Page 15 of Return to Wildsyde

Mrs Baillie tutted. “Aye, warm some of that soup, and ye can cut that loaf of yours to go with it. That should keep him going until the main.”

Luella set the pot on the stove. It was a thick lentil soup she had tasted herself and knew to be excellent. She had watched Mrs Baillie make it, with stock from a ham hock with leeks and onion and carrots and neeps—which turned out to be swede—added to the red lentils. She had added the shredded ham last, and Luella was looking forward to her own serving.

“Should I butter the bread?”

“Aye, good and thick mind, don’t scrimp. Ye want to see yer teeth in it when ye take a bite.”

Luella nodded and cut into her first ever loaf of bread. “Oh, would you look at that,” she said, proudly holding up a fluffy white slice for inspection.

Mrs Baillie rolled her eyes. “Very good, lass, and what will ye do if I teach ye to make Dundee cake? Take out a notice in the local paper, aye?”

“Aye, perhaps I will,” Luella said with a smirk, imitating the woman’s accent to perfection.

“Ye are a saucy wench,” Mrs Baillie said, wagging a wooden spoon at her, but there was a smile playing around her lips, so Luella did not take it to heart.

By the time the tray was ready, Morag still wasn’t back from the market.

“Flirting with Robbie MacDonald, ye mark my words,” the irritated housekeeper grumbled. “And him wi nae prospects but a pretty face. The girl is an eejit. I suppose I had best take it myself.”

She set aside the knife she was wielding to chop what looked like half a cow into bite-sized chunks for tomorrow’s dinner.

“I can do it,” Luella said, wondering if she had taken leave of her senses. The idea of voluntarily facing Lord Buchanan again was not one that appealed, but perhaps if he could see she was trying to be useful, he would not hate her so much. Doubtful, but worth a try.

Mrs Baillie gave her a hard look. “Why on earth would ye do that? If yer thinkin’ he’s gonna come around because ye spent the day in the kitchen, ye will be disappointed.”

“I didn’t think any such thing,” Luella lied, well, admittedly it would take more than one day to win his approval. “But I want him to know I shall not be in his debt any more than I must be.”

“Oh, aye?” Mrs Baillie gave her a sceptical look up and down.

“Yes,” Luella said firmly, hefting the tray and carrying it up the stairs to the door. Mrs Baillie watched her go.

“He eats in his study at this time of day, ye know where that is, aye?”

“I do.”

“A word of warning, lass. Dinnae speak to him unless he speaks to ye. Asking questions might get ye more than ye bargained for.”

“Very well. Thank you for the advice,” Luella said, and pushed her way out the door.

She made her way to the room where she had stood before Lord Buchanan the day before, wondering why on earth she was doing this to herself. Had he not told her to stay out of his way?

For a moment, she wondered how she was supposed to knock when she had both hands on the tray. Solving the problem, she kicked the door with her toe and waited.

“Come.”

Well, that was easier said than done. She looked at the doorknob and wondered what to do next. Shifting the tray so it rested along her left arm, she reached to turn the knob. Before she could do so, the door opened, startling her so much she almost dropped the tray. Righting it just in time, she stood straight and met his glare with a bland expression.

“Your soup, my lord.”

“What the devil are ye doing bringing it to me?” he demanded, his eyes flashing with annoyance.

Luella swallowed but determined she would not let him intimidate her. “Well, Mrs Baillie is busy dissecting a cow and Morag isn’t back from the market. I have two hands, so I offered to bring it.”

“Did ye, indeed,” he replied, his expression grim. Watching her as though he thought she might stick a knife in his back if he dared to turn it for a moment, he sat back down at his desk, clearing away his papers to make room for the tray. “Set it down if ye must, then,” he grumbled irritably.

Luella did as he asked, leaning over the desk to do so rather than walk close beside him, which she considered a bad idea. Keeping the desk between them seemed prudent. She could not help glancing at him, though, terribly aware of the sheer size of the man as she stood back, wondering if he would take a bite of the bread before she left.

He reached for his napkin and picked up his spoon.