“Good lad,” Lachlan said approvingly. He glanced toward Mairead, then sent Oliver a pointed look.
Oliver nodded, once. He understood exactly what Lord Lachlan was instructing him to do which he felt confident gave him permission to ignore James MacLeod’sDon’t Arse-up the Fabric of Timelecture. He would keep Mairead MacLeod safe until that ruddy nutter had gone off to make trouble somewhere else.
And then, if he had any sense at all, he would go back to his own time and get on with his life.
He watched Lachlan make himself more comfortable against the stone of the hearth and assumed the man wouldn’t fall into the fire before he woke himself up, then turned to see how the rest of the kitchen inhabitants were faring.
Mairead had sat down against the wall with his sword on the floor next to her. He considered, then supposed no one would string him up for making himself a spot on the floor next to his sword. He surrendered his stool to a kitchen lad who turned out to be Tasgall’s son Ambrose, had a quick smile as his reward, then realized his plans were about to be thrown into disarray. Fortunately for him, he had longer legs than a litter of children and managed to get himself to the spot on the floor next to Mairead before they beat him to it. He took back his sword from its temporary keeper, laid it on his right well within reach, and prepared himself for a reasonably comfortable evening in a warm place.
He found himself, somewhat surprisingly, being used as a resting place for small elbows and chilly feet. He took a quick count and came up with five children that likely belonged to Tasgall, plus Ambrose who came to sit on Mairead’s other side. He looked down into a wee lassie’s face and wondered if he’d misjudged where his peril might come from.
“I’m Fiona,” she said, looking at him with a frown.
“I’m Oliver,” he managed.
“I’m cold.”
The best he could do was a bit of his plaid wrapped around her. He looked at Mairead to find that she had similarly wrapped up a pair of little lads who looked perfectly at home in her arms. He supposed that if the wee ones were comfortable, there was no reason not to make certain that the adults weren’t suffering overmuch from chilly hands or feet. He didn’t imagine he coulddo anything for Mairead’s toes, but he rested his hand on the floor and very suavely inched his fingers over until he could tug on her skirt.
She looked at him in surprise, then she blushed.
He couldn’t help himself. He smiled.
“Ye wee fiend,” she whispered with a scowl.
“I’m being gallant by offering to warm your hand.”
“Well, if that’s the case,” she said, shifting a small pair of legs and carefully putting her fingers onto his palm.
He took what he could get and wrapped his hand around hers, then leaned his head back against the wall.
“Tell me something about your book,” he murmured in French.
“’The Duke and the Kitchen Maid?’”
He nodded.
“Well, she is a very saucy kitchen maid.”
“I would only be surprised by anything else.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he said honestly. “You have a very saucy-looking knife stuck into your belt.”
She smiled, then sighed deeply. “I think the kitchen lass was far better at using the weapons at her disposal than I am.” She paused. “We had a minstrel pass through a few years ago. He performed French songs for us, though I can’t say I cared overmuch for the ridiculous amounts of romance in them.”
He listened to her veer off into a different fictional direction and suspected she was coming to conclusions she might not like. Unfortunately, they were likely ones she needed to consider.
“I did remind myself, whilst I was listening to him, that there are those who write tales down for others to enjoy.”
He nodded carefully. “Possibly.”
“It led me to wonder if perhaps my book—the half I have, of course—might not be the duke’s proper doings but instead perhaps that same sort of thing.”
“I think that’s possible,” he agreed.
She looked at him closely. “Do you believe this scribe, this Constance Buchanan, invented her tales?”
