Page 26 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

A few minutes later, the server returned and set a bowl before Alba.

She could see chunks of tender meat swimming in dark, herb-flecked gravy alongside carrots, turnips, and potatoes. A sprig of fresh thyme garnished the top, and the whole thing had been served with a thick slice of crusty bread on the side.

Alba stared at it in surprise. "I already have⁠—"

"Try it," Lachlann said quietly beside her. "I think ye'll like it."

There was something in his tone that made her pick up her spoon. She took a small taste, and the flavor exploded across her tongue—savory and rich, with rosemary and a hint of something sweet, maybe honey or ale in the gravy. The lamb practically melted on her tongue.

It was her favorite, the exact dish her mother's cook used to make for her when she was young, before her mother died. The comfort food she'd requested on cold winter nights and after particularly difficult days.

Alba's hand froze, the spoon halfway to her mouth again. Her heart did something strange in her chest—a flutter, a skip, a painful squeeze.

He remembered.

Not just that she liked stew, but this specific recipe. The one Calum must have mentioned in passing years ago. The one that tasted like home and safety and a mother's love.

Stop it, it's just him bein' a good host. It daesnae mean⁠—

But her traitorous heart refused to listen, beating faster as she turned to look at him.

"How did ye ken?" The question came out softer than she'd intended.

"Yer braither mentioned it once," Lachlann said, his grey eyes steady on hers. "We were talkin' about food we missed from childhood. He said it was a family favorite, that yer mother's cook made it fer ye special."

"He... Calum told ye that?" Alba's voice came out smaller than she'd intended.

"Aye. We'd been drinkin'"—his lips quirked slightly—"and the conversation turned sentimental."

He'd remembered something so small, so personal, for goodness knew how long. Had he been storing it away, that little piece of information about her? Or had it simply stayed with him, for no obvious reason?

Dinnae read intae it. He's just got a good memory. It daesnae mean anything.

But God help her, she wanted it to mean something.

Alba stared at the bowl, then back at Lachlann. "Thank ye," she managed, her throat suddenly tight. "That was... ye didnae have tae."

"I wanted tae," Lachlann said simply. "Ye've been through hell. If a bowl of stew can make ye feel even a little bit at home, then it's worth it. And by the way, I sent a messenger tae England with a letter fer yer braither, telling him what happened and that I will keep ye here under me protection while he is away."

Alba felt relief wash over her and nodded gratefully. The kindness in his voice, the genuine concern in his eyes, it was too much. Alba looked down quickly, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. She would not cry. Not there, not in front of all those people.

She took another spoonful of stew, letting the familiar flavors ground her. "Thank ye fer it all. And the stew, it's perfect," she said quietly. "Just like I remember."

"Good."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, but it was different. Less awkward, less formal.

The noise of the hall continued around them, laughter and conversation and the clatter of dishes, but Alba felt like they'd created a small bubble of privacy at their end of the table.

"The gardens really are beautiful," she said after a while, keeping her voice low. "Yer maither must have been very talented."

"She was." Lachlann's expression softened. "She said gardenin’ taught her patience. That ye couldnae rush growin’ things, couldnae force them tae bloom before they were ready. Ye just had tae tend them carefully and trust the process."

"That's lovely."

"Aye. She was like that about most things. Patient. Thoughtful." He paused. "I miss her."

The simple honesty of the statement made Alba's chest ache. "How long has she been gone?"