Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
Callum’s breath tickles my ear, his body cradling mine from behind. Awareness shimmers through me, hotter than any oven.
“I need oil,” I blurt, the words embarrassingly loud in my head.
But Callum just grins wide as he bounds to the other side of the room, rummaging through cabinets until he triumphantly holds up a small bowl. “Will lard do?”
“Sure, probably.” His pull is irresistible. I get to my feet. “What are you so happy about anyway?”
“I’m excited for your France fries.”
“French fries.” I glance around, doing a mental tally of what I’ll need. “We’ll definitely want salt.”
He produces a small jar. “Do you need the pepper box as well?”
“Wow, aren’t you resourceful? Just the salt, thanks.”
I reach for it, but he holds on for a moment too long.
My eyes shoot to his, and he gives me an easy smile as he releases the salt from his grip. “I aim to please, Rosie.”
I spend the next thirty minutes determined to blow his mind with my mad culinary skills.
The kitchen fills with the scent of hot oil and starch, and soon the two of us are hunched over a heaping plate, fingers brushing as we reach for the crispiest pieces.
Whoever said the fastest way to a person’s heart was through their stomach wasn’t kidding. Callum ends up devouring my fries, eyes wide with astonished pleasure. He eats nearly all of them, and watching his delight fills me more than food ever could.
“There’s nothing a little lard and salt can’t fix.” I swab the last of the salt from the plate with my fingertip and, without thinking, suck it into my mouth.
I glance up to find him watching me.
Watching my mouth.
Awareness flows hot to my cheeks. “Sorry. One taste of home, and I go all feral on you.”
“Good to know.” A slow grin spreads across his face. “A man daren’t stand between a lass and her potato fries.”
“Just ‘fries.’” I hop up and direct my nervous energy toward clearing off the table, but find he’s still watching me with that unsettling intent.
“What?” I ask warily. “Do I have grease on my face or something?” I swipe a quick, surreptitious hand over my cheeks.
“It’s your hair.”
Appalled, I run a hand along my head. “I have grease in my hair?” I hadn’t known it was possible to feel this mortified.
“Och, no. Not that.” He’s laughing again, and this time, he loses points. “I’m just looking at the color.”
“No need for commentary.” I give him my best glare. “Margie already gave me a hard time about it.” I remember her ridiculous pronouncement—how red-haired children are bred—and scowl. Is that what people really believe here?
“Ah.” He curls his lip with distaste. “Margie. Our patron saint of the scullery.”
“She’s not a big fan of mine.”
“Fan?”
“Meaning, I’m not exactly her favorite person.”
“Ah, well she’s nae mine, so we’re all in good company.”
“Yeah, and she doesn’t like my hair, either.”
He stands, stepping close. Too close. Heat radiates between us. His scent reaches me—smoke from the forge, the earth after rain. My pulse pounds at my ribs like a caged thing.
“I dinnae recall saying I don’t like it.”
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter.” I start to turn, but he catches my hand. His grip is gentle. Warm. Unmistakably deliberate.
“Be at ease, Rosie.” His gentleness catches me off guard. “It’s only that your hair, it’s lovely.” He lifts his hand toward my head. I’m terrified he might touch me, devastated when he doesn’t. “Like sun on the leaves in autumn.”
“Don’t mess with me, Callum.” I try to toss off the words, but I’m not used to this. Not prepared.
“There’s no mess with you,” he says, misunderstanding my phrase. “You’re the first person I’ve known who sets the world to rights. Like I’m where I’m meant to be. Here, with you, it’s the first time I’ve known peace, since”—his eyes go distant—“since a verra long time.”
Oh.
I don’t know what to do with this—with him looking at me like I’m something precious when I feel anything but.
“Why haven’t you just…left?” I blurt suddenly.
“Left?” He angles his head to meet my gaze, and damn, he’s got beautiful eyes.
I chatter nervously, “Yeah, like, just go. Move someplace else.”
“You don’t understand. My clan…the Campbell won’t let us leave.”
“But your clan name is Black. You said the Campbells don’t have a problem with them.”
“Black.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I need to make myself concentrate on what he’s saying, rather than speculating what those thick waves might feel like.
“Black,” he repeats. He casts a quick look at the door, but nobody is there.
“What’s wrong with Black?” I hadn’t meant to whisper, but I guess that’s my way of letting him know he can confide in me.
Finally, he says, “There is no Clan Black. I’m a MacGregor.”
He pauses, waiting for me to understand.
When I don’t, he elaborates, “Remember I told you that to be MacGregor is outlawed? Those of us who survived took other names instead. Such like Black, King, Dunn—”
“Ohh. This is that clan war you told me about.”
He gives me a satisfied nod. “This is that.”
“Wait.” The name clangs in my head. MacGregor. Like on the lone gravestone beneath the apple tree.
He gives me a concerned, puzzled look.
“Never mind. It’s nothing. Only…” I remember how furious the old Campbell had gotten when he suspected I might be a MacGregor spy. “If the Campbell laird knows you’re a MacGregor, why doesn’t he kill you like he did the others? Why keep you around?”
“Many years past, my great-grandfather MacGregor fostered with the Campbells—”
“I don’t get it,” I interrupt. “Like a foster kid? Was he an orphan?”
“It’s simply what’s done. Entitled lads are sent to live with powerful families of other clans.
A way of forging alliances. That’s how it was with my great-grandfather.
He fostered with the Campbells and fell in love with a comely lass.
That lass came to be my great-grandmother.
The kinship with the current laird is distant, but enough to give the old man pause. And so he keeps us around.”
“For his amusement,” I say acidly.
“As his servants. And, aye, as it amuses him. But he could turn on us at any time.”
“Campbell probably likes lording that over you.”
“Not probably. I ken it for certain. He likes the feel of his power.”
I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “Flexes it like a muscle.”
“Just that,” Callum agrees with a smile. “Well said, Rosie.”
His praise is like the glow of the kitchen fire, enveloping me with reassuring warmth. I meet his eyes, and something shifts in his expression, becoming softer, more intent.
Neither of us look away, and he’s still standing so close I can see flecks of gold in his gray eyes. The warmth deepens, begins to glow a little hotter.
We speak at the same time.
“I—”
“We—”
“A bhobain!” comes a shout from the doorway.
For a heartbeat, we both freeze, the spell broken. Then we spring apart. I stumble backward, my elbow catching the edge of a pot, sending it crashing to the floor with a deafening clang. Callum rubs a hand over his face, muttering something that sounds distinctly like a curse.
The cook wipes her hands on her apron and trundles over, her entire attention focused on Callum. Which I hope means she didn’t notice how close we were.
“Aoife,” he says warmly.
So that’s her name. It sounds like he’s saying ee-fa. His accent is clearer than hers, and I make a mental note to have him confirm it for me next time we’re alone.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?” She smacks his cheek with affection. “Come tae claim the new scullion lass, have ye?”
Her gaze cuts to me, and I know immediately—we didn’t get away with anything. Understanding is vivid on her face.
But then that face softens. “Have ye seen what me Callum-laddie made?” She grabs a candle from the table, blows out the flame, and extends the holder to me.
I hesitate, but she bobs it closer. Insistent. “Go oan. Look.”
I take it, tipping it toward the firelight for a better look. I thought it was just a simple wrought-iron dish, but surprisingly delicate floral filigree decorates the edge.
“Wow.” My eyes meet his. “You made this?”
His expression doesn’t change much, but I see it—the slight lift of his cheek, the curve of his lips. He’s touched.
Who is this guy?
He fights with swords.
And makes a lovely gift for a woman who spends her days toiling forgotten in the depths of a castle.
Aoife is beaming. “For me, he made it.”
“Anything for you, old woman.”
“I’ll show ye who’s auld.” Playful indignation explodes onto her face, and she grabs for him, but he easily dodges her. She waves her hands with a huff, like she didn’t care anyway. “Enough. Bugger aff wi’ ye.”
She snatches back the candle holder, inspecting it like she’s won a prize. “Go oan. The pair of ye. I want ye oot from here.”
I look from her to Callum and back again. I only understand about half her words on a good day, but it sure sounds like I’m getting the evening off.
“I thought you needed me to clean up?”
“There’s tae be a Martinmas cèilidh in the back garden. Archie brung his fiddle. Mayhap the dancing later.” She turns her back to us like we’re dismissed. “Noo I said aff wi’ ye.”
Wait.
“Did she say dancing?”
A wide grin dawns on Callum’s face. “Aye. A cèilidh means stories by the fire. And definitely music.”
He holds out his hand, palm up, waiting. His voice is soft, almost teasing as he asks, “Give me a dance?”