Page 16 of My Highland Love

“I promised Michael dinner.”

“Elise,” Erin put in, “my father will understand.”

She kept her gaze on Marcus. “You may leave. I will find my way home.”

His heart beat wildly at the open defiance expressed with such aplomb. He stepped forward and Erin moved to intervene.

“Laird.” The young man's voice hit like ice water and Marcus looked at him. “She doesn't know our ways,” Erin said.

Marcus relaxed and shifted his gaze to her. “If it pleases her to stay, we shall. But only for dinner.”

She gave a snort, then strode past them and out the door.

As the evening wore on, Marcus watched Elise entice them into becoming willing participants in the preparation of the meal.

“You three will not sit idle while I do all the work,” she said.

“Lass,” Michael protested, “what would poor men such as ourselves know of preparing food?”

“Enough, I'm sure.” She thrust the handle of a knife into his hand.

An instant later, she'd replaced the copy of the Sunday Times sitting on the table beside him with an onion. Michael looked at her as if she were mad but, in the end, peeled and sliced the onion, his lip twitching with barely suppressed amusement.

“Erin.” Elise placed a bowl of flour, sugar, and cream of tartar in his hands. “You stir the biscuits. Marcus,” she said, surprising him, “see to the grouse on the fire.”

Marcus obeyed, but turned a moment later when she cried, “Erin!” and saw Erin had spilled flour from the bowl onto the table.

Erin looked to his father.

“Do not look at me, lad. 'Tis not my fault you can't stir flour without dumping it all over yourself.”

Elise grasped Erin's hand, trying to show him how to gentle his touch. Marcus jolted at seeing her slender fingers covering the young man's large hand. Damn it, surely the boy posed no threat? Marcus knew he'd lost his mind. Bloody hell, he was jealous.

“Ohh,” she said in frustration as more flour went over the side of the bowl.

Marcus laughed at the sheepish look on Erin's face. She snatched up the bowl and Michael joined in when she muttered incoherently and strode to the stove to finish the biscuits.

“So, tell me, Marcus,” Michael said through his laughter. “How was London?”

“The same as always.”

“And Kiernan?”

At the mention of his son's name, Marcus recalled his surprise at how much the boy had grown in the last year. At only eighteen, he towered over most Englishmen. Referred to as the dark giant, he deserved the nickname. Still, Marcus never ceased to marvel at the fact that one noticed his mother's raven hair and blue eyes when he entered a room. Unbidden, his father's words echoed in Marcus's mind, “Do you not wonder if the sacrifice is worth your son?”

“Is it worth it?” he said under his breath.

“What's that you say?” Michael asked.

Marcus focused on him. “The lad is doing as well as can be expected, considering.”

“Considering?” Elise asked.

“Aye,” he said, glad his father wasn't present to hear his response. “Considering he lives among the Sassenach.”

At meal's end, Marcus insisted they go. Elise's expression darkened and she looked as if she might protest, but he caught her glance in the direction of father and son and relaxed when he saw she had chosen discretion over pride. Anticipation surged through him, despite the knowledge she considered him the lesser of the evils.

They stood at the door. Elise rose on tiptoes and planted a kiss on Michael's cheek. “Stay off your wounded leg.”