In Scot Water - Caroline Lee Page 0,11
as if she were always hungry, but there was so little. Stifling a sigh, she shifted her hold on her son and prepared herself to stand. “I’ll make ye something—"
“Nay.” He held out his hand to stop her. “Evelinde, ye must let someone else care for ye for a change.”
She blinked in surprise.
“ ’Tis clear ye’re no’ eating enough.” He used that same hand to gesture down the length of her. “Ye’re—waifish. Yer lad is healthy enough—both of them—so ‘tis clear ye feed them plenty. But ye?”
She swallowed, toying with the empty cup as she watched her bairn nurse. “Sometimes,” she admitted in a whisper, “when I cannae get to market, I give Liam my share. But”—she hurried to meet his gaze and reassure him—“we have plenty from the garden this sennight, despite the rain, and Nanny doesnae eat much.”
Mainly because Nanny caught her own food out in the fields and didn’t care for the vegetables and oatcakes Evelinde served.
“Ah, Nanny.” Malcolm had gone back to rummaging through his pack. “She takes care of yer lads when ye have to leave, like today? But no’ when ye go to market?”
She shook her head. “ ’Tis too far. Too long.”
“Ye dinnae like to be away from them, I imagine,” he said softly.
When she looked up, he was gazing at Tomas, whose tiny hand was patting contentedly at her swollen breast.
This man would make a good father.
Where had that thought come from?
“I’m making supper tonight, Evelinde. Accept it.”
She shook her head. “I have enough—“
“Nay, I brought food,” he said, turning back to his sack.
He’d come prepared?
I want ye, Evelinde.
Another shiver caught her by surprise, but this one was anticipatory.
Why had he come, and why had he brought so much food?
She watched him pull packages from his bag, obviously planning on staying more than a few hours. Besides the whisky, he unwrapped sausage links, a loaf of brown bread, and fruit—real fruit! It had been a year at least since she’d tasted peaches, and her mouth was already watering.
The back door was yanked open, and Liam skidded to a stop when he saw the two of them. “If Malcolm doesnae have to wear a kilt, Mama, I dinnae have to either, right?”
Before she had a chance to answer, Malcolm did it for her, not even looking up. “ ’Tis much warmer to wear a kilt, laddie, and ye must stay healthy to care for yer mother.”
Warmer?
“Och, ye must be cold.” She started to stand again. “I’ll get ye—”
He waved her back down once more. “I will survive. Finish feeding the bairn—What’s his name?”
“This is Tomas.”
His eyes widened, and she saw his lips form the name. Then he crossed himself—was he particularly devout?—and smiled. “ ’Tis a good omen, I suspect.”
Her son’s name was a good omen?
But she didn’t have a chance to ask him what he’d meant, because with a sharp bark, Nanny bounded in the back door.
Evelinde noticed the way Malcolm’s gaze jerked up in response to the possible threat, and the way he flexed his knees and reached for the sword he wasn’t wearing.
She could have told him the huge, shaggy beast bounding toward him was no danger, but there wasn’t time. Before she could do more than call, “Nanny!” the big dog had shoved her nose into Malcolm’s crotch.
The poor man froze as the beast made snuffling noises and nosed her way under his wet shirt. He let out a strangled yelp, his hand curled around the edge of the table, and she pressed her lips into a line to keep from smiling.
She knew from experience how cold Nanny’s nose was.
“Dinnae move,” Liam offered.
“I swear, on St. Thomas Aquinas’s blessed brow, I have nae intention of moving.” His voice sounded hoarse as he glanced down at the dog’s head. “What is it doing?”
“This is Nanny.” Liam’s attention was caught by the feast being prepared on the table. “Nanny likes sausages,” he whispered, looking at the links of meat Malcolm had been readying.
When Malcolm made a choking sound, Evelinde swallowed down her giggle. The poor man looked terrified and had obviously mistaken exactly what kind of sausage her son had meant.
“She’s…” Evelinde cleared her throat. “She’s particularly fond of big, thick sausages.”
Malcolm glanced at her, and he must’ve seen the humor in her expression, because the look in his eyes slowly changed. “She likes them big and thick, aye?”
The giggle escaped, and Evelinde’s lips remained curled upward. “I confess a weakness for a thick, meaty sausage myself. The thought makes my