Chapter 18 #3
As he hands it to me, our fingers brush.
It might as well be a cup of fire he’s given me, so abruptly do I flinch from his touch.
For a moment, all I know is that large hand.
How his fingers are thick and scarred, but his nails are clean and short.
His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms roped with lean muscle.
A constellation of small, angry welts mars his skin, presumably from the forge.
Something dribbles onto my leg—I’d sloshed the drink when I’d jerked from him. Flustered, I cover up my clumsiness by taking a giant gulp.
And instantly choke.
It’s awful. Fermented and rank, it sears up my nose and down my throat, pooling queasily in my belly.
I wipe my mouth, and blink burning tears from my eyes. “This isn’t water.”
“Water?” He laughs, and I can’t decide if the low, pleasant roll of it has earned or lost him points. “’Tis ale.” He plops back on the bench beside me.
“You mean’’—I give the cup a careful sniff—“you gave me beer?”
He looks perplexed. “What else?”
My mind jumps to The Merry Widow, what feels like a hundred years ago. Or rather, what’s hundreds of years from now. How innocent I was. It felt so rebellious to even consider ordering a pint.
“Yeah, what else,” I murmur then take another sip, more carefully this time. I wipe bitter foam from my lips and give him a teary smile.
His eyes smile back, holding mine. “Is ale so different in your time?”
“I’m not exactly an expert. Where I come from, you’re not allowed to drink alcohol until you’re twenty-one.”
His eyes go wide. “You can marry but you cannae drink ale?”
I laugh. “We don’t marry either. I mean, for the most part. I think you probably need special permission if you want to get married younger than eighteen.”
“So you’ve nae scullion nor cook, and no brothers.” He pauses. Then, quieter: “And no betrothed?”
I’d swear two red splotches have bloomed on his cheeks.
Heat creeps up my own neck. “That’s right. It’s just me and my grandfather who run the farm.”
“That’s the man you call Poppa?” At my nod, he prompts, “And Janet?”
I raise my brows. “Can you picture her milking a cow?”
He gives a rueful laugh. “I suppose not.” The smile fades from his face. “But what if there’s fighting? If you’ve no other male kin, who’s there to defend the farm? To defend you?”
His concern is so antiquated, so touching, I squeeze his arm without thinking. The moment I make contact, his eyes zip to mine, and they’re darker somehow. Hooded.
He may no longer be a ghost, but he seems no less haunted.
I jerk my hand back and clench it in a fist in my lap.
Words tumble out in a rush. “No, it’s pretty different where I’m from.
Poppa and I run everything. Well, he’s got some seasonal guys he hires.
Otherwise, I take care of the smaller chores and the cooking.
Plus I go to school. Poppa deals with the rest. There’s no fighting.
No clan wars. Nobody has swords, not for real.
A lot of people have guns, but Poppa keeps his locked up, and it’s only for deer season anyway.
There aren’t any lairds or kings or whatever—we elect our rulers.
We eat meat every day, and bread and butter, and not a lot of soup… ”
“You’re a braw lass, aren’t you?” He tilts his head as he studies me.
“For what? Eating soup?”
“Och, no.” He scrapes his hair from his forehead, searching for the right words.
“Your world holds such wonders. Boxes that cook, boxes that clean, food enough for a kingdom. You might’ve stayed safe there, lived soft and easy.
But here?” His voice roughens. “Here, it’s cold and hard.
You’ve lost everything you know, yet you don’t cower.
You face it all—the Campbells, the cruelty, the fear.
” He gives me a firm nod. “Most folk would’ve broken by now. You haven’t.”
Something about his belief in me—this quiet, matter-of-fact praise—shakes me more than if he’d just called me pretty.
I swallow against the lump forming in my throat. “What choice do I have? Donag has made it clear that if I don’t do my work, you’ll be the one Campbell punishes.”
His expression falls, and he lifts a shoulder in a lifeless shrug. “Makes you no less brave.”
“That and a dollar will buy me a cup of coffee, right?”
He’s silent, staring at me as if he might eventually puzzle me out.
I sigh. “You don’t know what I’m talking about. Coffee…it’s this amazing drink that wakes you up. Like tea, but stronger. And in the future, you can get it with all sorts of tasty things added. Maybe a pump of vanilla topped with whipped cream and a drizzle of caramel.”
“And you are the only one in your home to prepare such things?”
“I don’t make lattes, but otherwise, yeah, I love to cook. It’s one of my favorite things.”
He looks stunned. “Truly?”
“Totally. Food can be so much better than this,” I say, tapping my stale bread on the table. “All you need are a few more ingredients. Actually, you probably already have everything you’d need to make things taste better.”
I picture the baskets of roots, herbs, and vegetables stored inside the Campbell larder.
“Like, how is it you’re knee-deep in potatoes, but all anyone eats is mush?
Why do you all feel so compelled to pulverize them?
Neeps and tatties is basically mushy turnipy potato sludge. But potatoes can be awesome.”
“What do you do with them?”
“I make potatoes au gratin—that’s potatoes and cheese. Or, sometimes I stuff baked potatoes with chives and bacon. But really, my favorite best-food-of-all-time is french fries.”
“We’re nae in France.”
“They’re not really French. That’s just the name, which…I don’t know why that is.” I wave an impatient hand. “Whatever. They’re potatoes cut up and fried, and they’re delicious, and I don’t know why you people haven’t figured them out yet.”
“Then make them.”
He opens a cupboard and pulls out two potatoes. Weighing them in his hands, his eyes crackle with mischief. “Or are you afraid?”
“Wait. You mean”—I look around as if there might be someone poised to stop me—“now?”
“Whyever not?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Because I might get in trouble?”
He scoffs. “This is a kitchen.”
He stands behind my chair. Sets down the potatoes. Bracketing his hands on either side of my body, he leans down.
His breath warms my cheek as he leans in, voice low and teasing. “What else d’you think happens in here, Rosie?”