Page 2 of Tempted
“Wheesht, lass, ‘tis his muck give ye the toothache tae start with. Yon prancin’ fop will rot every tooth in yer haid afore he’s done.”
Mr. Burque was the elegant French chef who had accompanied her mother to Scotland when she had married Lord Kennedy. When Bothwick saw the forlorn look on her face, he relented. “Away with ye tae the kitchens then. Nae doot his chocolate will cosset ye a wee.”
* * *
Down in the castle kitchen Tina couldn’t help comparing Mr. Burque’s attractive hands with the thick, hairy ones of Bothwick. He was fluting the edges of a gigantic mutton pie, his long, slim fingers transforming the hearty fare into an artistic masterpiece. Tina sat upon his worktable, her foot propped upon a kitchen stool.
“Chérie, I’ll be putting flour on your pretty gown,” he warned.
“You’ll be putting flowers on my grave if you don’t give me something for this toothache,” she said dramatically.
Mr. Burque was all sympathetic concern at her cri de coeur He rolled his eyes and wrung his hands at her plight. Valentina laughed up into his attractive expressive face, thoroughly enjoying his company. He was better looking than most women, and the two had shared a rapport since she was a child. Mr. Burque lifted the lid of his precious spice box, selected a tiny treasure from it, and, holding it between elegant thumb and first finger, uttered a fanfare: “Ta-da!”
Tina sniffed the minuscule object and decided it was a clove. She opened her mouth for this man as trustingly as a baby bird, and he popped it against the offending tooth.
They were both startled by the loud, grating voice of Rob Kennedy as his imposing bulk filled the entranceway to the kitchen. He saw the two heads close together but had no fears for his daughter’s chastity with yon prinking, prancing ninny of a Frenchman. “Did ye attend Bothwick as ye were bidden?”
Lady Valentina jumped down from the table and faced her father squarely. “I did, my lord. I took your advice and faced right up to it.”
His florid face softened a mite. “Was there pain?”
“Hardly any,” she assured him.
“Blood?” he commiserated.
“Not a drop,” she said truthfully.
He shook his head in admiration. “There’s a brave lass. God’s passion, but ye get more like me every day.”
She fervently hoped not.
Mr. Burque made a choking noise behind her, and Rob Kennedy’s baleful eye fell upon him. “How much more time afore we sup?” he demanded.
“A mere soupçon, my lord,” came the reply.
“Soups on? Aye, a good thick broth’ll stick tae the ribs. None of yer French muck, mind ye!” he admonished.
“Peste!” swore Mr. Burque as the Lord of Galloway took himself off.
Unexpectedly, Kennedy’s bulk again shadowed the doorway. “Tell yon pest we ha’ guests fer dinner,” he told his daughter.
“Take heart, Mr. Burque,” she murmured. “He sails tomorrow, praise Heaven.”
Her father’s words made no impact upon Tina. They always had guests. Doon Castle was a warm, welcoming place atop the headlands above the busy seaport of Ayr. Kennedy hospitality was legendary but only for the invited. The Lord of Galloway was affluent and set the best table in Scotland. Kennedy captains dined alongside the young lairds and masters of the ruling clans.
The bachelor quarters of Doon Castle overflowed at the moment with red-haired young men from no fewer than four different branches of the clan. They had brought the wool from the first shearing to be exported via Kennedy vessels.
The racket that assaulted Tina’s ears as she entered the dining hall was loud enough to raise the rafters. She liked nothing better than mingling with her brothers and first, second, and third cousins. She loved men’s company, their laughter, their boisterous camaraderie, their coarse language. She secretly longed to be one of the lads. At her approach the young lairds abandoned their shoving match. She parted them like the Red Sea, then they closed about her, making her the center of attention.
“May I get ye some wine, Tina?” asked Callum Kennedy of Newark.
She rewarded him with a smile and announced, “I’ll have ale like the rest of you.” A leather tankard was pressed into her hand, and her eldest brother, Donal, censured her.
“Ale is a man’s drink.”
She flashed him a look of challenge. “Aye, I know—like everything else in life, it’s devised to pleasure a man.”
They hooted, and the air was thick with ribald rejoinders as they seized upon the age-old male-female bone of contention. “Well, I ask you, what pleasures are reserved for women?” she asked, warming to her subject. “You do the hunting and we tend the hearth!”
