The Highlander. Heather Grothaus

of peas and carrots and flecks of barley caught in the rich gravy. God in Heaven, it was divine! She closed her eyes, held the soup in her mouth for a long moment, savoring it, before swallowing it.

      “The stew is delicious,” she told him quietly. “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome to it, Eve,” he said solemnly. “’Twas you who provided the meat, saving me from setting out on a hunt straight away. I’m in your debt.”

      Evelyn could not believe she felt a flush creeping over her face at the simple compliment and so she attributed it to the wonderfully warm stew.

      “What say you then, Eve?” MacKerrick asked, stoking the fire with Eve’s pointed stick and no longer looking at her. “Do we stand together?”

      A thought occurred to Evelyn then, one that was oddly disturbing. “Are you married, sir?”

      The highlander paused in his movements for only a blink of time. “I was,” he said mildly. “She’s dead.”

      “Oh.” Evelyn sipped from the bowl again, sucking a chunk of carrot into her mouth and chewing to give her time to cover her out-of-place relief that the large man did not have a wife eagerly awaiting his return. “I’m sorry.”

      The highlander only nodded curtly and did not meet her eyes.

      ’Tis still painful for him, Evelyn thought to herself and the realization of it swayed her just enough. A man in mourning, hunting to feed his villagers. Mayhap he was nobler than Evelyn had once thought him to be.

      “Well, you most certainly cannot sleep in the bed with me again,” she said, a bit loudly for their heretofore quiet conversation.

      The highlander nodded again, his attention still focused on the fire pit. “Agreed.”

      “And no one can be aware of my presence,” Evelyn said suddenly, as earlier worries of a Buchanan happening along sprang into her mind once more. “I’ll…I’ll not have my reputation ruined.”

      “’Tis unlikely we’ll be takin’ company, Eve,” he said with a wry lift of an eyebrow. “But I’ll nae tell anyone, if you so wish it.”

      Evelyn pressed her lips together. “All right, then. Agreed.”

      Then he did look up at her. “I have a condition of my own, if you would.”

      Evelyn swallowed. “Yea?”

      “That you call me Conall. Or MacKerrick, at the very least.” He grinned. “‘Sir this’ and ‘sir that’ has me lookin’ over my shoulder for an English bloke.”

      Evelyn felt a small smile lift the corners of her mouth. “Very well. MacKerrick it is.”

      MacKerrick grinned wider, winked cheekily, and then drank from the mug.

      Evelyn’s heart pounded and she ate her stew.