Page 77 of To Bed the Bride
The words were difficult to say, but they must be said. “I should leave.”
He nodded. “Have tea at least.”
Logan walked back to the stove, reaching for something between it and the cabinet. It turned out to be the large round tray she’d seen every Wednesday. In the next few minutes he equipped it with two cups and saucers, a large white teapot, and a dark blue knitted cozy. In addition, he cut them both a piece of clootie dumpling, explaining that he liked it as much as plum pudding.
“It reminds me of my childhood,” he said. “I used to tell myself that when I was grown I would eat as many clootie dumplings as I wanted. And if I grew fat as a stoat, no one could tell me no.”
“You haven’t grown fat as a stoat,” she said.
“That’s only because Cook refuses to make it that often, for my own good.”
“I suspect you have a great many people who care about you, Logan. And only want good things for you.”
She was one of them.
The fact that he knew where the cups and saucers were and where the teapot was stored impressed her. If Hamilton ever wandered into the kitchen—an accident, to be sure—she was entirely certain that the man would be confused. Logan, however, acted comfortable in the space. And Michael? She didn’t want to think about him right now, especially here in Logan’s house.
“You gave me tea in Scotland,” she said.
“In a shepherd’s cottage. I will guarantee you that this tea is better.”
“Do you ever cook your own meals?”
“Occasionally. Why do you look so surprised?”
She shook her head. “No reason.”
“What about you? Would you die of hunger if your cook suddenly quit?”
“No, but I doubt if I could make a lot of the complicated dishes she does. I can bake bread, scones, and I have a few recipes I memorized from the cook at Hearthmere.”
“I can make a great oatmeal,” he said. “And a venison steak.”
“I could add boiled potatoes. And maybe a few greens. Or buttered squash.”
“See, the two of us wouldn’t starve.”
The idea of fending for themselves, alone, without anyone interfering, was an idyllic notion, one that she tucked away to think about later.
They moved into the drawing room, Bruce following. When Logan set the tray on the table, the puppy sat patiently between the chairs, waiting.
“Mrs. Campbell always brought him a treat, too,” she said.
Logan smiled. “Then a treat he shall have.” He left the room.
In his absence she noticed the stack of papers beside one of the chairs.
“I’ve interrupted you,” she said when he entered the room again, closing the door behind him. “You were working.”
“I was reading and I was bored. You came at just the right time.”
He gave a bone to Bruce, but only after he showed off his manners.
They sat, each in one of the chairs before the fire. Logan spoke about his sister, Janet, and how she could never take her tea without cream.
“Her husband only drinks coffee and I think it’s a testament to their love that she accepts his choice. Otherwise, I’m sure she would have forced him to drink tea and like it.”
“Some days I prefer coffee,” she said. “Today it’s tea.”
