Sarah Gabriel (21 page)

“M
ary Murray makes a fine stew,” Andrew remarked as he scraped his spoon across his pewter plate.

Murmuring agreement, Connor reached for another crisp oatcake, breaking it to offer half to Sophie, who sat beside him and across from Andrew. Alike as twin halves of an apple, Roderick and Padraig sat facing each other.

The long, polished table in the great hall gleamed with candlelight as Connor looked around at his comrades and his wife. The room, even with cracked and crumbling walls, seemed grand somehow, nicer than he had ever realized, warm with firelight and camaraderie.

In that moment, he almost felt content—he almost felt at home. These people were as dear to him as
family, and he felt at ease in their company. He smiled a little to himself.

Sophie accepted the oatcake from him and ate it with a small wedge of cheese. Slathering his own piece with butter from a crock, he glanced over at her.

“You’ve eaten little tonight, and you’ve had none of Mary’s good stew, lass.”

“I’m fine. You all were hungry and needed a good meal.”

Connor paused, buttered oatcake nearly to his mouth. He and the others had eaten their fill of the meal in the kettle, while Sophie had eaten only hot porridge with cream and a slice or two of cheese. The lass did not eat much; he’d noticed that already. In fact, he’d scarcely seen her eat much at all since she had been at Glendoon.

“Here.” He slid his half-empty plate toward her. “I’ve had enough. Will you finish the rest?”

Her eyes grew wide, as if in dismay rather than hunger. “No, thank you. I’m truly not hungry.”

“I’ll give it to the dogs, then.” He bent to offer the plate to Tam and Colla, while the two terriers, who had been content with a small bowl of scraps in the corner, trotted over.

“Hey! That’s good stew. I’d have eaten it,” Andrew groaned.

Connor leaned toward Sophie. “Is our plain food not fine enough for you?” he asked softly. “You’ve not eaten much all the time you’ve been here—soup and porridge and suchlike.”

“I’m fine,” she repeated with a wan smile.

“Does captivity not agree with you?” he murmured.

She sent him a frown. “Mary Murray makes wonderful vegetable and barley soups that are delicious
and filling. I can hardly eat much else, really. And I’m not hungry just now. But thank you for your concern.” Her frown brightened to a fresh, warm smile.

Connor melted inside, even as he felt impatient. He marveled at the ease with which she showed sweet politeness. He could marvel at her influence at Glendoon, too, he thought, for his comrades behaved with better manners and politeness in her presence, though it sometimes sat awkwardly on them.

“Perhaps the mistress prefers French fare to Scottish,” Roderick suggested. “Wheat bread and snails and so on, I think they eat there.”

“I fondly remember Scottish dishes from my childhood at Duncrieff,” Sophie said.

“What did you eat in Bruges?” Andrew asked. “What do nuns eat—bread and water?”

“We ate very well there, and had a big, busy kitchen and bakery. Fresh breads and puddings, cheeses, soups, eggs, and cooked vegetables were on the menu most every week. We had fresh fish often, and chicken, and sometimes there was bacon or ham, though I…do not care for that.”

“Now I’m hungry again,” Andrew said, and Padraig shoved his unfinished serving toward him.

“Here we have fine Highland beef,” Roderick said. “You’ll have missed that over there, I’m sure. And venison and rabbit, of course. Pheasant, grouse, and capercaillie when we can get them. Fish, too, though most Highlanders are not so fond of fish.”

“It’s our Highland beef you must have,” Andrew said. “It will restore you, lass. You’re a bit thin.”

“And mutton and lamb, of course,” Padraig said. “We should ask our mother to roast a lamb, and we’ll have a celebration.”

The girl went pale, Connor noticed. “I am just so happy to have good Scots oats again,” she said quickly, and took another spoonful of porridge, though it had congealed in her dish.

“Aye,” Connor said. “We’ll roast a wee lamb or two in honor of our wedding. And we shall have a side of beef—bloody rare, with the juices running. For our health,” he added.

Just as he thought. She went white as bleached linen and her fingers clutched the spoon. “Oh no, that is not necessary. Thank you.” She swallowed hard.

“You do not eat lamb or beef,” he guessed, watching her. “Or meat of any kind, I suspect.”

Sophie shrugged. “I eat no flesh foods, but for eggs and sometimes fish.”

“No meat?” Andrew sputtered. “Did you take a convent vow?”

“It’s not a religious vow. I just stopped eating it because I wanted to do so. It was not a difficult habit to break.” She shrugged. “That was why I got sick the night we…married. I could not avoid all the rich foods and meats offered on Sir Henry’s table.”

Connor nodded. “Rara avis,” he murmured thoughtfully.

“What?” Andrew asked, his mouth full.

“Rare bird,” Sophie translated, returning Connor’s glance. “So the outlaw knows Latin.”

“As does his bride,” he acknowledged.

“The outlaw knows a good deal more than Latin,” Roderick said. “He knows French and Italian and Greek, too. He’s got a room full of books, and he’s read them all. Why, he even plays—”

“Enough,” Connor said.

“Your lass does have a finicky stomach, so I’ll eat this,” Andrew commented, snatching up the last of the cheese. “She sicked up the night of their wedding—all over his brogans,” he told Roderick and Padraig, who chuckled.

“I do have a touchy stomach, and I do not understand,” Sophie said, looking hard at Connor, “how you can care for the wee lambs and take joy in their sweet natures, and then slaughter and eat them. And I do not know how you can watch over Fiona with such love as you do,” she went on, “and then eat her.”

“I am not going to eat Fiona,” Connor said. “She’s a milk cow. As for the rest of it,” he went on, “we raise some cattle for market, some sheep for their fleeces, so that we have some income. We take a few livestock for their meat through the year, but not so many as you’d think.”

“We have the chickens, too, and we catch fish in the lochs and rivers,” Roderick said. “We hunt deer and birds and other creatures. There’s nothing wrong with it—’tis heaven’s plan for feeding all of mankind.”

Sophie lifted her chin. “I feel for the animals, and find that I cannot eat them so easily.”

“Well, she can live on oats and cheese, kale and eggs, now that she is back in Scotland,” Padraig said. “Such simple fare is not unusual in the Highlands.”

“Aye, but you hardly need concern yourselves. I may not be here for long. If your laird has his way, he’ll send me back.” Sophie sent Connor a sharp look. “It was another he was wanting anyway, one who is not so finicky in her ways and can better keep up with a rogue.”

“Aha,” Andrew crowed, and cocked a brow. “Not after what happened yesterday—”

Connor sent him a fast glare. Roderick applied himself diligently to eating, and Padraig cleared his throat.

“Yesterday?” Sophie looked from Andrew to Connor.

“I saw your kinsmen—Allan and Donald.”

“Oh!” She sat forward, hands pressed on the table. “How are they? What did they say when you told them—you did tell them about the marriage?”

“We spoke about it, and I assured them that you are fine. As for the rest—I saw Sir Henry, too,” he went on, with a quick look at Andrew.

“And what did he say?” Her voice was subdued, wary.

“We’ll talk later,” Connor said, standing. He collected his empty plate, accustomed to doing for himself at Glendoon. “For now, Padraig and I must go out to the byre to see to the evening milking, if we can collect any at all. Roderick,” he said, as the twins stood, and Andrew as well, “stay with the lady. Andrew, I believe you and Neill have an errand this evening.”

“Aye, Kinnoull, we do.”

“Go, then, all of you,” Sophie said. “I’ll collect the dishes and such. We will meet later, you and I, Kinnoull?”

His name had a pleasant cadence on her lips, though Connor sensed a curious tension. She was displeased, or anxious about what he meant to say to her. He could not blame her. As the other men filed out of the great hall, he leaned toward Sophie.

“Meet me in the study later, lass.” He preferred a quiet and neutral place for this discussion, not the great hall with its vaulted spaces, or the kitchen with its open doors—and certainly not the bedchamber, where the bed would distract him with its possibilities. “Just across the corridor.”

“I know where it is,” she said crisply. “I know every inch of this place by now. There’s not much to do at Glendoon but wander, or garden, while I wait to see how long I will be kept here like a prisoner.”

“The guard is for your own good, lass, though you might not believe it.” He turned and headed for the door.

“There’s always the front gate,” she called after him. “I could always explore that.”

“Ask Fiona to show you the back wall,” he suggested as he pulled the door shut after him.

He should not have replied sharply, he told himself as he pounded down the steps. But she sparked him like a fire at times. And what he had to tell her later made him tense as a drum now.

He strode into the bailey yard, noticing quickly as he passed that the kitchen garden was neater and sprouted a thick fringe of green leaves and tiny flower heads almost ready to open, their green buds touched with color.

Odd, he thought. Perhaps Sophie’s efforts to clear the garden plot had uncovered some plants pushing up—although he was sure nothing had been ready to bloom there. Nothing at all.

Milton was unfashionable these days, as was Spenser, Sophie thought, looking at the contents of
the library bookshelves by the light of the candle she held. She loved their poetry nonetheless. Connor liked them, too, she saw, for his copies of
Paradise Lost
and
The Faerie Queene
were well-thumbed.

She traced a finger over leather spines as she studied the books on the shelves: Clarendon’s
History
and Rowe’s
The Works of Mr. William Shakespeare,
with slips of torn paper tucked among the pages, as if someone had marked favorite passages; a new copy of Swift’s
Tales of a Tub
; works by Defoe; and Pope’s translation of
The Iliad.

Connor MacPherson was far more than an outlaw and a gentleman farmer, she thought. He was obviously well-educated, with a diverse mind. Nor was he a particularly tidy man, she thought, smiling. Books and papers were stacked everywhere, on shelves, on the desk, even on the floor. Wooden boxes containing books and portfolios filled the corners of the room.

An elegant mahogany desk and an upholstered armchair took up the center of the room. The writing surface was cluttered with books, quills, an ink pot, and more papers. As her skirt brushed the desk edge, a sheaf of papers spilled down. Sophie picked them up, noticing that they were maplike drawings, indicating boundaries, fences and buildings, wells, trees, and watercourses. She set them aside, puzzled.

The pile of books on the desk concerned farming, agriculture, husbandry. Frowning, her interest caught again, she examined the spines: Walton’s
Compleat Angler
, Cooke’s
Complete English Farmer,
a slim book called
The Gentleman’s Pocket Farrier.

The largest book on the desk surface,
Systema Agriculturae,
had a worn cover and foxed pages. The date, she saw on the flyleaf, was 1669, and an ink inscrip
tion read, “Duncan MacPherson, Lord Kinnoull, 1702—his boke.” Another beside it was in French, D’Argenville’s
La Théorie et la Pratique du Jardinage
.

Days ago she would never have guessed that Connor had any such interests. But she had seen him with his sheep and his favorite cow, his adoring dogs. He seemed comfortable in that role. Now, as she explored his study, she realized he was much more a farmer than an outlaw.

She lifted another book and opened it. “Van Oosten,” she read aloud. “
The Dutch Gardener, or the Complete Florist.
”

“Recently translated,” Connor said behind her.

She whirled. He stood in the doorway, a shoulder leaned to the jamb, his arms crossed. He looked as if he had been watching her for a while.

“I was looking at your books. I hope you do not mind.”

“Not at all.” He walked toward her and picked up one of the books stacked on the desk. “
A New System of Agriculture,
” he said. “John Laurence. I picked it up from Allan Ramsay’s bookshop in Edinburgh. Have you ever been there?”

She shook her head.

“We will remedy that one day. A fine bookshop, and a fine city to visit.” He set the book down and glanced around. “This is my favorite room at Glendoon. It feels…like home.”

“It must remind you of the library at Kinnoull House.”

“Somewhat, though Kinnoull’s library is huge, and bright with windows and bookshelves fronted in brass mesh. A wonderful place. Those shelves hold five thousand volumes. I made off with a few
hundred books in crates and sacks, along with some furniture. My father’s armchair,” he said, resting a hand on its high back. “This room does remind me of my father’s private study.” He shrugged.

“And the other rooms? The great hall, the…bedchamber?”

“The bedroom furniture came out of one of the guest rooms at Kinnoull—it proved easiest to cart away in the night,” he said. “And it’s a good enough bed.” He looked at her.

Sophie felt herself blush. “Do you still have some things at Kinnoull House?”

He nodded. “Sir Henry is sleeping in my own bed, I imagine.” He picked up another book.

“I was there, the night you…stole me away.”

He looked up at her quickly, keenly. “I know. How did the place look to you?”

“It is a beautiful house, elegant yet spare. And the gardens, by the sitting terrace, must be lovely in late spring and summer. I strolled there with Sir Henry,” she explained.

“My mother was particular about her flowers. Even raised them in stone pots all along the terrace. You and she would have had much to talk about.” He set the book down. “Had you married Sir Henry, you would have been mistress of Kinnoull, with gardens to dig about in ad nauseum.” His voice had an edge to it that she did not like.