Page 55 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"No, no, the honey needs to be drizzled, not poured. Like this."

Elinor demonstrated with the wooden spoon, letting golden threads fall across the oatcake in delicate patterns.

Cook, a formidable woman named Susan with flour-dusted hands and shrewd eyes, watched with the kind of attention usually reserved for battle strategy.

"Aye, me lady. I see it now." Susan nodded approvingly. "Makes it bonnie tae look at, nay just tasty."

"Exactly." Elinor set down the spoon, surveying the array of desserts spread across the kitchen's main worktable. "For the Cèilidh, presentation matters as much as flavor. We want people to remember this."

Three days had passed since the dinner in the great hall, and Elinor had thrown herself into preparations with an intensity that surprised even herself.

The Cèilidh was set to take place tomorrow, and every detail had to be perfect, not just for the clan's sake, but for hers and David's. Their marriage had to look real, feel real, be real in the eyes of everyone who attended.

Even if she wasn't entirely sure what "real" meant yet.

"Try this one, me lady." Susan pushed a small cake toward her, its top glazed with something that smelled of apples and cinnamon. "It's me gran's recipe. Haven't made it in years, but I thought fer the celebration..."

Elinor broke off a piece, the cake yielding easily under her fingers. Still warm. She brought it to her lips and closed her eyes as she tasted it.

Oh.

The flavors exploded across her tongue—sweet but not cloying, spiced but not overwhelming, with a richness that came from butter and cream and ingredients her father's kitchen had never been able to afford. Or perhaps more accurately, had never been willing to spend on his daughter.

"Susan." Elinor opened her eyes, finding the cook watching her with barely concealed hope. "This is extraordinary."

"Ye really think so?"

"I know so." She took another bite, unable to help herself. "We need at least three dozen of these. Maybe four."

"Four dozen!" Susan's face split into a wide grin. "Aye, me lady. I'll start bakin' tomorrow mornin'."

They continued through the menu—honeyed oatcakes, roasted meats with herb crusts, vegetables in cream sauces, pies both savory and sweet, and enough bannocks to feed an army.

Elinor tasted everything, making notes, adjusting seasonings, occasionally suggesting presentation changes that made Susan's eyes light up with enthusiasm.

She'd never done anything like that before. Her father had barely let her in the kitchen, declaring it beneath a lady's station. But there, surrounded by flour dust and steam and the heavenly smell of baking bread, Elinor felt something she hadn't expected.

Joy.

Pure, uncomplicated joy.

"Try this one." Susan handed her another sample, this one a delicate pastry filled with cream and berries. "For the high table specifically. Somethin' special fer ye and the laird."

Elinor bit into it and actually moaned. She couldn't help it. The pastry was flaky and buttery, the cream smooth and rich, the berries tart enough to balance the sweetness perfectly.

"Susan, you're a genius."

"Och, go on." But the cook was beaming. "Ye're easy tae please, me lady. Just happy tae see someone appreciate good food."

"I more than appreciate it." Elinor reached for another pastry before she could stop herself. "I might need to be rolled out of this kitchen. These are perfect, absolutely perfect."

They worked in companionable silence for a while, Susan kneading dough for tomorrow's bread while Elinor made notes about portion sizes and serving arrangements.

The kitchen was warm, almost too warm, but Elinor didn't mind. After years of being cold, she was learning to appreciate heat.

She was reaching for another sample, this one a honey cake that smelled divine, when she felt eyes on her.