Page 45 of The Dragon Laird’s Obsession

She remembered being young enough to be this carefree herself. Young Ailis had been bold enough to gather fallen petals and tuck them into books. She had been bold enough to dream of distant roads and castles with towers reaching the clouds.

She had once believed the world was waiting for her.

Perhaps Lileas deserved to believe it too.

“Ye ken,” Ailis said, lowering her voice, “the best thing about paintin’ is that nay one tells ye what the picture must become.”

Lileas looked at her. “Why?”

“Because it belongs to ye.”

The child considered that then she smiled, and Ailis smiled back.

“Me paintin’ shall be anythin’ I want it to be,” Lileas chanted as Ailis grinned at her again.

And that was when she felt a pair of eyes on her.

Ailis’ fingers paused around the brush. She didn’t need to look back to know it was Gordon. The familiar tingle skimming through her, rousing the delicious melting heat in her core she had spent the past few days fighting, was enough. She finally turned to the kitchen’s doorway and saw Gordon standing several yards away. He did not take his eyes off her, and it was almost like he wanted her to know he watched.

Her pulse tripped for a second then skittered around.

What is he thinkin’? I daenae care…

But she did not look away either, and that only worsened the bloom of heat she felt creeping through her.

Gordon had meant to pass through the kitchens without stopping that evening.

He was on his way to the storage rooms when the heat struck him first. Then came the noise and the blend of laughter, familiar and intent on making his heart flutter.

The kitchens were alive at this hour, louder than the great hall and twice as warm. Pots clattered against iron hooks. Knives struck wooden boards in a steady rhythm. Someone shouted for more onions. Another shouted that the onions had already been sent.

A pot hissed over the fire as steam curled beneath the low beams, carrying the rich scents of broth, herbs, baked bread, and roasting meat.

Gordon paused at the entrance. He should have kept walking. Instead, he stood there and watched Ailis, like there was nothing else he could do with his time.

He found her near the long preparation table, sleeves rolled above her wrists, a knife in hand and flour dusted across one cheek. Her hair was loosely pinned, several curls escaping around her face. She looked entirely at ease among the women, as though she had been born among steaming pots and chopping boards rather than raised in a noble household.

Mairi, the cook, stood opposite her with a wooden spoon held like a weapon.

“Ye cut like a lady!” Mairi shouted over the din.

Ailis looked down at the vegetables before her then she glanced up with a grin. “Then teach me otherwise.”

“Like this!” Mairi snatched the knife from Ailis and demonstrated a swift, neat cut.

Ailis watched closely. “Aye.”

She took the knife back and tried again.

Mairi shook her head. “Slower, Ma’am.”

Ailis frowned. “Ye did it faster.”

“Yes, but ye arenae as skilled. Ye will cut yerself.”

“Oh,” Ailis gasped, her cheeks flushing with another smile that made Gordon scoff, his own lips splitting into a small smile before he realized it.

What are ye doin’?