Lady of Light (7 page)

The next half hour passed in far more fruitful investigation. By midafternoon, Claire and Evan walked from the rectory library with a list of several potential MacKay relatives. Father MacLaren, finished with the young couple by then, met them in the hallway a short distance from his office.

Evan, a triumphant smile on his face, waved the sheet of paper before him. “We’ve found eleven people who might be relatives of mine. Can you help in narrowing the list down a bit?”

The old priest nodded. “Aye, mayhap I can. Why dinna ye join me in my office? Mrs. Fraser was just about to serve tea, and she always prepares far more than any one man could hope to eat.”

“Sounds like a fine plan to me, Padre.” Evan turned to Claire. “Is that all right with you?”

“Aye.” She smiled. “We can’t tarry overlong, though. I need to purchase fresh fruit and vegetables for supper, not to mention bake bread before the day is out. You’ll dine again with us, will you not?”

“If you’ll have me again, I’d be honored.”

“Well, I can’t see any other way for you to eat,” Claire said as she followed Father MacLaren into his office. “It isn’t as if you have aught to cook with, nor any food to cook.”

The priest cut her a sly look over his shoulder. “Mayhap Evan would prefer to pay ye for yer meals, and save himself the added expense of buying a cook pot and such that he willna wish to take home to Colorado at any rate. Had either of ye thought of that?”

Claire sat in the small chair she had pulled up before Father MacLaren’s desk. “That’s a consideration, to be sure.” She glanced up at Evan. “Would that be agreeable to you?”

“I’ve no complaint with your meals.” He paused, then grinned. “That is, if you have no complaint with occasionally cooking any meat I might be able to buy or hunt down.”

“Och, to be sure you’d never hear a complaint from me, and most certainly not from Ian, about any meat you’d bring to our cook pot.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.” Evan turned back to the priest, who had finished settling himself behind his desk, and slid the sheet of paper containing the fruits of their hours of research toward him. “Here, Padre. Are there any folk on the list still living around these parts? Some or all might well be my kin.”

As Father MacLaren studied the list, Mrs. Fraser bustled in, a loaded tray in her hands. Evan immediately jumped up to help the elderly woman, taking the tray and carrying it to the little table sitting ready beside the priest’s desk.

Stacked around a white, porcelain teapot painted with bright purple thistles were four teacups and saucers, four plates and silverware, and four cloth napkins. A large plate was filled with scones, and sugarcoated shortbreads shaped into thin, triangular “petticoat tails.” A plate of cream-filled buns, which Claire soon informed Evan were actually called cream cookies, appropriated the remainder of the tray. Accompanying the fare were small, cut-glass bowls of honey, butter, raspberry jam, and orange marmalade.

“Looks like a fine feast, ma’am,” Evan observed as he graced the rotund, white-haired woman with his most appreciative smile.

Mrs. Fraser blushed prettily. “’Tis hardly aught to crow about. If I’d known earlier Father would be having guests, I’d have really given ye a taste o’ my culinary skills. But as ’tis,”—she made a dismissing wave over the tray of luscious bakery goods—“I canna claim to any great pride this day. Ye must return another time, when I can serve ye a tea worthy o’ guests.”

Father MacLaren chuckled. “Och, aye, that ye must. Just be certain, though, ye havena eaten all day and mayhap the day ’afore, too, or ye willna do such a fine tea justice.”

Once more, Evan smiled his most charming smile. “I’d be right honored, ma’am.” He pulled up a chair and indicated that Mrs. Fraser should sit. “But for now, why don’t you rest up a bit while I serve you?”

The older woman sent the priest an uncertain look.

“Aye, sit, Mrs. Fraser,” Father MacLaren urged. “If Evan wishes to wait on ye, then ’tis best ye enjoy it to yer heart’s content. Claire and I can see to ourselves.”

With one final, half-hearted protest, the elderly housekeeper did just that, basking in the attention Evan proceeded to lavish upon her.

Claire couldn’t believe her eyes. Never in her wildest flights of fantasy could she have imagined a cowboy capable of such fine manners or knowledgeable of the proper way to serve tea. But then, when it came to a certain American, she was learning quickly not to limit her expectations.

By the time tea was finished and Mrs. Fraser had whisked away a far lighter tray, Father MacLaren had narrowed their painstakingly researched list to just two people still living in the area. “Old Donall and his wife Lainie MacKay are yer best bets. They’re well into their eighties, yet their minds remain as sharp and clear as a Highland burn running fresh from the mountains. They’re also the kindest, wisest folk ye’d ever hope to meet.”

Claire cocked her head. “They don’t live in Culdee, though, do they? I would know of them.”

“Nay, they dinna,” the priest agreed, leaning back with a satiated smile. “They live out near the glen between Ben Loyal and Loch Naver. On foot, ’twould take ye a good hour’s walk.”

She turned to Evan. “It’s best, then, we plan to visit them on the morrow.”

“We?” The tall American arched a brow. “I don’t expect you to come, Claire. You’ve already sacrificed enough of your time on my behalf.”

“And do you seriously think you can find your way out to the glen all by yourself?” She gave a laugh. “I think not. Besides, Father bade me take a day or two to help you, and this is but the first full day. However you look at it, I owe you yet one more day before my obligation is fulfilled.”

“Well, since you put it that way, I reckon I’d be a fool to refuse.”

The wry twist of Evan’s lips belied his mild response, and Claire immediately felt ashamed. She hadn’t meant to convey the impression that the rendering of her assistance had been a burden. That would’ve been inhospitable. And it also would’ve been far from the truth.

But honesty and common sense weren’t always agreeable bedfellows, especially when it came to a certain cowboy. So Claire chose to ignore the message inherent in his words, and respond only to his statement.

“Aye, you would be a fool to refuse my offer of escort,” she retorted briskly, “and since it’s apparent you’re not a fool, the matter’s settled.” Claire rose and brushed a few lingering crumbs from her skirt. “I’ll be happy to be of assistance.”

She smiled then at Father MacLaren. “Thank you for your aid in finding some of Evan’s kin. And thank you, as well, for the fine tea.”

“Och, dinna fash yerself, lass.” He gave a merry laugh. “’Twas my pleasure, and no mistake. My pleasure,” he added with a twinkle in his eyes as his glance swung to Evan’s, “in more ways than one.”

By this time of day, Claire noted wryly as she scanned the few remaining turnips, potatoes, and onions, the vegetable stands were always sparse pickings. There was no making up for it, though, after all the time they had spent at St. Columba’s. The sparse pickings would just have to do for this eve’s meal.

“Could you perhaps fit some poultry into your cooking plans tonight?” Evan asked from beside her. “I see a few still available over there in that butcher’s window.”

Her glance lifted in the direction of his hand. Sure enough two plump, pale pink chicken carcasses hung in Robbie Stewart’s butcher shop window. She nodded, her mood brightening. “Aye, it would be a most welcome addition to the meal. We could have stoved chicken with potatoes tonight, then use the rest on the morrow for another meal.”

“Stoved chicken?” Evan asked with an arch of a dark brow.

“It isn’t as dreadful a concoction as you might think,” Claire said with a laugh, noting the wary look in his eye. “It’s but a layer of seasoned potatoes and onions in a cook pot, then some chicken joints, then another layer of seasoned potatoes and onions, then the rest of the joints and some water. I cook it all up in a pot over the fire. It’s verra tasty.”

Relief slowly brightened his eyes. “Sounds like it. I’ll get the chicken then, while you buy the potatoes and onions.”

“That’s a fine plan,” Claire agreed before turning back to the vegetable stand.

Five minutes later, her purchases wrapped snugly in brown paper, she wandered over to another stand containing fresh herbs. Her stash of rosemary and sage was running low, she mused, and it would be best to replenish it.

A hand settled on her arm. “So, lass, have ye been purposely avoiding me o’ late?” a deep voice demanded. “I havena seen ye the past two days, though I looked for ye daily at the kirk.”

At the sound of Dougal MacKay’s thick burr, Claire winced in dismay. The burly farmer’s timing couldn’t have been worse. For the past few months, he had made it known about Culdee that Claire was his—even though she had yet to give her consent or ever would, for that matter. With the help of his tavern-drinking cronies, however, Dougal had managed by either verbal or physical intimidation to eliminate further potential suitors for her hand. He wouldn’t be pleased now to see her with Evan, who was bound to appear at any minute.

“I’ve been busy helping a kinsman of Donall and Lainie MacKay,” she replied, gracing him with one of her sweetest smiles. Though they had yet to unequivocally confirm that Evan and the old couple were truly related, the odds were in their favor, which didn’t really make what she had just said an untruth. “Mayhap you’ve heard of him—the American—Evan MacKay?”

“Aye, I’ve heard o’ him,” the reddish-blond-haired man growled. “All the lasses are nigh unto swooning over his braw form and fine looks. But ye’re not a MacKay. How is it ye’re spending so much time with him?”

“He came to the kirk to ask Father MacLaren’s help in finding his kin. I was there, and Father asked me to assist him for a few days.”

“And those few days are over then?”

Claire shrugged out of his grip. “Nearly so.” Tiring at last of the man’s questions, she cocked her head and fixed him with a hard stare. “And what’s it to you, Dougal MacKay, if they aren’t? You aren’t, and never will be, my keeper.”

Once more, Dougal took her by the arm. “I am if I say I am.” His gaze narrowed. “Ye havena gone and gotten any fool ideas, have ye, that ye’d rather set yer cap for the likes o’ him than me?”

“Och, and aren’t you the big fool?” Claire pulled back, attempting to free herself of the farmer’s grip, but in response Dougal only held her tighter. “I’ve told you before I’ve no wish ever to wed. Why would I now be daft enough to set my sights on some stranger, and a foreigner to boot?”

“Who knows?” He pulled her so close the paperwrapped vegetables pressed hard now between them. “Mayhap because ye imagine a better life awaits ye in America, and that ye can run from yer people and responsibilities by doing so? Or mayhap because ye hope yer precious brother would stop his fighting and thieving there, and suddenly become the little angel ye’ve always hoped he’d become.”

Claire gave a disparaging laugh. “Have you been in your cups again, Dougal? You talk as if you’re whiskey besotted.”

“Ye canna run from me or yer people, lass. Ye belong here. I willna allow any man to take ye from me!”

“And I say, let me go and let me be!” Placing a hand on his broad chest, Claire shoved back hard, breaking at last his hold on her arm. “I’m not your wife, and never will be. You’ve no right to tell me what I can and can’t do!”

“I think the lady has a point there, mister.”

As one Claire and Dougal swung to face Evan, who had joined them at last. He, too, now had a wrapped parcel tucked beneath his arm. Standing there, his dark hair windblown, his stance loose, a slight smile quirked one corner of his mouth. It was all a ruse, however, Claire realized. The light glinting in Evan’s smoky blue eyes was hard, and rife with warning.

Dougal paused to look him up and down, then snickered. “So, ye’re the bonny lad all the lasses are talking about. Meeting you at last, I canna say as how I see the reason for all the clash ma claver.”

“They weren’t idle tales, Dougal MacKay!” Claire countered hotly, angered now for Evan’s sake if not for her own. “He’s a real cowboy. He wrestles steers and can hit a rat with his six-shooter half a mile away, and—”

“Whoa, hold on, hold on.” Hand upraised in protest, Evan grinned down at her. “Though I’m flattered you suddenly seem to hold me in such high regard, I doubt Dougal here is interested in any of my particular talents.”

“Hardly,” the big Scotsman muttered.

“Well, in case you mayhap failed to realize it,” Claire said, glaring now at Evan, “he just all but insulted you.”

“Did he?” Evan appeared to consider that statement, then shrugged. “Well, no matter. I’ve been insulted before, and by better men than him. All I care is that we be on our way. Ever since you explained how you make stoved chicken, my mouth’s been watering thinking about our supper.” He stepped up and offered her his arm. “Shall we be heading for home, then?”

Claire hesitated but an instant, then took his arm and stepped out with Evan down the street. He was right in not allowing Dougal to drag him into a shouting match, then a fistfight. Far better to leave the big farmer standing there, still struggling to muddle through the implications of Evan’s words. When he finally did, the impact would be greater than any blow to the face or body could ever be.