Page 77 of Claimed By a Savage Scot
Fixing Duncan with a dark stare, he said, “Ye truly wish tae send yer sister away again so soon after finally getting her back?” The question came out more sharply than he intended.
Duncan’s brows lifted slightly at the intensity behind them. “Well,” he replied slowly, “I’m hardly plannin’ tae throw her at the first laird with a decent title and all his teeth.”
Ewan snorted into his cup.
“But Kenneth is well placed,” Duncan continued thoughtfully. “He’s laird of a powerful clan, with considerable influence.That’s why ye’ve just signed a treaty with him, eh? A marriage alliance would make perfect sense.”
Malcolm’s jaw tightened. All he could picture was Kenneth kissing Catriona’s hand in the courtyard while smiling like some damned peacock. The thought alone soured his stomach, which was busy tying itself into painful knots.
“Aye,” he muttered stiffly. “I suppose it would.”
Duncan studied him for a long moment. Then, he smiled and said, “Still, ye’re right. It needs careful consideration. And there are other more pressin’ matters that need resolvin’ first, like Sinclair.”
“Aye, like Sinclair,” Malcolm echoed gloomily, torn between telling Duncan the truth that very day and putting himself out of his misery, and wishing Sinclair would finally attack so he could put off the dreaded conversation some more.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The castle kitchens were nearly dark but for the red glow of the fire still burning low in the massive hearth. Shadows flickered across long wooden tables and hanging copper pots as, wrapped in a warm woolen robe, Catriona slipped quietly inside.
She was in search of something hot and soothing enough to calm her restless thoughts. Deprived of Malcolm’s warmth in her bed, she was resigned to making do with milk, or cider, or even ale. Anything, so long as it would help her sleep.
But the moment she entered the kitchens, she stopped short, a burst of warmth exploding in her chest. She was not expecting to see the man who haunted her every waking moment standing beside the hearth, still fully dressed. He looked distinctly out of place.
With the wary expression of a man facing armed combat, he was watching a pot of milk hanging on a chain over the hot coals, which Catriona could see was dangerously close to boiling over.
As the foam threatened to spill over the sides, she darted forward and grabbed a cloth from a nearby hook. Malcolm visibly started as she pushed in front of him and carefully removed the pot from the fire, setting it down on the cooler stones.
“Och, thank ye,” Malcolm muttered, quickly getting over his shock. “I was out of me depth there.”
She laughed as she straightened up and looked at him. “Aye, I think ye were moments from burnin’ the kitchens down.”
He snorted softly, turning towards her, an amused smile playing about his lips.
Dinnae look at his lips too long...
“That’s harsh. Surely, I would have been likely tae put the fire out.”
“And the cooks would be very pleased about cleanin’ that mess up in the mornin’, with the whole place stinkin’ of burnt milk, ugh!”
“I reckon I can command fifty warships easier than that damned pot of milk,” he grumbled ruefully.
“Fetch some cups,” she instructed, nodding at the vast cupboards stacked with pots and pan and utensils of all kinds that occupied one entire wall. While Malcolm was occupied, shelifted the pot onto the nearest table and rummaged in the drawer beneath for a spoon and gave the milk a good stir.
Malcolm set the cups before her, then leaned against the table, watching her while she poured the milk into the mugs and stirred a spoonful of honey into each.
He took the cup she handed him. “Thank ye.” Then he added quietly, “I couldnae sleep.”
Tenderness blossomed in Catriona’s chest for the fearsome, battle-hardened warrior standing before her.
“Me neither,” she admitted. “But I’m surprised by yer choice of beverage. I would have thought ye’d prefer a couple of stiff drams tae help ye sleep.”
Malcolm shook his head. “Nay, with things as they are, I need me wits about me.” He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck almost sheepishly. “I ken ye ask fer warm milk when ye cannae sleep,” he confessed. “Thought it might help.”
She gazed up at him in amazement. “Ye noticed that?”
“Aye.” He raised the cup to his lips and blew across the surface of the steaming milk, his dark eyes resting on her as he took a cautious sip.
His brows lifted slightly. “Nae terrible.”
