To Catch a Highlander (8 page)

Since the time of Eve, women've born the brunt of takin' care o' the ill Meanwhile, men have done what they could to be the worst ill folk in the world. Life's simply not fair to the fairer sex.

Old Woman Nora from
Loch Lomond
to her three wee granddaughters one cold evening

More than an hour later, Sophia came down stairs, pausing at the loose third step. She regarded it sullenly, then lifted her skirts to kick it. She pulled back her foot and—

"That won't fix it, you know." MacLean stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed over his broad chest, amusement in his green eyes, his dark blond hair falling over his brow.

She dropped her skirts back over her ankles. "I know, but it might make me feel better." She came the rest of the way down the steps. "Thank you for riding for the doctor."

"It was the least I could do. How is your father?"

"He's asleep now, thanks to the laudanum." She peeped up at MacLean. "I suppose you heard him yelling as the doctor set his leg."

"I never knew there were so many rude words in the English language. Or French, German, Italian, Latin, or… there was another language I didn't quite recognize."

"Greek."

He paused, his eyes dark. "I daresay he is not happy that his daughter is now unchaperoned. A gentleman would bid his adieu."

"You can't leave!"

The words hung in the air. Sophia hid a wince and said again, in a more measured tone, "I'm sorry. I'm distraught over my father."

MacLean gave her a devastatingly sexy half-smile. "You misunderstood me; I said, a
gentleman
would bid his adieu." His voice, low and soft, rolled over her senses like liquid silk. "Fortunately for us both, I am not a gentleman."

"No?" She flicked a finger at the lace on his wrist. "You dress like one."

"I dress like a dandy. Or, as my oldest brother, Alexander, often says, like a 'damned dandy.'"

Her lips quirked. "Your brother sounds a bit harsh."

"You have no idea." He smiled. "As I was saying, dressing fashionably does not make me a gentleman."

"Fine. You are not a gentleman, and I am far from a child," she returned with a lofty wave of her hand. "I don't need my father's presence for protection."

"But perhaps I do."

She had to smile. "You don't need protection from me, Lord MacLean. I don't bite—though if I don't get something to eat soon, I may change my mind."

His eyes sparkled with laughter. "By all means, then, let us eat." He led the way to the dining room, standing aside to allow her to enter.

As she brushed past him, a hot sensation told her that his gaze was lingering on her posterior. She glanced back and found that she was correct. "Lord MacLean!"

He reluctantly lifted his gaze. "Yes?"

"Is something wrong with my gown?"

"No. There's absolutely nothing wrong with your gown. Or what's in it."

She should have been shocked by his impropriety but instead was pleased he'd noticed. "Thank you. I must say…" She allowed her gaze to travel across him. "You fill your clothes well, too."

She'd thought to shake him, but MacLean's green gaze heated, and he took a determined step toward her.

Sophia spun on her heel and whipped around the table, sliding into her seat. "I hear Mary in the hallway, so dinner will be served shortly. The soup course is already on the table." She gestured toward a soup tureen that sat, steam seeping from the lipped edge.

His gaze dark, MacLean nodded and took the chair across from hers.

She watched beneath her lashes as his chair rocked with his weight. MacLean scowled and grabbed the edge of the table. Angus had cut varying lengths from each chair so that some rocked, while others were at a distinct forward slant so that you had to press back to keep from sliding into the floor.

"Is something wrong, MacLean?"

"This chair." He scooted forward and slipped a little. With a scowl, he stood and pushed his chair to one side, selecting another.

"Lord MacLean—"

"Dougal," he said firmly, sitting down in the new chair. This one rocked backward, and he lurched, as if afraid it would topple over completely.

Sophia coughed to cover her amusement. From the dark scowl turned her way, she hadn't succeeded.

"That's it." Dougal shoved back the chair and stood, glancing about the room. "Ah!" He strode forward and picked out a thin book of sermons from a set on a side table. He lifted the back of his chair, placed a book beneath one leg, and sat down. "Much better."

Sophia wished he weren't quite so enterprising. She and Angus had worked for hours to make every chair a uniquely uncomfortable experience.

Dougal peered into the soup tureen. "This looks interesting."

His foot came to rest beside hers beneath the table, his boot pressing along her slipper. Was it intentional or an accident? She moved her foot back.

His followed.

She moved her foot a bit to the right.

Again, his followed, only this time he slowly, with feather-light precision, rubbed the edge of his boot along her foot. To her surprise, her skin prickled with awareness.

He caught her gaze. "Sophia?"

"Yes?" She realized he'd used her given name and stiffened. "I haven't given you leave to address me in that way."

"Since we've established that I'm not a gentleman, I thought we could dispense with all of society's silly rules."

Alarm fluttered through her. "Some of society's rules are necessary." For her peace of mind, if nothing else.

"Surely not the use of your name. That one lone rule can be tossed away. At least, until your father is well enough to join us."

Did that mean MacLean would stay longer than one night? She almost gave a bounce of exultation.
I could bring this to a close in three nights, if he'll give it to me
.

He smiled across the table, a wicked, knowing smile. "Would you care for some soup, Sophia?"

Her gaze dropped to where he held the soup tureen toward her dish, the ladle filled. She forced her mind to focus. "Yes, please."

"Yes, please,
Dougal
," he said, ladling soup into her bowl. "How much soup would you like, Sophia?"

The way he said her name made her think of a crackling fire. One might be drawn to the flame, but that didn't make it scorch any less.

She considered pretending outrage at his use of her given name, but didn't she wish to create more intimacy? Fan his desire so that he'd be at her mercy when she manipulated him into playing cards?

She offered him a fleeting smile. "Very well, Dougal." The name slid over her lips delightfully.

"Sophia suits you. Is that your full name?"

"Sophia Beatrice MacFarlane. Beatrice was my mother's name."

"It's lovely. My full name is Dougal Charles Alistair Donald MacLean." He gave her a rueful smile as he ladled soup into his bowl. "I inherited both of my grandfathers' names, as well as the name of one of my great-uncles."

"How sad." She peered into her bowl, noting with satisfaction the murky color and the globs of congealed fat that floated among half-cooked carrots and huge chunks of onion. The smell was even more unappetizing. "I'm fortunate that I never knew my grandfathers. They died before I was born, and from what I hear, neither of them was very pleasant."

Dougal lifted his spoon and slid it into his mouth. Immediately, a frozen look came over his face.

Sophia tensed.

He removed the spoon from his mouth.

Sophia gripped her own spoon tighter.

A slow red crept up his face, his eyes watering slightly.

Ha! Mary's soup was working its magic. Pleased, Sophia pretended to eat some soup.

Dougal slapped a hand on the table. The dishes and Sophia jumped.

"What's wrong?"

He pointed it to his bowl with his spoon. "
That
."

"The soup? Why, whatever's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. That is the best soup I've ever had."

Sophia blinked. Surely, he hadn't just said—He dipped his spoon back into his bowl and took another large bite. Though his eyes watered and his face turned a deeper red, he continued to eat, murmuring, "Excellent!" every third bite or so.

Sophia looked at her own soup, which was a muddy gray with some oddly shaped vegetables floating here and there. It reeked of garlic and pepper and onion. Mary had added a large amount of salt, as well. But watching MacLean eat with gusto made her question her perceptions.

What if Mary's natural ability to cook had overcome her attempts to provide an inedible meal?

Sophia dipped her spoon into her bowl and gingerly sniffed the contents, grimacing at the strong odor. Casting a puzzled look at MacLean, who was about finished with his soup, she put the spoon into her mouth.

The burning sensation of pepper mingled with the rancid taste of uncooked garlic and what could only have been salted dishwater. She jerked the spoon from her mouth and grabbed her water goblet, pouring it into her mouth to wash down the horrid taste.

Gasping, she glared with watery, accusing eyes at MacLean.

He seemed not to have noticed anything, too busy scraping the bottom of his bowl, as if afraid some succulent tidbit might have escaped him. Finding nothing more, he placed his spoon on the table and sat back, wiping his mouth with his napkin. "That was the best soup I've ever been served. I believe I'll have more."

"More? Are you… are you certain?"

"I'm positive."

Unable to believe her ears, Sophia placed her own spoon on the table and watched as Dougal refilled his bowl. Within moments, he was eating yet more of the soup, making appreciative comments as he went.

Sophia looked at the soup in her own bowl. Maybe the soup on the
top
of the bowl was not as good as the soup from the
bottom
, where all of the more edible layers might be hiding. Her stomach growled, and she wished she'd remembered to eat something earlier. Her father's accident had gotten in the way of that, too.

She picked up her spoon again and dipped it into the bottom of the soup bowl, trolling for a better sample. She lifted the spoon and took a hurried bite. This time, a sweltering fire began to simmer, a slow burn tickling her tongue. It simmered through her nose to her eyes, which watered as if she was standing in smoke. Choking, she gulped the soup down. Now her throat and stomach were also on fire. She dropped the spoon and grabbed at her water goblet, gulping as fast as she could.

As her eyes cleared, she caught Dougal's amused
gaze
. "My dear Sophie, whatever is the matter? You look a bit flushed."

"It went down the wrong way," she croaked.

His lips quirked.

The door opened, and Mary bustled in, followed by Angus. They carried an assortment of platters and plates, which they set on the table unceremoniously. Mary collected the used dishes, pausing when she saw the soup bowls. "Gor," she breathed when she picked up the nearly empty tureen. "Someone done eat the soup!"

"Never!" Angus said, his eyes as wide as saucers.

"All of it," she said, holding the tureen toward Angus.

He peered into it as if expecting to see a hole in the bottom. "Well, I'll be."

"It was excellent," Dougal said.

Angus sent Dougal a look of respect. "Ye must have an iron stomach."

"Indeed," Mary said, a worried look on her face. "I beg yer pardon, me lord, but do ye feel well? There was a bit of pepper in that soup."

Dougal shrugged. "I'm fine. And I must get that recipe to give to my own chef."

"Gor!" Mary blinked at him, unable to look away.

Angus did the same.

Dougal smiled inquiringly at Sophia. "I feel as if I've become an exhibit at the
British
Museum
."

Sophia sent Mary a warning glance. "That will be all, Mary."

Mary placed the soup dishes and tureen on a tray, the heavy crockery rattling pleasantly. She turned to regard the large salver in the middle of the table with a doubtful air. "Shall I serve the meat before I leave?"

"No, thank you," Sophia said. "We will serve ourselves."

"I'm quite adept with a carving knife," Dougal said, eyeing the covered platters with evident curiosity.

Mary gave a reluctant curtsey. "Very well, me lord." She turned and followed Angus to the door. "We'll be right outside if ye need us."

"Thank you, Mary."

Angus couldn't seem to tear his gaze from MacLean's soup bowl as he made his way after his wife into the hall. "He ate it all, Mary," he repeated, as if he couldn't believe it. "He ate every drop."

Dougal waited until they'd closed the door behind them before saying in a reflective voice, "They certainly seem concerned about my predilection for soup."

"They are an amusing couple, aren't they? I never know what they'll say next."