but Tilda certainly wasn’t dressed in patched, soiled, or ragged garments. It made him even more curious about her mother’s circumstances. She must have had money at some point. He’d seek Miss Morland’s opinion on it later when Tilda was out of earshot.
He was just pouring Miss Morland a glass of claret when a trio of female servants—the innkeeper’s wife and two daughters, no doubt—arrived with their dinner. An array of domed platters and china dishes were deposited in the center of the oak table, and then he, Miss Morland, and Tilda were left alone once more.
Hamish played servant, carving up the roast chicken, while Miss Morland uncovered the other dishes and served up vegetables for them all—crunchy golden potatoes, roasted carrots and parsnips, and steamed buttered beans and sprouts.
“Goodness, you’ve thought of everything, my lord,” remarked Miss Morland when she discovered the pitcher of warmed milk he’d requested for Tilda.
“I didn’t think claret would be to Tilda’s taste,” he replied, helping himself to a thick slice of fresh bread and slathering it with butter. “I trust it is to yours . . .”
“Oh . . .” Miss Morland picked up her glass and examined the deep ruby red contents. “To be p-perfectly honest, I’ve never had claret before.”
“Please don’t feel obliged to drink it on my account. I can easily send for something else. Whatever you’d like, in fact. Sherry, perhaps. Small beer or cider. Tea . . .”
“No, it’s quite all right. I’d like to try it.” She took a tentative sip, and he watched her pink tongue swipe across her fulsome lower lip, leaving a slight sheen. He had to bite his own lip to stifle a groan. God’s teeth, what the hell was wrong with him?
He forced himself to speak to break the odd spell she’d effortlessly cast over him. “So, what do you think, Miss Morland?”
“It’s rather nice,” she replied, and took another sip as if to demonstrate she spoke the truth. “Not quite as pleasant as champagne. I had that once at Lord and Lady Mal . . . I mean, at a f-friend’s wedding. I most certainly prefer it to brandy.”
Hamish cocked a brow in surprise. “You’ve tried brandy?”
“Yes. Al-although it was some time ago. Awful stuff, if you ask me.” Miss Morland picked up her knife and fork and proceeded to slice the chicken breast on Tilda’s plate into smaller pieces. Bright color had stained her cheeks, making Hamish suspect there was more to the brandy story than she wished to admit.
“I prefer whisky myself,” said Hamish, “but if brandy isn’t to your taste, I’m sure you wouldn’t like that either. It’s evil stuff. And illegal, so hard to come by too”—he winked—“unless you know where to find it.”
Miss Morland’s gaze returned to his. A small frown puckered her brow. “Then why do you drink it?”
Because it’s the only alcohol strong enough to knock me unconscious so I’m not constantly plagued by nightmares. But Hamish couldn’t admit that. Instead, he simply shrugged and threw her a devilish grin. “Och, I’m a Highlander, lassie. Whisky, the uisge beatha—that’s Scots Gaelic for the water of life—it runs through my veins.”
Miss Morland blushed again, and she turned her attention to her own dinner. “I’m looking forward to seeing the Isle of Skye, my lord. I’ve never journeyed to Scotland before. I hear the Highlands are beautiful.”
“Aye, they are indeed,” agreed Hamish. “Although Muircliff Castle, my home, is at the northern end of the island in quite an isolated, some might even say desolate, spot. In fact, it sits upon a cliff overlooking the Little Minch, a channel separating Skye from the Isles of the Outer Hebrides. I hope you like the sea, Miss Morland. It’s a constant companion, along with the wind and the gulls.”
“It sounds wonderful. And yes, I do like the sea. Very much.” Miss Morland’s mouth lifted into a smile, and another delightful petal pink blush bloomed across her cheeks. “This summer, I had the op . . . the opportunity to go sea bathing in Brighton. In a bathing machine, of course. It was most refreshing.”
The sudden image of Miss Morland’s pale and slender naked form rising from the sea sprang into Hamish’s mind, and he nearly choked on his mouthful of chicken. He took a quick swig of claret and then cleared his throat before speaking. “I’m afraid sea bathing is out of the question around Muircliff. The waters of the channel are treacherous, even in calm weather. And freezing