Page 46 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

He did not allow himself to think any more about the unsigned letter on the study desk, the lingering scent of wild thyme in the empty Hall, or the harsh reality that he was quickly running out of time to do this correctly.

He had never once in his entire life been good at doing things correctly.

He had always been better at simply doing them at all.

Chapter Fifteen

Sunday arrived grey and quiet, the storm still holding off somewhere north of the mountains. The kitchen had been Brian’s idea.

Margaret's reply had come at first light.

Come now, come immediately, come before the mountain passes freeze, and I will not forgive ye if ye daenae.

Alba had read it twice, folded it into her sleeve, and spent the better part of the morning turning over the list of everything that still needed doing before a carriage could carry her North.

Alba had been passing the dim corridor outside the Great Hall when he materialized beside her, his blunt wooden sword tucked securely under one arm and a serious expression that she had learned, in three short days, to treat with extreme caution.

“I want to help with supper,” he announced, matching her stride.

“Ye want to help Cook with supper?”

“Nay.” He fell into step beside her. “I want to helpye.”

Alba looked down at him with a playful smile. “Do ye ken how to cook?”

“Nay.” A pause landed, entirely unbothered. “But I am a fast learner. Uncle Sebastian says so.”

“Yer uncle says many things.”

“He says ye’re the most capable woman he’s ever met.”

Alba stopped dead in her tracks.

Brian looked up at her with those dark, serious eyes. Then he continued padding toward the kitchen door as though he had not just said anything of consequence at all.

She stood frozen in the corridor for one long moment. Then she followed him.

The first casualty was the bread dough.

Brian had approached it with aggression. The result was a flattened, aggressively worked mass that Cook regarded with grief, then quietly set aside and began anew, from scratch.

“That’s nae how ye do it,” Alba said, stepping in.

“I was bein’ thorough.”

“Ye were punishin’ it,” she laughed.

“It needed firmness.” He looked down at the ruined dough, apparently satisfied with his labor. “Uncle Sebastian says most problems respond well to firmness.”

“Yer uncle,” Alba said, taking the second ball of dough and demonstrating the correct motion, her palms pressing and folding in a steady, even rhythm, “applies that specific principle somewhat broadly.”

Brian watched her hands intently. Then he tried to copy the smooth motion, achieving something slightly closer to an edible bread dough.

Cook pressed her lips together with great feeling and looked directly at the stone ceiling.

The carrots came next.

Alba set him at the far end of the heavy worktable with a small knife, a pile of carrots, and what she considered very clear, explicit instructions about the appropriate size of the pieces.