Chapter 7 #2
There was something in his tone that made her pick up her spoon. She took a small taste, and the flavor exploded across her tongue—savory and rich, with rosemary and a hint of something sweet, maybe honey or ale in the gravy. The lamb practically melted on her tongue.
It was her favorite, the exact dish her mother's cook used to make for her when she was young, before her mother died. The comfort food she'd requested on cold winter nights and after particularly difficult days.
Alba's hand froze, the spoon halfway to her mouth again. Her heart did something strange in her chest—a flutter, a skip, a painful squeeze.
He remembered.
Not just that she liked stew, but this specific recipe. The one Calum must have mentioned in passing years ago. The one that tasted like home and safety and a mother's love.
Stop it, it's just him bein' a good host. It daesnae mean—
But her traitorous heart refused to listen, beating faster as she turned to look at him.
"How did ye ken?" The question came out softer than she'd intended.
"Yer braither mentioned it once," Lachlann said, his grey eyes steady on hers. "We were talkin' about food we missed from childhood. He said it was a family favorite, that yer mother's cook made it fer ye special."
"He... Calum told ye that?" Alba's voice came out smaller than she'd intended.
"Aye. We'd been drinkin'"—his lips quirked slightly—"and the conversation turned sentimental."
He'd remembered something so small, so personal, for goodness knew how long. Had he been storing it away, that little piece of information about her? Or had it simply stayed with him, for no obvious reason?
Dinnae read intae it. He's just got a good memory. It daesnae mean anything.
But God help her, she wanted it to mean something.
Alba stared at the bowl, then back at Lachlann. "Thank ye," she managed, her throat suddenly tight. "That was... ye didnae have tae."
"I wanted tae," Lachlann said simply. "Ye've been through hell.
If a bowl of stew can make ye feel even a little bit at home, then it's worth it.
And by the way, I sent a messenger tae England with a letter fer yer braither, telling him what happened and that I will keep ye here under me protection while he is away. "
Alba felt relief wash over her and nodded gratefully. The kindness in his voice, the genuine concern in his eyes, it was too much. Alba looked down quickly, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. She would not cry. Not there, not in front of all those people.
She took another spoonful of stew, letting the familiar flavors ground her. "Thank ye fer it all. And the stew, it's perfect," she said quietly. "Just like I remember."
"Good."
They ate in silence for a few minutes, but it was different. Less awkward, less formal.
The noise of the hall continued around them, laughter and conversation and the clatter of dishes, but Alba felt like they'd created a small bubble of privacy at their end of the table.
"The gardens really are beautiful," she said after a while, keeping her voice low. "Yer maither must have been very talented."
"She was." Lachlann's expression softened. "She said gardenin’ taught her patience. That ye couldnae rush growin’ things, couldnae force them tae bloom before they were ready. Ye just had tae tend them carefully and trust the process."
"That's lovely."
"Aye. She was like that about most things. Patient. Thoughtful." He paused. "I miss her."
The simple honesty of the statement made Alba's chest ache. "How long has she been gone?"
"Ten years. She fell ill one winter and just... never recovered." His jaw tightened. "The healers tried everything, but naething worked."
"I'm sorry." Alba knew how inadequate the words were, but she meant them. "I lost me maither when I was young too. It never really stops hurtin’, daes it?"
"Nay. But it gets easier tae carry." Lachlann looked at her, and something passed between them—a shared understanding of loss, of grief, of the weight of missing someone who'd shaped ye. "Ye learn to hold onto the good memories and let the pain fade a bit."
Alba nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
They finished their meal in that same comfortable near-silence, occasionally exchanging quiet comments about the food or the people around them.
Lachlann pointed out various members of his household, giving her names and brief descriptions that helped the sea of unfamiliar faces feel slightly less overwhelming.
And slowly, Alba felt herself relaxing. The tension in her shoulders eased. Her appetite even returned a bit, and she finished most of the stew.
When the meal finally ended and people began tae disperse, Lachlann stood and offered her his hand. "I'll walk ye back tae yer chamber."
Alba took his hand and let him help her up, very aware of how warm his palm was against hers, how carefully he held her.
They walked through the corridors in silence, their footsteps echoing softly off the stone walls. When they reached her door, Lachlann released it and stepped back.
"Sleep well, Alba," he said quietly. "And if ye need anything, anything at all, just tell Orla. She'll make sure ye get it."
"Thank ye. Fer the stew, especially."
His smile was soft, genuine. "It was naething."
"It wasnae naething," Alba insisted. "It was... it meant a lot. That ye remembered."
For a moment, they just stood there, looking at each other. Alba was suddenly very aware of how close he was, of the way the torchlight caught in his grey eyes, of the small scar above his eyebrow that she still wanted to ask about.
"Goodnight, Lachlann," she whispered.
"Goodnight, Alba."
She slipped into her chamber and closed the door, leaning back against it as her heart raced.
Something had shifted that evening. Some small wall between them had crumbled, and Alba wasn't sure whether to be terrified or exhilarated by it.
Both, she decided. Definitely both.