her skin.
He smiled at her obvious surprise. He was carrying a bottle in one hand.
“I beg your pardon, Captain,” she said as he neared her. “I’m a bit lost. Would you kindly point me to the kitchen?”
“The kitchen?”
“I, ah... I was tending to Miss Kent’s things during the supper hour,” she said, wincing slightly with apology.
“Ah. Come then,” he said, his warm smile returned. “You’ll be quite lost if you attempt to find it on your own, you will. Our ancestors didna think much of efficiency when they built this fortress.” He gestured for her to come with him.
He had such a lovely smile and even lovelier light blue eyes. He’d been unfailingly kind to them all since the moment they’d boarded his ship, and Bernadette couldn’t help but smile now, happy to have been rescued by him.
“Miss Kent, she’s well, is she?” he asked pleasantly as they took another turn into another corridor.
“Quite. A bit tired, what with the journey, but very well, thank you.”
“Aye. Here we are then,” he said, opening a door and allowing Bernadette to pass through before him. A wooden table stretched long through the middle of the kitchen. On one wall were the many pots used for cooking. On another wall, jars of spices. The smell of lamb roasting made her stomach growl, and she smiled sheepishly at her escort.
Captain Mackenzie walked to the bell pull and tugged on it. A moment later, a woman appeared. Her gray hair was knotted on the top of her head and her apron was wet from the chest down, as if she’d been washing.
Captain Mackenzie spoke to her in Gaelic. She responded in kind and disappeared through the door from where she’d come. The captain turned to Bernadette and bowed. “Barabel will prepare something for you, aye?”
“Thank you,” she said gratefully.
“Will you find your way to your room, then? I’ll have Frang come and—”
“No, please. I am confident I know the way.” She wasn’t the least bit confident, but she’d as sooner wander all night than see Frang again.
“Aye, verra well. Oidhche mhath, Miss Holly,” he said, and walked out of the kitchen with his bottle.
Bernadette watched him go, marveling at the way nature worked. How on earth could two brothers be so entirely opposite of one another in both looks and mien?
Barabel returned with a platter of brown bread, cheese and meat. She very unceremoniously slapped it down on the table in the center of the kitchen with a pointed glare for Bernadette.
“My apologies for the inconvenience,” Bernadette said, and smiled.
Barabel did not return her smile.
“Do you speak English?”
Barabel responded to that by turning about and walking through the door. A moment later, Bernadette heard the clink of china and the slosh of water.
She moved cautiously to the table and looked around for a stool. There was none. Neither were there any dining utensils. Well, that wouldn’t deter her, not when she was this hungry. She hoisted herself up onto the table and put the platter on her lap and ate with her fingers, listening to the moans and groans of the wind moving through this heap of stones, sighing with relief at the taste of food.
She had managed to have some bread, some chicken and a bit of cheese when she heard footsteps coming down the hallway toward the kitchen. She assumed it was the captain, and looked up, smiling self-consciously.
It was not Captain Mackenzie at all, but his darker, gruffer, angrier brother. He paused just inside the kitchen door and fixed his gaze on her. His expression was hard, unyielding. He reminded her of the granite face of some of the hills around here—she didn’t think he could possibly smile if he tried.
Bernadette needed a moment to collect herself. Judging by the way he looked at her, she didn’t know if he intended to give her a tongue-lashing or hang her. Or...well, she didn’t want to think about what else he might intend. She licked the grease from one finger for lack of a napkin, then another, and carefully moved the platter off her lap and onto the table before hopping down. She realized, now that she stood before him, that he was even bigger than he’d first appeared across the great hall. Quite broad of shoulder and powerful. And with waves of enmity rolling off of him and lapping over her.
No wonder Avaline was so shaky.
He didn’t say a word, but continued to stare at her, and she could feel that look piercing clean through her as a muscle worked in his jaw, as if he was biting his tongue. Bernadette stared back at him. Did he want to speak? Then speak. Did he want something of her? Ask. Was he perhaps only surprised to find her here? Or did he always stomp about looking so displeased and disgruntled?
Barabel returned to the kitchen, dipped a curtsy to him and spoke in the Scots language. He responded with few words in a tone so low and silky that Bernadette suppressed a small but surprising little shiver. Barabel disappeared once more, and he sidled up to the table, staring down at her plate. He picked up a piece of chicken and ate it.
Well, then. She could add ungentlemanly to her growing list of dislikes about him.
“Have you had your fill, then?”
The beast spoke after all. No, she hadn’t had her fill, and yes, she was still hungry. But she resisted the urge to look longingly at her food. “Yes. Thank you.”
He ate another bite, then folded his arms across his chest and turned away from her a moment. Then back again, those dark eyes piercing hers again. “Is it the custom in England for a servant to invade the kitchen of another man’s house?”
Invade? He made it sound as if she’d entered with an army demanding bread. “Not at all. Unfortunately, I missed—”
“Aye, my brother has told me.”
Then why, pray tell, did he ask? “I beg your pardon,” she said, and moved to pass him. But he shifted slightly, blocking her path. Bernadette lifted her gaze to his—she could see nothing but hardness in his eyes, could feel nothing but coldness radiating off of him. There was something very dark about him that Bernadette was certain there was not a bit of kindness in him. She thought of Avaline, how gentle and young and naive she was. To be married to this man? She couldn’t help herself—another shiver ran down her.
He noticed it. “Do you find the Scottish night too fuar for your thin English blood?”
“I hardly know what that means. But I will own that my thin English blood finds churlishness to be jarring.”
Her remark surprised him, clearly—she saw something spark in him, and one brow rose slowly above the other. “You are bloody well bold for a maid,” he said, his gaze moving over her body, taking her in so boldly and unapologetically that she could feel her skin begin to heat under his perusal.
“And you are bloody well discourteous for a gentleman,” she returned. She tried to slip past him, but he refused to move, and her arm brushed against his chest as she maneuvered around him. Once clear of him, she refused to sprint, as she very much wanted to do. She walked
