Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"No, no, the honey needs to be drizzled, not poured. Like this."
Elinor demonstrated with the wooden spoon, letting golden threads fall across the oatcake in delicate patterns.
Cook, a formidable woman named Susan with flour-dusted hands and shrewd eyes, watched with the kind of attention usually reserved for battle strategy.
"Aye, me lady. I see it now." Susan nodded approvingly. "Makes it bonnie tae look at, nay just tasty."
"Exactly." Elinor set down the spoon, surveying the array of desserts spread across the kitchen's main worktable. "For the Cèilidh, presentation matters as much as flavor. We want people to remember this."
Three days had passed since the dinner in the great hall, and Elinor had thrown herself into preparations with an intensity that surprised even herself.
The Cèilidh was set to take place tomorrow, and every detail had to be perfect, not just for the clan's sake, but for hers and David's. Their marriage had to look real, feel real, be real in the eyes of everyone who attended.
Even if she wasn't entirely sure what "real" meant yet.
"Try this one, me lady." Susan pushed a small cake toward her, its top glazed with something that smelled of apples and cinnamon. "It's me gran's recipe. Haven't made it in years, but I thought fer the celebration..."
Elinor broke off a piece, the cake yielding easily under her fingers. Still warm. She brought it to her lips and closed her eyes as she tasted it.
Oh.
The flavors exploded across her tongue—sweet but not cloying, spiced but not overwhelming, with a richness that came from butter and cream and ingredients her father's kitchen had never been able to afford. Or perhaps more accurately, had never been willing to spend on his daughter.
"Susan." Elinor opened her eyes, finding the cook watching her with barely concealed hope. "This is extraordinary."
"Ye really think so?"
"I know so." She took another bite, unable to help herself. "We need at least three dozen of these. Maybe four."
"Four dozen!" Susan's face split into a wide grin. "Aye, me lady. I'll start bakin' tomorrow mornin'."
They continued through the menu—honeyed oatcakes, roasted meats with herb crusts, vegetables in cream sauces, pies both savory and sweet, and enough bannocks to feed an army.
Elinor tasted everything, making notes, adjusting seasonings, occasionally suggesting presentation changes that made Susan's eyes light up with enthusiasm.
She'd never done anything like that before. Her father had barely let her in the kitchen, declaring it beneath a lady's station. But there, surrounded by flour dust and steam and the heavenly smell of baking bread, Elinor felt something she hadn't expected.
Joy.
Pure, uncomplicated joy.
"Try this one." Susan handed her another sample, this one a delicate pastry filled with cream and berries. "For the high table specifically. Somethin' special fer ye and the laird."
Elinor bit into it and actually moaned. She couldn't help it. The pastry was flaky and buttery, the cream smooth and rich, the berries tart enough to balance the sweetness perfectly.
"Susan, you're a genius."
"Och, go on." But the cook was beaming. "Ye're easy tae please, me lady. Just happy tae see someone appreciate good food."
"I more than appreciate it." Elinor reached for another pastry before she could stop herself. "I might need to be rolled out of this kitchen. These are perfect, absolutely perfect."
They worked in companionable silence for a while, Susan kneading dough for tomorrow's bread while Elinor made notes about portion sizes and serving arrangements.
The kitchen was warm, almost too warm, but Elinor didn't mind. After years of being cold, she was learning to appreciate heat.
She was reaching for another sample, this one a honey cake that smelled divine, when she felt eyes on her.
She turned, and found David standing in the kitchen doorway.
He looked... different. There was an intensity in his dark eyes that made her breath catch. He wasn't looking at the food or the preparations or even Susan.
He was looking at her.
And the way he was looking at her made heat flood her cheeks.
"What are you doing here?" The words came out more sharply than she'd intended, defensive in the face of that unsettling gaze.
David blinked, as though coming out of a trance. "I was... I came tae check on the preparations. Fer the Cèilidh."
"Oh." Elinor set down the honey cake, suddenly very aware of the smudge of flour on her sleeve and the way her hair had come loose from its pins. "Everything is going well. The menu is finalized, and Susan has everything under control."
"I can see that." His eyes tracked to the table laden with desserts, then back to her face. "Ye look... happy."
Did she? Elinor touched her cheek self-consciously, feeling the warmth there. "I suppose I am. I've never planned anything like this before."
"Ye're daein' a fine job of it." He took a step into the kitchen, and Elinor noticed Susan suddenly finding urgent business on the far side of the room. "The clan's already talkin' about the feast. They're excited."
"Are they?" The thought pleased her more than it should have. "I hope I haven't overpromised."
"From the looks of all this, I think ye've under promised if anythin'." He moved closer, stopping beside the worktable. Close enough that she could smell leather and pine and something distinctly him. "May I?"
He gestured to the honey cake she'd been about to taste.
"Of course." She pushed it toward him. "Though you might want to prepare yourself.”
David took a bite, and Elinor watched his expression shift—surprise, then pleasure, then something that might have been reverence.
"Christ," he muttered. "Susan, ye've outdone yerself."
"Just old recipes, me laird," Susan called from her corner, but Elinor could hear the pleasure in her voice.
"These are nae just old recipes. These are..." He took another bite. "Elinor, did ye choose all of these?"
"Most of them. Susan suggested several, but I tasted everything and made the final selections." She felt oddly nervous admitting it. "I hope that's all right. I know I'm new here, and perhaps I should have consulted with you or Malcolm first."
"It's more than all right." He set down the cake, and the look he gave her was so warm it made her forget how to breathe. "Ye're Lady of Keppoch. This is exactly what ye should be daein'."
"I just want the celebration to be perfect."
"It will be." His hand moved, as though he might reach for her, then stopped, remembering the rules. "Ye've got a good instinct fer this, lass. Better than I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I didnae expect anythin'. I didnae ken ye well enough to have expectations." His mouth quirked slightly. "But ye've surprised me. In a good way."
The compliment warmed her more than it should have. "Thank you."
They stood there for a moment, the kitchen's heat suddenly feeling like it had nothing to do with the ovens. David's gaze dropped to her mouth, where she'd gotten cream from one of the pastries, and his jaw tightened.
"Ye have..." He gestured vaguely at his own face. "Cream. Just there."
Elinor's hand flew to her mouth, wiping at it frantically. "Gone?"
"Almost. Just a bit more tae the left."
She wiped again, but David shook his head.
"Here." He reached out, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth with shocking gentleness. The touch lasted barely a second before he pulled back, but it was enough to make her skin tingle. "There. Got it."
Elinor's mouth had gone completely dry. "Thank you."
"Ye're welcome." His voice had gone rough. "I should... I should let ye get back tae work."
"Yes. Probably."
Neither of them moved.
"Tomorrow night," David said finally. "Ye'll save me a dance?"
"I thought that was expected. As your wife."
"I'm nae askin' as yer husband. I'm askin' as a man who'd like tae dance with ye." He held her gaze. "So will ye?"
Something fluttered in Elinor's chest. "Yes."
"Good." He stepped back, putting proper distance between them. "I'll leave ye tae yer preparations then."
He turned to go, and Elinor found herself speaking before she could think better of it. "David?"
He paused, looking back.
"Are you all right? You seem... distracted."
For a moment, she thought he might brush off the question. Then his expression softened.
"Aye, lass. I'm all right." He glanced at the table laden with desserts, then back at her. "Just... surprised, I suppose."
"By what?"
"By ye." He said it simply, without elaboration, and left before she could respond.
Elinor stood frozen in the kitchen, her heart doing strange things in her chest. Susan emerged from her corner, a knowing smile on her flour-dusted face.
"That man's fair besotted with ye, me lady."
"He is not."
"He is. I've kent the laird since he was a bairn, and I've never seen him look at anyone the way he just looked at ye." Susan returned to her dough, kneading with practiced efficiency. "Like ye hung the moon and stars."
"He was just checking on the preparations."
"If ye say so, me lady." But Susan's smile suggested she knew better.
Elinor turned back to the desserts, but her concentration was thoroughly broken. All she could think about was the way David had looked at her. The way his thumb had felt against her mouth. The roughness in his voice when he'd asked her to save him a dance.
Nae as yer husband. As a man who'd like tae dance with ye.
What did that mean?
And why did the thought of it make her feel like she'd swallowed butterflies?
The next morning, David was meant to be training.
He was not training.
Or rather, he was going through the motions of stance, strike, parry, and counter, but his mind was somewhere else entirely. Specifically, it was in the kitchen, watching his wife taste desserts with an expression of pure bliss on her face.
"David!"
Tristan's shout came half a second before his practice sword connected with David's ribs. Not hard enough to injure through the padding, but hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs and leave him doubled over, gasping.
"What the hell was that?" Tristan lowered his sword, concern replacing irritation. "Ye just stood there."
"I was… " David wheezed. "Distracted."
"Distracted. Ye were distracted." Tristan jabbed a finger at him. "Ye never get distracted. I've fought beside ye in actual battles where men were tryin' tae kill us, and ye stayed focused. But now, in a friendly trainin' match, ye're distracted?"
David straightened slowly, pressing a hand to his ribs. "It happens."
"It daesnae happen. Nay tae ye." Tristan's eyes narrowed. "What's goin' on?"
"Naethin's goin' on."
"That's shite, and we both ken it." Tristan gestured at the other men training in the yard, purposely keeping enough distance to give their laird privacy, but close enough to watch with interest. "Ye've been off since we got back from Berwick.
Even before the Cèilidh preparations started. What is it?"
"I told ye. Naethin'."
"Is it the king? Are ye worried about his response?"
"Nay."
"The clan? Are they givin' ye trouble about Lady Elinor?"
"Nay."
"Then what?" Tristan's expression shifted from irritation to something more concerned. "Talk tae me, David. We've been friends since we were lads. If somethin's wrong—"
"Naethin's wrong!" The words came out sharper than David intended. He took a breath, forcing his voice level.
Tristan stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, his expression transformed into something that might have been understanding mixed with unholy amusement.
"Oh," he said. "Oh."
"What?"
"It's yer wife."
"I just said it's naething’"
"It's yer wife," Tristan repeated, his grin widening. "Nay the marriage or the politics or the king's threats. It's her. Lady Elinor specifically."
David felt heat creep up his neck. "I dinnae ken what ye're talkin' about."
"The hell ye dinnae." Tristan was outright laughing now. "Ye're attracted tae her."
"She's me wife. Of course I'm attracted tae her."
"Nay, I mean ye're attracted tae her. Like, properly. Nae just in a 'she's pleasant enough tae look at' way, but in a 'I cannae stop thinkin' about her' way." Tristan's eyes danced with mischief. "What did she dae? What happened?"
"Naethin' happened."
"Ye're a terrible liar when it comes tae women. Always have been. Remember when ye were fourteen—"
"We're nae talkin' about when I was fourteen."
"So we're talkin' about now. About yer wife." Tristan lowered his sword completely, giving David his full attention. "Come on. What is it? What's got ye so twisted up ye cannae even block a simple strike?"
David wanted to deny it again. Wanted to shut that conversation down completely and return to training like nothing was wrong.
But Tristan was right. They'd been friends since childhood. And if David couldn't be honest with his oldest friend, who could he be honest with?
"I'm tryin' tae give her choices," David said quietly. "Freedom. Space tae figure out what she wants."
"That's good. That's a start." Tristan tilted his head.
"But she's made it clear. The rules. Nae touchin', nay kissin' unless necessary and in public. Keepin' distance."
"And have ye thought that maybe those rules were about her needin' tae feel in control after years of havin' none?
Nae about her nae wantin' ye?" Tristan's voice gentled.
"David, I saw the way she looked at ye at dinner the other night, when ye defended her with Fergus.
That wasnae the look of a woman who feels naethin'. "
"She was grateful. That's different."
"It was more than grateful." Tristan clapped him on the shoulder. "Trust me. I ken the difference."
David wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to believe him. But the fear was too strong—the fear that if he let himself hope, let himself want more than the careful arrangement they'd built, he'd ruin everything.
"What dae I dae?" he asked finally.
"What ye've been daein'. Be patient. Be kind.
Give her reasons tae trust ye." Tristan grinned and raised his practice sword again.
"Now come on. Let's see if ye can actually focus on trainin' this time.
Though if ye're thinkin' about yer wife, I understand if ye need a moment tae. .. adjust yerself."
David's face burned. "I hate ye."
"Nay ye dinnae. Ye love me." Tristan's grin was insufferable. "Now defend yerself before I really dae bruise yer ribs."
They fell back into the rhythm of practice, and this time, David managed to actually pay attention.