Read Online To Catch a Highlander by Karen Hawkins - Free Book Online
Authors: Karen Hawkins
Ads: Link
fast as she could.
As her eyes cleared, she caught Dougal's amused
gaze
. "My dear Sophie, whatever is the matter? You look a bit flushed."
"It went down the wrong way," she croaked.
His lips quirked.
The door opened, and Mary bustled in, followed by Angus. They carried an assortment of platters and plates, which they set on the table unceremoniously. Mary collected the used dishes, pausing when she saw the soup bowls. "Gor," she breathed when she picked up the nearly empty tureen. "Someone done eat the soup!"
"Never!" Angus said, his eyes as wide as saucers.
"All of it," she said, holding the tureen toward Angus.
He peered into it as if expecting to see a hole in the bottom. "Well, I'll be."
"It was excellent," Dougal said.
Angus sent Dougal a look of respect. "Ye must have an iron stomach."
"Indeed," Mary said, a worried look on her face. "I beg yer pardon, me lord, but do ye feel well? There was a bit of pepper in that soup."
Dougal shrugged. "I'm fine. And I must get that recipe to give to my own chef."
"Gor!" Mary blinked at him, unable to look away.
Angus did the same.
Dougal smiled inquiringly at Sophia. "I feel as if I've become an exhibit at the
British
Museum
."
Sophia sent Mary a warning glance. "That will be all, Mary."
Mary placed the soup dishes and tureen on a tray, the heavy crockery rattling pleasantly. She turned to regard the large salver in the middle of the table with a doubtful air. "Shall I serve the meat before I leave?"
"No, thank you," Sophia said. "We will serve ourselves."
"I'm quite adept with a carving knife," Dougal said, eyeing the covered platters with evident curiosity.
Mary gave a reluctant curtsey. "Very well, me lord." She turned and followed Angus to the door. "We'll be right outside if ye need us."
"Thank you, Mary."
Angus couldn't seem to tear his gaze from MacLean's soup bowl as he made his way after his wife into the hall. "He ate it all, Mary," he repeated, as if he couldn't believe it. "He ate every drop."
Dougal waited until they'd closed the door behind them before saying in a reflective voice, "They certainly seem concerned about my predilection for soup."
"They are an amusing couple, aren't they? I never know what they'll say next."
"Indeed." Dougal turned his attention to the salvers on the table and lifted the cover from the first one.
On the platter sat the roast, half of it black, the other half bloody. A wilted spring of parsley sat beside it, as if Mary couldn't quite allow the roast to leave her kitchen without trying to disguise it.
Silence hung over the table.
Dougal set the cover to one side and removed the covers from the other dishes: a bowl of something green that sat in an oily liquid; a thick slab of pork in the middle of a large, chipped platter; some turnips floating unappetizingly in water; and a basket of undercooked bread.
Sophia thought the turnips were a nice touch.
No
one liked turnips.
Dougal picked up the carving knife. "Well, my dear?" he asked pleasantly, an amused glint in his eyes. "How do you like your meat? Raw? Or burned to a charred mess?"
Sophia sighed. "The kitchen is in such poor condition that it's almost impossible to make a good meal. I don't know how Mary manages as well as she does." Sophia picked up the closest dish and held it out to Dougal. "Turnips?"
"Of course, I'll have some." He took the dish from her hands. "As will you."
"Oh, I don't think—"
A large spoonful of turnips plopped onto her plate.
She started to protest, but Dougal put even more onto his own plate.
To make matters worse, he added in a deep voice that made her shiver, "I love turnips."
It was indecent that the man could make a sentence as abhorrent as "I love turnips" sound like an improper proposition.
But Dougal MacLean managed it.
"It's a pity about the kitchen," Dougal said. "I'll have to look at it. Do you think you might give me a tour of the house in the morning?"
Her heart lifted immediately. "Of course. We can do it
As her eyes cleared, she caught Dougal's amused
gaze
. "My dear Sophie, whatever is the matter? You look a bit flushed."
"It went down the wrong way," she croaked.
His lips quirked.
The door opened, and Mary bustled in, followed by Angus. They carried an assortment of platters and plates, which they set on the table unceremoniously. Mary collected the used dishes, pausing when she saw the soup bowls. "Gor," she breathed when she picked up the nearly empty tureen. "Someone done eat the soup!"
"Never!" Angus said, his eyes as wide as saucers.
"All of it," she said, holding the tureen toward Angus.
He peered into it as if expecting to see a hole in the bottom. "Well, I'll be."
"It was excellent," Dougal said.
Angus sent Dougal a look of respect. "Ye must have an iron stomach."
"Indeed," Mary said, a worried look on her face. "I beg yer pardon, me lord, but do ye feel well? There was a bit of pepper in that soup."
Dougal shrugged. "I'm fine. And I must get that recipe to give to my own chef."
"Gor!" Mary blinked at him, unable to look away.
Angus did the same.
Dougal smiled inquiringly at Sophia. "I feel as if I've become an exhibit at the
British
Museum
."
Sophia sent Mary a warning glance. "That will be all, Mary."
Mary placed the soup dishes and tureen on a tray, the heavy crockery rattling pleasantly. She turned to regard the large salver in the middle of the table with a doubtful air. "Shall I serve the meat before I leave?"
"No, thank you," Sophia said. "We will serve ourselves."
"I'm quite adept with a carving knife," Dougal said, eyeing the covered platters with evident curiosity.
Mary gave a reluctant curtsey. "Very well, me lord." She turned and followed Angus to the door. "We'll be right outside if ye need us."
"Thank you, Mary."
Angus couldn't seem to tear his gaze from MacLean's soup bowl as he made his way after his wife into the hall. "He ate it all, Mary," he repeated, as if he couldn't believe it. "He ate every drop."
Dougal waited until they'd closed the door behind them before saying in a reflective voice, "They certainly seem concerned about my predilection for soup."
"They are an amusing couple, aren't they? I never know what they'll say next."
"Indeed." Dougal turned his attention to the salvers on the table and lifted the cover from the first one.
On the platter sat the roast, half of it black, the other half bloody. A wilted spring of parsley sat beside it, as if Mary couldn't quite allow the roast to leave her kitchen without trying to disguise it.
Silence hung over the table.
Dougal set the cover to one side and removed the covers from the other dishes: a bowl of something green that sat in an oily liquid; a thick slab of pork in the middle of a large, chipped platter; some turnips floating unappetizingly in water; and a basket of undercooked bread.
Sophia thought the turnips were a nice touch.
No
one liked turnips.
Dougal picked up the carving knife. "Well, my dear?" he asked pleasantly, an amused glint in his eyes. "How do you like your meat? Raw? Or burned to a charred mess?"
Sophia sighed. "The kitchen is in such poor condition that it's almost impossible to make a good meal. I don't know how Mary manages as well as she does." Sophia picked up the closest dish and held it out to Dougal. "Turnips?"
"Of course, I'll have some." He took the dish from her hands. "As will you."
"Oh, I don't think—"
A large spoonful of turnips plopped onto her plate.
She started to protest, but Dougal put even more onto his own plate.
To make matters worse, he added in a deep voice that made her shiver, "I love turnips."
It was indecent that the man could make a sentence as abhorrent as "I love turnips" sound like an improper proposition.
But Dougal MacLean managed it.
"It's a pity about the kitchen," Dougal said. "I'll have to look at it. Do you think you might give me a tour of the house in the morning?"
Her heart lifted immediately. "Of course. We can do it
Similar Books
