time. “I suppose the flour has made ye look less alarmin’.”

She brushed his shoulder, leaving flour on his coat. Oscar looked down at it, his lips parting, then looked back up at her.

“Really?”

“Aye, really.”

He brushed some flour from his sleeve and drew a line across her cheek.

“Da struck first!” Tommy shouted.

Paisley laughed before quickly covering her mouth.

“Ye must judge us,” Ceana said. “Which of us started this war?”

“Faither did.” Paisley marked his other sleeve with one flour-dusted finger. “This is his punishment.”

Oscar examined it gravely. “I accept the rulin’.”

Paisley laughed again as the cook moved before the flour bin.

Oscar raised one hand. “The bin remains closed. Ye may only use what has spilled on the board.”

Ceana swept two fingers through the flour and reached for him. He dodged her and followed when she retreated around the worktable. Near its end, he caught her flour-covered wrist.

“Is this how Lady MacKane governs her household?”

“Only when Laird MacKane requires correction.”

He brushed his thumb over her cheek, spreading the flour closer to her mouth. He then stared at the pale streak, remembering the press of her fingers and the heat of her mouth on his on their wedding night.

Ceana’s laughter faded. Her breath brushed his knuckles, and her gaze dropped to his lips.