Highland Storm by Ranae Rose

from another, or are ye simply loath to share my company?” In truth, she was unfamiliar with the estate house’s large, well-stocked kitchen, but that was beside the point. She knew how to cook, and that was what mattered.
    Mrs Mary donned a sober expression and slowly lowered Isla’s foot to the floor, taking her hand instead. “Isla, dear,” she whispered, “Alex told me how your poor mother died when ye were young, leavin’ ye to be raised by just your father. I would never humiliate ye by asking ye to cook when ye’ve never had anyone to teach ye how.”
    Isla stared into Mrs Mary’s sympathetic eyes, dumbfounded as the woman patted her hand in what was obviously intended as a comforting gesture.
    “Alex loves ye, I can tell. Ye dinnae need to turn to the kitchen to impress him—there are other ways to keep a man’s affection, as I’m sure ye’ve found by now. Why, a beauty like yourself…nae, ye dinnae need to cook a thing.”
    Searing heat crept into Isla’s face, and she realised that she’d been listening with an open mouth. She clamped it firmly shut as shock began to give way to relief. “Ye think I dinnae know how to cook?” She suppressed laughter for the sake of Mrs Mary’s feelings.
    Mrs Mary patted Isla’s hand again, obviously mistaking Isla’s strangled giggles for confirmation. “It isnae your fault, and dinnae fash yourself—I shallnae breathe a word of it to Alex.”
    Isla kept a straight face with considerable difficulty. “Who do ye think put dinner on the table every evenin’ then, with my mother gone?”
    Suddenly, Isla was pressed against Mrs Mary’s generous bosom, pinned in an embrace by the woman’s surprisingly strong arms. “I’m sure ye tried your best, dear. Your mother would have been proud.”
    Isla pulled out of Mrs Mary’s grip as soon as she dared, pushing a stray lock of mussed hair out of her eyes. “I’m none so bad in the kitchen, truly. If ye’d only let me help, I—”
    Rapid footsteps interrupted Isla’s assurances, and a slight, tow-headed figure burst into the kitchen. Isla recognised the boy as a young cousin of Alexander’s.
    “Mrs Mary!” he cried, panting as he leaned against a counter to catch his breath. “Look what I hae found in the wood just out back!” He opened one fist, and a handful of dark, round berries tumbled onto the countertop.
    “Currants!” Mrs Mary cried, clapping her hands together and matching the boy’s enthusiasm. “Well done, Ian. I suppose ye want me to make somethin’ sweet with ‘em?”
    Ian grinned, revealing a mouthful of red-stained teeth, evidence that other berries had never made it to the house. “Will ye, Mrs Mary?”
    “Of course,” she said, beginning to usher the boy from the kitchen, “but only if ye get out from under foot like a good lad.”
    Young Ian skipped happily from the kitchen, apparently buoyed by the promise of a treat. When Mrs Mary turned back around, Isla had already scooped up the handful of currants and had donned a grin of her own.
    “You’re busy enough, Mrs Mary. I reckon I can make something to satisfy the lad’s sweet tooth, and ye willnae have to worry over it.”
    Despite Isla’s claim, Mrs Mary looked quite alarmed to see the currants in her custody.

Chapter Six

    A little over an hour later, Isla surveyed the results of her labour with satisfaction. The scones had risen into perfect, golden-brown puffs, dotted with fat, juicy currants. They looked and smelt heavenly, and she suspected them to be her best ever, courtesy of the exemplary berries young Ian had delivered. Still, only a taste test could confirm her high hopes.
    “Mrs Mary, would ye like to do the honours before the wee devil shows up and gobbles ‘em all down?”
    Mrs Mary emerged from the pantry, into which she’d disappeared a few moments before the scones had finished cooking. Isla suspected that she’d done so in order to allow her enough privacy to quietly dispose of whatever substandard