Page 31 of To Winter at Wildsyde

Mrs MacLeod looked over her shoulder, her expression one of consternation. “Aye, well, ’tis true that the kitchen could suffer a bit of… of change, I suppose,” she said grudgingly.

“Honestly, Mrs MacLeod, I don’t know how you produce as fine a table as you do,” Ruth said, shaking her head in awe and wondering if perhaps she was laying it on a bit thick. Mrs Crust’s lips twitched, but she remained silent. “I tell you now, if this kitchen was presented to our fine London cook, she’d retire to her room in hysterics and not come out again.”

Mrs MacLeod snorted in disgust. “I’ve nae time for such tantrums.”

“Oh, I know you would never desert your post, nor fail to put food on the table. Despite our differences, I’ve always known you could be relied upon to feed us.” Ruth smiled at her, deciding the morning they’d purposely not brought her breakfast was best forgotten.

Mrs Crust choked on her tea and set the cup down in its saucer with a rattle. Ruth couldn’t look at her.

“I suppose ye are wantin’ some fancy fare to be served at Christmas?”

“Oh,” Ruth said, as if this idea had not occurred to her. “Well, I must admit I’ve always adored Christmas. At home we had….”

She trailed off abruptly and bit her lip.

Mrs MacLeod narrowed her eyes at her, then at Mrs Crust, and gave a sigh of resignation. She drew out a chair and sat down, jerking her head at the recipe book.

“What did ye have in mind?” she demanded.

Ruth beamed at her, sensing victory. “Well,” she began and dived headfirst into all the splendid ideas she’d been bursting to share all week.

***

Gordy washed and changed, his movements stiff and mechanical. He discovered on the way that he’d gained quite an array of new shirts and small clothes—amongst other things—and that his valet had ordered a good many items he felt the laird needed, on the say-so of Mrs Anderson. Too weary to protest that he had no need of new shirts, despite evidence to the contrary, Gordy just put on whatever was laid out for him and dismissed Jenkins. He drew the line at allowing some wet behind the ears lad to help him dress, as if he was a bairn. The fellow gave a good shave though, he had to admit, and the fine linen of the shirt was soft and comfortable, and smelled good too.

Once he was ready, he made his way down the stairs for dinner. He’d worked himself hard all week, too hard, and now he felt worn to a thread and despondent. Ruth had avoided him, which he told himself was for the best, though if he was to be rid of her he needed to bed the woman or there would never be an heir and he’d be stuck with her. He’d taken himself to her bedroom door several times during the week, only to turn back, the memories of her devastated tears all too fresh in his mind. How could he use her so, with no care or tenderness after treating her so ill? He was plagued with dreams of her body beneath him at night, and thoughts of her hands on him disturbed him during the day too, making his blood burn with desire. Yet he was leery of going near her for fear he’d not be as cold and remote as he ought. It would not help either of them if he treated her too gently, if it seemed like he cared, yet he was not bastard enough to pretend complete indifference when he took her to bed.

Frustrated and dejected, he was not prepared to find her awaiting him in the dining room. They’d never yet shared a meal together. During the journey north he’d purposely avoided her and, since they’d arrived at Wildsyde, he’d given her no invitation to join him and she’d not pressed the matter.

To find her dressed for dinner and waiting for him was therefore enough to put him on his guard. His instincts told him to give her a curt nod and then ignore her, but his body was not paying attention, riveted on the vision before him. The gown was a deep blue velvet, the low neckline trimmed with a delicate line of fine white lace and, once again, she wore his tartan, this time a narrow band that cinched in just below her breasts, the loose ends trailing down into the folds of her skirts. Something hot and possessive rose inside him and he battered it back down again, unable to do anything but give her a wary glance.

“Good evening, Gordy,” she said, her voice soft. “I hope you do not mind me joining you, but Mrs MacLeod has something special planned for this evening and I wanted to show her how much I appreciated her efforts.” She smiled a little, but her expression faltered as he continued to watch her without comment. “If you prefer me to eat elsewhere, you need only say so.”

The words were polite, but he saw the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the way she prepared herself for his rejection.

“Ye may stay if it pleases ye,” he said, aware that was brusque and begrudging, and reminding himself that was how he was supposed to be with difficulty, regretting the way he left her standing alone and uncertain. He sat down without another word. What did he care if she felt awkward pulling out her own chair?

A footman appeared at that moment and did it for her. Ruth thanked the man with a warm smile and Gordy felt a burst of irritation. Well, why should he fuss about her? It wasn’t as if he was pretending to be a gentleman. He’d never pretended before, and he wasn’t about to start now… and he sounded like a whiny child.

He grimaced as the snooty English butler appeared and poured the wine, overseeing the table as the footman arranged the first course. Gordy usually had a bowl of soup and bread, and then some manner of stew, and he glowered at the variety of dishes laid out for him now.

“What’s all this?” he growled, glaring at the table as if someone had served him a mud pie.

His wife hesitated and he could sense her anxiety, but she put up her chin and identified each dish for him. “There is roast chicken stuffed with apricots, almond pudding, frincandeau of veal, and those are soles, fried and broiled.”

Gordy glowered at her. “What’s a fricandeau when it’s at home?”

“I-It means a slice, from the leg. Mrs MacLeod has made a marvellous mushroom sauce to go with it. Here…” she said, gesturing for the footman to serve her husband.

Gordy watched in glowering silence as the footman filled his plate with a selection from the dishes before them under his wife’s instruction. The plate was set before him and he felt certain Ruth was holding her breath as he frowned down at it. Belligerence and irritation urged him to tell her that he didn’t need all this fancy nonsense and that some soup and a good bowl of stew was quite good enough, thank you… and then the fragrant scent of meat and herbs and a rich sauce, glossy with wine and butter, enveloped him. Despite his best intentions, he picked up his knife and fork and stabbed a tender slice of the veal in sauce, sliced it in half with a swift, angry motion, and stuffed it in his mouth.

He didn’t moan aloud, but it was a close-run thing. The meat was tender and succulent, and the sauce was the most delicious thing he’d tasted since… well, if he was honest, since the night he’d dined at Ruth’s home. He’d been too on edge to enjoy the food, but he’d not deny it had been better than anything he’d ever tasted before. Until now.

Aware that Ruth was darting surreptitious glances at him from under her lashes, he schooled his expression into something that would tell her nothing and cleared his plate. Though it was tempting to leave half of it—just to be bloody-minded—he was damned hungry, and it was too delicious. He only just stopped himself demanding a second helping as it was. Besides, if Mrs MacLeod was capable of such feats of culinary brilliance, she could keep feeding him the same way once Ruth had gone back to England. He may as well encourage the woman.

The table was cleared, and the next course came in.

“Are we expecting company?” he demanded, astonished by another display.