The Bride Says Maybe by Cathy Maxwell Page B

to build a walkway, and from that walkway had come a hall, then a room.
    The kitchen was one long space with a good-sized table in the center for kneading dough and arranging dishes. There was a good deal of bustle. The cook here was a male. He had two scullery girls to help him turn the meat he must have been preparing for dinner. Meat pies were cooling on the table. The laird’s uncle Lachlan sat at the table eating one of the pies. He rose as Tara entered the room and greeted her by asking if she’d slept well.
    “I did,” Tara lied, but that was fine because by the twinkle in his eye as he shot a glance at his nephew, he had apparently not expected an honest answer.
    The laird cleared his voice as if he, too, was a bit embarrassed.
    That was a change. She’d not thought of a man of his stature as being anything but confident. But then, the laird wasn’t like most men she knew. There was a humility about him. He was probably strong enough that he could break any man’s neck, and yet, there was a touch of gentleness about him as well, and some of the tension she always held deep inside her eased . . . to be replaced by the spark of interest.
    With the right clothes and a good barber, why, he might even be handsome beneath his scruffiness.
    “We take most of our meals in here,” the laird explained, nodding to the table. “There is only the three of us, so we don’t stand on ceremony. Of course, now there are four of us.”
    She liked the way his deep voice had warmed over “four of us.” He included her.
    Of course, that didn’t stop her from thinking it might be nicer to eat in the dining room inside the house, but she had to remember she was not planning on staying.
    The laird was introducing her to the cook, a man with a barrel-shaped chest by the name of Dougal. The girl Tara had met the night before, Flora, was also one of the scullery maids, as was another young woman close to Tara’s age named Agnes.
    Dougal was most anxious to see to Tara’s breakfast. She noticed that Daphne and the other dogs were not in the kitchen. Daphne lingered outside the door, eyeing Tara as if she was evaluating all the attention the human mistress was receiving and was not pleased.
    So perhaps dogs had more human attitudes than Tara had supposed?
    She focused on her breakfast and not the unhappy terrier outside the door. “I would be pleased with just some tea and toasted bread,” she said.
    “Aye, we can do that,” Dougal answered, and started giving out instructions for Flora to make the toast and Agnes to see to the tea. “Use one of the good cups. And the saucer, too.”
    Dougal turned his attention back to entertaining his laird’s new wife. He was attempting to be very gallant. This was the reaction Tara expected from men.
    Lachlan watched the interaction in the kitchen with a bemused air.
    Benches served as seating for the table. Tara asked Lachlan, “May I sit across from you?”
    “I would hope that you would,” he answered.
    She was about to slide onto the bench when the laird’s other uncle Jonas came charging into the kitchen. He addressed himself to Lachlan, who could be seen easily by anyone passing the doorway.
    “God’s balls, Lachlan, you should see Breccan’s bed. He and the Davidson lass destroyed it. He must have pounded heerrrr—” He drew out the last word as he caught sight of Tara at the table with the laird off to one side. Apparently, they could not be seen from the walkway.
    His eyebrows hitting his hairline, Jonas closed his mouth. There was a moment of awkward silence.
    Tara’s face flamed with embarrassment. She could feel the interest of the cook and the maids. A legend had been born. She knew the story of the broken bed would now take on a life of its own. And there was nothing she could do to stop it other than to tell the truth, and that meant admitting the marriage had not been consummated. She knew to keep her mouth shut.
    Jonas tried to overcome his lapse of manners. It