Page 10 of Sinbound to the Highlander
A soft smile took her mother’s face before Freya found herself enveloped in a sweet embrace, “I understand, Dear, and I kent that day would come, but I was hopin’ it would be a while yet. I ken what ye are feelin’, darlin’, I felt the same way at yer age, but Missus Beathag is right. Daenae ye worry too much about it. God will direct the right man yer way,” her mother’s voice dipped. “And daenae speak a word about it to yer Faither, or he’ll hide ye away for the rest of yer life.”
“I can hear ye two whisperin’,” her father said from the bed. “I deanae ken what it’s about, but if ye are conspirin’ against me, I can tell ye now, it willnae work.”
Her mother laughed, “Aye, we are conspirin’ to keep the Easter cakes to ourselves.”
“About that,” her father said, as he sat up. “I hate to say it, but we might have a bad Easter this year. There is a war out there; hopefully, it willnae reach our village, but still, we might have to prepare.”
The light mood in the room plummeted, but her mother held her close. “Dinnae ye worry, Freya, ye’ll be blessed with a good husband, I believe it.”
* * *
Evan eyed the Lobhdain castle with a wary eye. He was not sure if this was still the right way to go, but he needed the Laird’s assistance. He wanted to believe he had seen something else but direct disdain from Miss Milleson when been told the stable was on fire.
Surely the Lady had more compassion than that? And then, how she had snarled at the woman servant. Perhaps she had only been disappointed with how the walk had ended and that he had to leave so abruptly.
He knew that she had grown up with her mother and father at her beck and call, and that she was stuck in her home for most of her life, but she could not be that self-centered.
Or is she?
He alighted from his horse and handed the pacing steed over to a boy who led it away to the stables. His note had been received well as they had sent a boy to receive him and take care of his horse. Mounting the stairs, he was let in by a doorman and was announced.
Lady Lobhdain came to him, with a small smile on her face, “Good day, Laird Ruthven, I hope the matter yesterday dinnae end up with any fatalities.”
He took her greeting with a nod, “It dinnae, thank God, but a few of our horses got burned and a stable boy when he was tryin’ to get them out, but thankfully, nae deaths.”
“I’m relieved,” she said. “Elspeth is in her tea room, waitin’ for ye. If ye’d follow me.”
“Where is Laird Lobhdain this mornin’?” Evan asked.
“In the town, speaking with some council members, but I am sure he will be back in time to speak with ye,” Lady Lobhdain clarified as they mounted the stairs.
Evan admired the golden woodwork of the railings and the carpet hangings on the intersections of the walls. They were all scenes of a thick forest and, in the middle of the seven tapestries, was one of a stunning orange-golden sunset. He supposed if they were all put together, it would be one lovely drapery.
He was led to a room where silken curtains fluttered away from wide windows, and a table, set with all sorts of cakes and foods, was before him. It was rather English if he thought about it. Miss Milleson stood and came around the table, her light-blue dress as fluttery as the curtains. She was still lovely, but he told himself not to be fooled by her looks. Her mother kissed her and whispered something in her ear, then pulled away and smoothed her hair for her.
“I’ll leave ye to yer privacy,” Lady Lobhdain said with a gracious smile.
When the door closed behind her, Miss Milleson bowed her head, and an apologetic flush reddened her face where she stood.
“I must apologize for yesterday. I was upset that our time had ended so quickly and I wasnae seein’ things properly. How were things at home? I hope nay one died.”
Though surprised at her sudden insights, Evan nodded, “I accept yer apology, and nay one was injured too badly. The horses were a bit singed, and a stable boy had a few scrapes, but aye, nay one died.”
She breathed out a relieved breath, and her face brightened, “Please, sit, let's pick up from yesterday.”
Perhaps I judged her too quickly.
Seated, he looked at the table, but was unsure of what he was staring at. He had never seen those foods in his life, “Pardon me, but what are these?”
“I had me cook make up some of my French favorites, marmalades, and brown bread,conserves,pâtes de fruit,geléesconfitures, and compôtes,” she smiled while reaching for a knife. “I hope ye like sweets, though.”
I daenae.
But he reached for the bread and stopped as part of it crumbled in his hands. He managed to get hold of the bread and slather some fruit spread over it. He bit into it and held back his grimace. The sweet was so cloying he felt like it was paste over his tongue, but Miss Milleson ate with a sublime look on her face.
“How…” he cleared his throat, “how long did ye say ye were in France?”
“Three months,” she said in a loving sigh. “I loved it so much I took the recipes back for my cooks to master the art of refined cookin’. I ken I was doing them a service by elevatin’ their span of…er…repertoire. Our homespun backwoods cookin’ needed a little uplift. When we’re married, I’ll share the same recipes with our cook.”
