Page 78 of A Scot on the Rocks

He snorted. “A comfort.”

“Annie said no. The man didn’t seem to understand what the word meant.”

“Aye.” He looked at her then, because there was nothing amusing about that part of the story. “And I’m glad ye were there.”

Olivia lowered her eyes and resumed chopping. He’d heard several versions of the encounter, each more extraordinary than the last, but the truth he cared about was simple enough. A frightened girl had needed help, and Olivia hadn’t stood aside waiting for a man to provide it. He admired that about her, though he suspected she’d be irritated if he made a speech over it.

He added the vegetables to the pot and reached for the bread at the same moment she did, their fingers brushing. Olivia looked up, her cheeks going pink. He could have left his hand where it was a heartbeat longer, in fact, the possibility had occurred to him with embarrassing speed.

Instead he surrendered the bread. “Ye missed a carrot.”

While the broth simmered, he pulled out the second chair and asked her about Boston. She settled opposite him and began with the harbor, the gulls bold enough to steal food from a person’s hand, and brick streets shining after rain. Soon she was telling him more about the pub where her grandmother had raised her, and how one day she’d been painting something for school when she spilled a jar of paint across the bar.

“Did yer grandmother forgive ye?” he asked.

“She called me a pox-faced cabbage, handed me a towel, and told me if the paint didn’t come off the bar I’d be washing glasses until Christmas.”

Jamie laughed so hard he nearly knocked his knee against the table. “Yer grandmother and Morag would get along.”

Jamie liked listening to her. He could all but see the low ceiling, the crowded tables, and the formidable grandmother who had taught a little girl to recognize trouble before it crossed the threshold. He understood better now how Olivia had noticed the two men at the market. He’d seen them watching the loaded carts, but she’d noticed where their eyes went when they were pretending to look elsewhere. He knew the paths through the glen. She knew the habits of people trying to conceal their business.

Then her voice softened as she described her grandmother slipping an extra meal to someone short of coin. Olivia reached for an onion that had already been peeled, turning it in her hand without cutting it. Jamie recognized the change in her and waited. She’d spoken of home with such affection that the distance from it must have hurt, particularly after losing her husband on the journey. Mayhap there was something he could do to help her?

He tasted the broth, added salt, and took two wooden bowls down from the crude shelf. Olivia put away the extra onion and rose to help, ladling the stew into the bowls.

They ate slowly, breaking bread into the broth and arguing amiably over who ought to have the last carrot. Jamie surrendered the last piece of pork to her. She noticed, but took it without thanking him in a way that made a man feel foolish for wanting her well fed. He liked that about her too.

When they’d finished, he went to the chest where he kept his whisky and brought out two small bottles. He’d been thinking about the cooper’s stall since the market, and about the way Olivia’s expression had changed when she smelled the old wood.

“I thought ye might like to taste something.”

“Those are the loveliest words you’ve spoken all day.”

“I’m wounded.”

He poured a measure from each bottle. Both came from the same run, but the spirit had rested in different casks. He watched her bring the first cup to her nose, then the second. Her whole manner changed when she drank whisky. The teasing remained close at hand, but beneath it was a seriousness he respected, the concentration of someone who could tell him things about his own whisky that he’d never found the words for.

“The second one held something sweet before,” she said.

“Sherry, mayhap. From Greenock.”

“The cooper had one just like it.” She took another careful taste. “He said he reuses any sound barrel he gets. Sherry, ale, rum, whatever comes through. The modern casks Malcolm bought weren’t anything like these.”

“Malcolm? Was he a partner of your husband?”

She stopped with the cup partway to the table. It was such a small thing, but he’d seen that same hesitation whenever she spoke of the people she’d known before her journey.

“Yes,” she said. “He was forever trying to get the wood right.”

“Sounds a frustrating occupation.”

“You have no idea.”

Jamie let the matter rest. She’d lost a great deal, and he was beginning to suspect she’d worked hard to keep hold of the parts of herself that remained.

Outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle. The room smelled of supper and warm peat, and Jamie found himself wondering what her grandmother would make of Dunarraidh. She’d probably agree with Morag about the roof before she’d set down her traveling bag.

A little later he asked the question he’d been considering since the market, though the moment it left his mouth he wished he’d let it alone.