A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,78
devastation his disappearance had caused. He pulled Fiona close, burying his face in the curve of her neck.
“Never again,” he whispered. “We’ll never be parted again.”
Fiona’s relieved sigh made his heart sing. Her arms came around him, enclosing him, shielding him. Stuart had missed her with a mad intensity.
After a long time, he lifted away. “That is, unless ye want to see the back of me.”
He kept his words light, but he waited in trepidation for Fiona to agree.
Fiona touched his face, running her fingertips over his unshaved whiskers. She laughed softly, dissolving his fears. “’Tis the front of you I like seeing.” She sent him an arch look and took his hand. “Though the back of ye can look well too. Now, I am truly hungry. Shall we feast?”
They did not find much in the larder, but even the meager pickings of bannocks and drippings, slices of cold mutton, and a few wilted greens seemed a feast after the long day of travel.
Donia, the cook’s assistant, had taken over and was not happy about it. “I want to go live with me mum,” she said. “But I hate to leave the master. He’s all in, the poor love.”
Fiona had never heard her brother called a “poor love.” Broc had always been arrogant and commanding, even after his injury, but tonight, she’d found him a pathetic wreck.
Una, who’d entered the kitchen after taking Fiona’s things to her room, began assisting Donia without a word.
“We’ll feed him up,” Fiona promised. She took the tray that Donia had piled high with food and crockery, but Stuart immediately relieved her of it.
“You’re good to stay, Donia,” Stuart said. “I’m thinking the others will return when the countryside is calmer. The cities are full of smoke and hardship, no place to raise a family.”
“I am.” Stuart strode from the kitchen with all the confidence Fiona remembered. If he said a thing would happen, it would.
Stuart led the way up the stairs, carrying the heavy tray as though it weighed nothing. When they reentered the hall, Gair was busy trying to interest the two cousins in purchasing a silver snuffbox in pristine condition. Fiona did not want to know where he’d obtained it. Possibly a perfectly legal transaction, but then, this was Gair.
Broc’s eyes brightened when the tray landed on the table and Stuart began handing out dishes like a trained servant. Tavin and Neilan hadn’t quite worked out yet who he was.
“Thank you, sister,” Broc said. “I could use some grub.”
“Not too much,” Tavin said quickly. “You’re weak. Broth is better for a man in your condition.”
“Bollocks.” Stuart plunked a good portion of the mutton and bannocks onto a plate and slid it in front of Broc. “He needs feeding up. Have you been starving the man?”
Broc lifted his knife and started sawing at the mutton, using the tip to shovel the meat into his mouth. “Been a long time since I had a full meal.”
Fiona turned her glare to her cousins, but spoke to Broc, “Well, you needn’t worry any more about that. I’ve come to look after you.”
“As you should.” Broc’s automatic reply made him sound like his old self, the high-handed laird certain Fiona should obey his every command. She’d never understood why he’d assume she’d listen.
Stuart dished out a plate for Fiona and himself and also for Gair and Padruig, who had no qualms about joining them at the table. Neilan continued to gaze covetously at the snuffbox. Neither cousin noticed Stuart wasn’t serving them until Stuart sat down and began eating.
“Steady on, man,” Tavin said. When Stuart ignored him, Tavin let out a growl and reached for the food—what was left of it. He took as much as he could for himself and shoved the mostly empty platters toward Neilan.
Stuart had found a carafe of whisky in the kitchen and now poured a dollop for everyone at the table except Tavin and Neilan.
They ate in silence for a time, during which Padruig shot a hard look at Stuart. Fiona wondered why Padruig wanted the sgian dubh he sought, and why he thought it would be here. He’d claimed Broc had taken things from Culloden Moor—Broc had gone to observe even if his wound had precluded him from fighting—but so might have many a man in the king’s army.
“Sister,” Broc said after he’d eaten his fill and drunk a little of the whisky. “I’m glad you are home.”