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“Er, sorry?”
“I always have a bit of cake with my morning tea.” He whisked a domed lid off a delicious-looking lemon drizzle. “Fancy a slice?”
“Oh, er, sure.” Gingerly, Laurel sat down at the table. It seemed as if they’d be staying for a while.
Looking at the bakery-perfect cake, Laurel realised Archie might be married. He didn’t seem married, and he wore no wedding ring, but he also didn’t seem like a man who whipped up a Mary Berry-esque cake in his spare time.
Within a few minutes, Archie had cleared more of a space on the big pine table, and they all had cups of strong, sweet tea and large slices of cake.
“Thank you, Archie,” Laurel said, grateful and a little bit charmed by his hospitality. “This is very nice.”
“Can’t starve,” Archie answered cheerfully, and took a large bite of his cake.
Laurel followed suit, with a smaller bite. It was delicious—light, lemony, with a sharp tang and then a burst of sweetness.
“This is very good,” she said, and he gave a nod of thanks.
“Lemon drizzle’s always been my specialty.”
“You made it yourself?” Laurel couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.
“Aye. Didn’t think I did, did you?” he added shrewdly. “I like my cakes and biscuits, so it was either learn to bake or go without.”
So not married, then, Laurel supposed, not that it mattered. “You’ve lived on the island your whole life?”
He let out a bark of laughter. “Can’t you tell?”
Laurel gave a laugh of acknowledgement. “Yes, I suppose I can.”
“Couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else,” he said. “Never even thought about it.”
“No,” Laurel agreed. She couldn’t imagine him anywhere else, either.
“Your family’s from here as well, though,” he pointed out through a mouthful of cake. He swallowed and nodded towards Laurel. “Your mum grew up in Kirkwall, as I recall.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Funny how Orkney made her think of Eilidh more than her mum. Her mum was home in Scarborough, humming in the kitchen, snuggling on the sofa, memories so faint Laurel could barely recall them, and when she did, they hurt. So she ended up trying not to remember them, which also hurt, in it’s own way.
“So you’re an Orkney lass, whether you feel like it or not.”
Laurel raised her eyebrows. “Even though I’ve never lived here?”
Archie shrugged. “We remember our own.”
Which made Laurel feel as if she were part of something bigger than herself, which was rather a nice thought, even if she wasn’t sure she could believe it. She hadn’t been back to Orkney in nearly thirty years.
“Right.” Archie put down his mug and slapped the table with both hands. “Time to get on, I suppose.”
“Already?” Filled with tea and cake, Laurel was feeling rather sleepily content. Archie’s kitchen was warm and welcoming, a far cry from the dingy cold of Eilidh’s cottage. She didn’t feel like moving, much less walking twenty minutes or more through muddy fields.
“Yes, already,” he answered with a laugh. “I’ve got sheep to care for, and a barn to muck out.”
“Oh, right.” Laurel flushed at her own thoughtlessness. “I’m sorry we’re taking up your time…” She wondered if she should offer to pay him for something, but she was a bit scared to. She had a feeling Archie would bristle and refuse, and she didn’t want to experience a dressing down in full Scottish brogue. “What’s a skellum, by the way?” she asked.
“A skellum?” His slightly shaggy eyebrows rose. “A scoundrel.”
“And what’s…choring?”
“Stealing. Why are you asking, if I may know?”
