do.”
“I’m certain they will be delicious,” Hugh said seriously, noting that Sorcha still seemed as tense as she had when he had looked up to find her watching him earlier. Whether it was wariness or her discontent at having him break one of her two simple “ground rules” by having no shirt on, Hugh was uncertain.
Joining her at one of the high stools on the opposite side of the freestanding kitchen worktop she had called an “ island,” Hugh followed Sorcha’s lead, covering the bannock substitutions with butter and syrup, though he usually had his with jam. There were sausage links and more of the orange juice set out as well as coffee. Cutting off a section, Hugh met her solemn amethyst gaze with his as he ate. “Ye dinnae ask why.”
Sorcha shook her head but remained silent.
“Because y e dinnae need tae.” It wasn’t a question so much as a confirmation on his part. For whatever reason, unlike the women he was used to, Sorcha understood a man’s urge to expel his frustration and anger, and had even encouraged it with her silent offering of gloves to protect his knuckles from further injury. He had seen the understanding in her eyes when she had come into the garage, had seen the empathy, and would be willing to wager that she had done the same on more than one occasion – as odd as that might seem. Rarely had he seen a woman driven to violence, at least not the sort that wasn’t dispensed justly or unjustly upon the nearest male. It was yet another thing that made Sorcha so unique.
“No, I didn’t,” was all she said before lowering her eyes to his plate. “How did you know what the punching bag was for?”
“I dinnae ken what it was when we first arrived yesterday, but I saw in yer periodicals an article on boxing,” he explained. “There were portraits of the bag in use.”
Sorcha considered that with a nod and changed the subject. “How are the pancakes?”
Hugh mouthed the foreign word to himself as his gaze returned to his plate as well. “Tasty. Thank ye again for all that ye hae done.” The pair of pancakes were consumed within a few more bites, hardly putting a dent in his hunger, but Sorcha surprised him by bringing over another covered plate, raising the lid to reveal a pile of a half dozen more.
Lifting his eyes back to hers, he found the jeweled tones dancing with laughter even if her expression remained as solemn as ever. “After dinner last night, I anticipated that your appetite might be more akin to an elephant 's, so …”
The words trailed off with a shrug but that bit of humor brought the color back to her cheeks, until Sorcha was once again radiating the life and energy that had seemed barely contained the previous day. Contained until he had subdued that energy with his own idiocy.
Hugh found he didn’t want to see that light die in her eyes again. “Elephant?” he scoffed good-naturedly. “My aunt always likened me tae a small herd of cattle or a wolf, though everyone knows that the last wolf in Scotland was shot by a Mackintosh in Invernesshire nae more than a decade past.” Hugh paused, his humor fading, as did Sorcha’s when they both realized what he had said. A wry smile twisted his lips. “A decade, a few centuries. ’Tis all the same now, is that nae true?”
Sorcha offered a tight, sympathetic smile. “Time is what we make it, Hugh. Some quantum physicist said that kind of tongue in cheek, but more than anyone, I think it applies to you now.” She took her plate to the sink while he continued to eat and rinsed the platter before setting it aside. “I took the opportunity this morning while you were … uh, out exercising to do a little research on the history of Scotland so I could answer your questions better than I did yesterday.”
Raising a brow, Hugh did his best to look interested though his stomach knotted with dread when she hesitated. It wasn’t a good sign. “Go ahead.
“I’m certain they will be delicious,” Hugh said seriously, noting that Sorcha still seemed as tense as she had when he had looked up to find her watching him earlier. Whether it was wariness or her discontent at having him break one of her two simple “ground rules” by having no shirt on, Hugh was uncertain.
Joining her at one of the high stools on the opposite side of the freestanding kitchen worktop she had called an “ island,” Hugh followed Sorcha’s lead, covering the bannock substitutions with butter and syrup, though he usually had his with jam. There were sausage links and more of the orange juice set out as well as coffee. Cutting off a section, Hugh met her solemn amethyst gaze with his as he ate. “Ye dinnae ask why.”
Sorcha shook her head but remained silent.
“Because y e dinnae need tae.” It wasn’t a question so much as a confirmation on his part. For whatever reason, unlike the women he was used to, Sorcha understood a man’s urge to expel his frustration and anger, and had even encouraged it with her silent offering of gloves to protect his knuckles from further injury. He had seen the understanding in her eyes when she had come into the garage, had seen the empathy, and would be willing to wager that she had done the same on more than one occasion – as odd as that might seem. Rarely had he seen a woman driven to violence, at least not the sort that wasn’t dispensed justly or unjustly upon the nearest male. It was yet another thing that made Sorcha so unique.
“No, I didn’t,” was all she said before lowering her eyes to his plate. “How did you know what the punching bag was for?”
“I dinnae ken what it was when we first arrived yesterday, but I saw in yer periodicals an article on boxing,” he explained. “There were portraits of the bag in use.”
Sorcha considered that with a nod and changed the subject. “How are the pancakes?”
Hugh mouthed the foreign word to himself as his gaze returned to his plate as well. “Tasty. Thank ye again for all that ye hae done.” The pair of pancakes were consumed within a few more bites, hardly putting a dent in his hunger, but Sorcha surprised him by bringing over another covered plate, raising the lid to reveal a pile of a half dozen more.
Lifting his eyes back to hers, he found the jeweled tones dancing with laughter even if her expression remained as solemn as ever. “After dinner last night, I anticipated that your appetite might be more akin to an elephant 's, so …”
The words trailed off with a shrug but that bit of humor brought the color back to her cheeks, until Sorcha was once again radiating the life and energy that had seemed barely contained the previous day. Contained until he had subdued that energy with his own idiocy.
Hugh found he didn’t want to see that light die in her eyes again. “Elephant?” he scoffed good-naturedly. “My aunt always likened me tae a small herd of cattle or a wolf, though everyone knows that the last wolf in Scotland was shot by a Mackintosh in Invernesshire nae more than a decade past.” Hugh paused, his humor fading, as did Sorcha’s when they both realized what he had said. A wry smile twisted his lips. “A decade, a few centuries. ’Tis all the same now, is that nae true?”
Sorcha offered a tight, sympathetic smile. “Time is what we make it, Hugh. Some quantum physicist said that kind of tongue in cheek, but more than anyone, I think it applies to you now.” She took her plate to the sink while he continued to eat and rinsed the platter before setting it aside. “I took the opportunity this morning while you were … uh, out exercising to do a little research on the history of Scotland so I could answer your questions better than I did yesterday.”
Raising a brow, Hugh did his best to look interested though his stomach knotted with dread when she hesitated. It wasn’t a good sign. “Go ahead.
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