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"A tale of such high adventure, excitement, and sensual, lusty romance...hours of reading fun."
-Rendezvous Magazine
"Patricia Grasso writes a wonderful senual love story. Interesting characters give Highland Belle its appeal long after the villian is revealed."
-Affaire de Coeur Mazagine
"HIGHLAND BELLE IS A DELIGHTFUL HIGHLAND ROMP of a book! Read and enjoy!"
- Bertrice Small
"You're in for a fun read with this quick-paced, humorous, utterly delightful romance."
- Romantic Times
Chapter 1
Awakening with a start, Brigette realized she'd fallen asleep and almost lost her one chance to escape. Her eyes darted to her cousin. The other girl slept.
Rising, Brigette reached under the cot and pulled out the borrowed clothes. Quickly and quietly, she stripped and donned the threadbare garments.
On tiptoes, Brigette scurried to the tent's flap and listened. Should she venture out or not? All was silent, but she knew the MacArthur guards were lurking somewhere near.
Indecision gripped Brigette. She turned around, deciding to sneak out the back. Her cousin moaned in her sleep, and Brigette froze, only her eyes moving to where the other girl lay.
Several long moments passed. Reaching the back of the tent, Brigette knelt and lifted the bottom, then peered out at the night. No one was about. On hands and knees, she crawled toward the safety of the forest. When she reached the trees, Brigette stopped and listened for the sounds of alarm. All remained quiet. Slowly, Brigette got to her feet and stepped deeper into the woods.
The sky had cleared, and the moon was brilliantly full, but as the firelight faded, so, too, did Brigette's courage. In her haste to escape, she'd forgotten her fear of the dark and being alone. Now the night's sounds closed in upon her. An owl hooted nearby and Brigette jumped, her heart pounding frantically. She heard a wolf's lonely lament and froze, too frightened to take another step.
With tears streaming down her face, Brigette leaned against a tree. I cannot escape and then return, she moaned. How humiliating that would be. How foolish to place myself in jeopardy because of a man's insults. Brushing her tears away, Brigette sat down and nestled against the tree, then closed her eyes and waited for the dawn.
The night was black when Brigette, having dozed, opened her eyes. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, sending a shiver racing down the length of her spine. Brigette looked around, forcing herself to search for danger, then gasped. A pair of shining eyes watched her. She bit her bottom lip to keep from screaming.
The moon peeked out from behind a passing cloud, and Brigette giggled nervously. The shining eyes belonged to a baby fox. “You're a sly one,” she whispered, and held out her hand.
Curious, the fox advanced, then stopped and sniffed the air. Deciding Brigette was no danger, it stepped closer.
“Have you lost your mother?” Brigette murmured, and noticed that its copper hair resembled her own. Feeling not quite so alone, Brigette patted the fox. Responding to the gentle touch, it snuggled against her, and together they settled down for the night.
Dawn was washing the sky a pale shade of gray. All but a few of the MacArthur warriors were still sleeping when a solitary man rode, unchallenged, into their midst. He nodded to the guards and dismounted, then sauntered toward the cooking fire.
Iain MacArthur cut an imposing figure. Six feet tall and muscularly built, there was not an ounce of extra meat upon his frame. He appeared lean, but locked in mortal combat, his enemies soon realized their folly in underestimating his superior strength. His hair and eyes were as black as a moonless midnight. A long, straight nose and full lips blended harmoniously, and his face was made even more handsome by his complexion, tanned and ruddy from exposure to all kinds of weather. Women were fatally attracted to Iain's dark face and form, his image of raw masculinity rending him irresistible.
Iain looked down at Percy, who still slept. Squatting beside his brother, he thought how much Percy resembled their deceased mother. Leaning close to Percy's ear, he said loudly, “Good mornin' to ye, brother.”
Percy bolted up. His face contorted in a grimace, then split into a grin. “Iain!”
“I knew I shouldna' have sent ye to do a mon's job,” Iain said. “Yer still a lazy lug-a-bed, like when we were lads.”
Percy stood and wrapped himself in his plaid, then turned on Iain. “Congratulations on yer marriage, brother.” Percy grinned. “Did ye enjoy the weddin' night?”
“Didna' I instruct ye to do it by proxy?”Iain returned, a smile flirting with the corners of his lips. “It musta' slipped my mind. By the way, where is the bride I've ridden all night to meet?”
“Sleepin', I suppose,” Percy answered, his eyes drifting to the silent tent. “Lady Brigette – Brie, her friends call her – is a bonnie lass.”
“Shall we wake her so I can see for myself?”
“I must have a word or two wi' ye first.”
“I'm listenin'.”
“Patience isna' one of yer finer points, brother,” Percy began, “but ye must be patient wi' yer bride. However bonnie she may be, Brie has a fine temper to match yer own.”
“However spicy the wench may be,” Iain returned, “I'm capable of handlin' her. Let's go.”
“No' so fast, brother.” Percy placed a hand on Iain's arm. “She's no common wench to be handled, as ye so delicately put it. Weddin' by proxy was an insult to her pride, and the lady is furious. Dinna forget she's an earl's daughter.”
“So?”
Percy frowned. “She wore a black gown of mournin' to the ceremony. I'd say she isna' harborin' any fondness for ye. And last night -”
An uproar near the tent silenced Percy and the brothers turned in that direction. Jamie approached with a near-hysterical Spring in tow.
“The Sassenach is gone,” Jamie said, and weeping, the tiringwoman nodded.
“W-When I w-woke,” Spring sobbed, “B-Brie was g-gone!”
“Damn the chit!” Iain swore. “When I find her, I'll beat her black and blue.” He raced for his horse.
“He doesna' even know what she looks like,” Percy said before following his brother. “Take Spring to Dunridge. We'll meet ye there.”
Brigette awakened early and found the fox cuddled upon her lap. She smiled at the sleeping ball of copper fur, then set it aside and rose slowly, each muscle protesting the tense night just passed. When her stomach growled loudly, she realized she was hungry. I must find a stream, she thought. The water will fill me until I find help.
Ignorant of where she was going, Brigette walked. Glancing back, she saw the fox following, and when she turned around, it stopped.
“Come along, if you wish.” Brigette held out her arms in invitation, and the fox accepted. “You'll be known as Sly,” she added, lifting it. “Understand?” With doleful eyes, Sly looked up at her, and Brigette felt strangely pleased that the beast had adopted her for its mother.
Attempting to quell her stomach's protests, she picked unripened berries along the way. Sly and she shared the fare, but were dissatisfied with its lightness. Brigette thought longingly of beef and pork and mutton; Sly yearned for a plump and juicy rabbit or chicken.
After meandering along for what seemed like endless hours, the hapless duo stopped. Brigette listened carefully. Then she heard it again, the babbling of a stream. She set Sly down and hurried after him in the direction of the water.
When the stream was in sight, Brigette and Sly raced to its rocky edge. Sly delicately dipped his tongue and drank. Brigette knelt and ducked her face and came up laughing. I've found a stream, she thought happily. Next I'll find someone to help me, and then I'll find my own way home!
Brigette glanced at Sly. The fur on his neck and back was raised in hackles. Danger! Her senses screamed, and she turned. A dark rider, astride an even darker horse, watched her from the edge of the trees.
“Madame!” Iain called, but she continued to stare dumbly at him.
Iain dismounted and Brigette sprang to life. She leaped to her feet and raced away. Iain gave chase. When she looked back to see him gaining on her, Brigette slammed into a tree and fell unconscious to the ground.
Kneeling beside her, Iain quickly inventoried his bride's beauty. Her skin was pale and silky to his touch. She had a tiny oval face that ended with a stubborn, pointed chin. Her nose was small and turned up slightly at the tip, giving her a puckish expression. Rosy and inviting, her lips were meant for kissing. A lump was already forming on her forehead above her right brow, and a smudge of blackness was rising beneath the same eye, now closed to him in unconsciousness.
I wonder what color her eyes are, he thought. As big and dark as I am, my wife is petite and pale. Opposites! Iain chuckled. I perceive no real contest of wills from this tiny vixen! Hearing a sound, Iain turned.
“I see ye've captured yer bride,” Percy said, dismounting. He peered down at Brigette's face. “My God, Iain! What did ye do to her?”
“Nothin',” Iain growled. He turned back to Brigette and lifted her into his arms, a plan formulating in his mind. “I'm takin' her to the huntin' lodge. We'll become acquainted, away from the pryin' eyes of others. Tell Black Jack where I've gone.”
“When she comes around,” Percy asked, smirking, “how will ye get her to stay? Ye canna keep her tied forever and the lady hates yer guts. No offense, Iain.”
“None taken, brother.” Iain smiled. “I willna' tell her who I am. I'll say I'm Ross MacArthur, Black Jack's bastard and her rescuer. I'll help her stay well hidden from Iain.”
Percy threw back his head and shouted with laughter.
“I beg a favor, brother,” Iain added, and Percy nodded. “Dinna tell Antonia our whereaboots.”
Unconscious, Brigette lay in the hunting lodge's only bed. Iain sat beside her and pressed a damp cloth to her forehead.
She's lovely, he thought. I've done well in my bride. Brigette's eyes fluttered open; silently, husband and wife stared at each other. Green eyes!
“How are ye feelin'?” Iain broke the silence.
Brigette touched her forehead. “My – my head hurts.”
“Ye've a nasty bump,” he said. “I'm sorry I frightened ye and caused yer accident. Who are ye?”
“Who are you?” she countered, alert to the danger couched in his question. Whoever he was, the man wore the black and green plaid of the MacArthurs and probably knew her husband.
“Ross MacArthur, bastard son of the Earl of Dunridge, at yer service.” Iain smiled. “And ye are?”
“MacArthur?”
“Yes, Ross MacArthur. And ye?”
“I – I cannot recall,” Brigette hedged, peeping at him from beneath her long, copper lashes. Would he digest the outrageous lie she was formulating? “A Gypsy! I'm a Gypsy! At least, I think I am.”
Swallowing his laughter, Iain's expression remained sympathetic, but his eyes sparkled with suppressed merriment. “It's the rattlin' yer brains took today,” he said. “I'm certain ye'll shortly recall who ye are. Take a healthy swig of this medicine.”
Iain helped Brigette sit up, and she gulped a large mouthful. Her eyes widened in shock as the whiskey burned a path to her stomach. Brigette choked and then shivered, in the process suddenly noticing her state of undress.
“I'm naked!” she cried, shocked and embarrassed.
“Ye couldna' be put to bed wearin' yer clothes.” Iain grinned and patted her arm. “Dinna worry. I've seen many and many naked women before, and make nae mistake aboot it.”
Brigette's embarrassment mingled with anger, but Iain pressed her back to the pillow and gently brushed a few strands of copper hair from her forehead. “Close yer eyes and rest. I promise ye'll be feelin' better when ye wake.”
When she awakened later, Brigette did feel better, the pounding in her head having subsided to a dull throb. She opened her eyes. Her host was nowhere in sight.
Dizzy but determined to leave, Brigette tried to rise but fell back to the pillow. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, then opened them again and looked around.
The lodge was one large chamber. The bed was situated along a side wall. On the back wall was the hearth, where a fire was burning. Something that smelled delicious was simmering in a black pot, and Brigette's mouth watered.
A rug, made from several animal pelts, lay on the middle of the floor. Beyond that was an oak table and two chairs, simple but finely crafted. The door was along the wall that faced the foot of the bed. As Brigette's eyes touched the door, it opened.
“I see ye've awakened,” Iain smiled pleasantly. “Feelin' any better?”
“Much better.” Brigette smiled faintly in return.
Iain took a bowl from the table and filled it with soup from the black pot, then crossed the chamber and sat on the edge of the bed. “Sit up,” he ordered. “Ye must eat some of this.”
Brigette obeyed, but Iain neither gave her the bowl nor fed her. He appeared to be in a trance. Brigette followed his mesmerized gaze and gasped. The coverlet had slipped, exposing one plump breast. Blushing to the tips of her toes, she yanked the coverlet up.
“As I said before, I've seen many and many - "
“I heard you the first time!” Brigette snapped irritably. For some unknown reason, the thought of Ross MacArthur viewing parades of beautiful, naked women bothered her.
Iain's dark eyes narrowed at his wife's waspishness, but then he smiled with patience, assuming the cause was the pain in her head. “Have ye recalled yer name yet?” he asked, filling her mouth with soup.
She swallowed, then answered, “Bria, I think.”
“Bria?” Iain hid a smile. “It sounds like that French cheese. And what of yer family?”
Brigette hesitated, wondering what she should say. “I remember now! I am a Gypsy!”
“With yer red hair and green eyes,” he scoffed, “ye dinna look like a Gypsy to me.”
“I resemble my mother,” Brigette answered without thinking. “She's French.”
“So, yer mother's French?”
“Father met Mother while he was traveling in France, and the rest is history.” A lie that contains some truth will be easier to remember, she thought.
As if deep in thought, Iain rubbed the dark shadow of stubble on his chin. “I know of no Gypsies passin' through the area. How came ye to be on these lands?”
“We were on our way to Edinburgh when I became separated and lost.”
“Edinburgh, ye say?” Iain choked on a chuckle. “That's the other side of Scotland.”
“I just told you that I became lost!”
He made no reply, but stared at Brigette, who had the uncanny feeling he could see into her soul and knew the truth. But how could that be? “If you give me directions to Edinburgh,” she said, “I'll be on my way in the morning.”
“Ye willna' be goin' anywhere in the mornin'.”
“But -”
“I forbid it.” Iain's voice rose. “I'd be worried aboot yer welfare forever and a day. Ye'll remain here a few more days, and then I'll see ye safely to yer family.”
“But -”
“Nae more talk,” he insisted, not unkindly. “Ye need rest. I'll go huntin' in the mornin' and we'll sup on rabbit stew. Lie back now and close yer bonnie green eyes.”
Brigette closed her eyes and promptly fell asleep.
A Gypsy! Iain grinned, thinking her story was most inventive. He rose, dragged a chair over to the hearth and sat down with his whiskey.
How verra bonnie my wife is, he thought. I've the urge to take her now. One look at that sweet flesh had stiffened his rod to full strength, and remembering it made him tingle. Yes, I've the right to take what I desire, though it's a sorry man who cannot control his urges. But I'll be damned if I sleep in a chair all night!
Iain stood and stripped, then crawled into bed beside Brigette, who slept peacefully, oblivious to her bedmate. He fell asleep but awakened a short time later to the feel of his bride cuddled into him. Her face was buried against the side of his chest, and one of her legs was thrown over his muscular thighs.
To touch yet not touch was the sweetest torture Iain had ever known. He stroked her back lightly, savoring the silken texture of her skin. A sigh escaped her lips, and he smiled in the dark, then closed his eyes and slept.
Brigette awoke the next morning to the smell of something heavenly simmering in the pot. Her nose twitched and she rolled over.
“Good mornin',” Iain greeted, standing in front of the hearth.
“Good morning.” Uncomfortable with her nudity, Brigette glanced down. The coverlet was doing its job. “I'd like to get dressed,” she said.
With his hands resting on his lean hips, Iain studied her thoughtfully. “Well, ye ought to be spendin' the day where ye are, but if ye promise to rest . . .” With a shrug, he turned away to stir the oatmeal porridge.
“My – my clothing?”
“On the chair over there,” he answered, without bothering to look at her.
Brigette's eyes moved from Iain to the chair on the far side of the room, then back to Iain. She stared at him in growing consternation. When there was no movement from the bed, he looked over.
“My lord,” she whispered, her face coloring to a vivid scarlet, “I've other n-needs as well.”
Iain stared a moment longer and then grinned. “I'll return in a few minutes,” he said, then sauntered to the door. “There's a chamber pot in the corner near the foot of the bed.”
Brigette thought she would die from the humiliation. How could he be so public about such a private function? Alone, she raced for the chamber pot and relieved herself, then rushed across the room and dressed hurriedly. Dizzy from the activity, Brigette sank into the chair.
The door opened and Iain entered, chuckling. In his arms was a squirming lump of copper fur. “Look what I discovered sniffin' aboot! Have ye ever eaten fox stew, Bria? Would ye like a muff?”
“Sly!” Brigette sprang from the chair.
Sly leaped from Iain's arms and ran to Brigette, who knelt upon the floor and gathered him into her arms. “There now,” she soothed, cooing to the frightened fox.
“Are ye acquainted wi' this beastie?”
“He's my pet!” Brigette roared, turning flashing green eyes on him. Iain was startled by their murderous glint. Percy had obviously been correct, his wife as no meek lady.
“Sly kept me company when I was lost in the forest,” she said more calmly.
Iain grinned. “Does this mean we willna' be enjoyin' fox stew?”
“Would you murder a poor, motherless bairn? Even a Highlander could not be so cruel.”
At the insult, Iain's eyes lost their humorous gleam. Frightened, Brigette realized she'd said too much and tried to make amends. “Forgive me,” she apologized. “My careless mouth is my worst flaw. Please, may we feed him?”
Iain filled a bowl, then knelt beside Brigette and Sly. “Come on, laddie,” he invited, placing the steaming porridge in front of the fox. “Eat yer breakfast.”
Over Sly's head, Brigette and Iain looked at each other. Her eyes became trapped by the dark intensity of his. He leaned close; then his lips touched hers. One of his powerful hands traveled to the back of her head, held her immobile. His tongue forced her trembling lips apart, flicked this way and that, exploring and tasting the sweetness of her mouth.
When he finally released her, Brigette's face was pale, and her expression was dazed from the earth-shattering experience of her first kiss. Iain smiled lazily, seeming to be unaffected.
“A virgin Gypsy?” he mocked gently.
Brigette's complexion took on a rather rosy hue. “How do you know?”
“Och! I've kissed many and many a - "
“Thank you for your hospitality.” Brigette cut him off, her voice cold. “Sly and I must be on our way.”
“Ye willna' be goin' anywhere till yer better.”
“It's improper for me to stay.”
“Allowin' ye to traipse aboot the Highlands while yer still weak would be even more improper, my lady,” Iain countered. “I'll let ye know when yer fit to travel.”
“You mean, you'll tell me when I'm feeling better?” Brigette was flabbergasted.
“Correct.”
“Why, of all the - “
“Let's eat breakfast,” he said in dismissal.
Patting Sly, Brigette watched Iain fill their bowls with the oatmeal porridge. He won't even listen to me! She fumed in growing frustration. How can I win the argument if he refuses to participate?
When she went to bed that night, Brigette wore her chemise. Sleepless, she watched the lodge's other two occupants relax in front of the hearth. Iain sat in his chair, and Sly was curled up on the floor beside him.
When Iain stood and began undressing, Brigette snapped her eyes shut. Never had she seen an unclothed man! Would he sleep naked in the chair? Where had he slept last night? The bed creaked as Iain slid in.
“What are you doing?” Brigette shrieked and bolted up.
“Doin'? I'm goin' to sleep.”
“Here?” Brigette was shocked.
“Do ye see another bed in the lodge?”
“It's highly improper for you to be in this bed with me,” she announced, lifting her upturned nose in the air. “If you won't play the gentleman, I'll sleep elsewhere.”
Brigette moved to rise. Iain yanked her back, and she fell against his well-muscled chest. She tried to pull away, but his steely grip kept her from moving.
“Ye must trust in me, Bria. I willna' harm ye but neither will I let ye go.”
He kissed the top of her head, then closed his eyes. Gradually, Brigette relaxed. As she drifted off to sleep, she sighed and snuggled against him. In the next instant, her eyes flew open and her body stiffened. What was she doing? Oh, Lord, she was in bed with her husband's half brother!
Brigette squirmed as far away from Iain as she could and turned her back on him. At least, their bodies were no longer touching. Determined to guard her virtue through the night, Brigette stared at the wall.
“Ye'll never get well enough to travel to Edinburgh if ye insist on stayin' awake all night,” his voice warned in the darkness. “Dinna worry aboot yer virtue. Yer safe wi' me.”
“I'll be the judge of that,” Brigette grumbled, but closed her eyes anyway. Too tired to worry about improprieties, she soon succumbed to sleep.
A truce sprang up between dissembling husband and unsuspecting wife. Brigette did not mention leaving again, and Iain's intimacy proceeded no farther than sleeping beside her each night. She had the freedom of the lodge and surrounding area, always supervised, of course, lest she fly. They were pleasant enough with each other, helped along by Sly's unique talent of uniting them in laughter.
And so it went for a week. One morning Iain decided to ride to Dunridge for a few of life's necessities – food, clothing, and whiskey. Uncertain of Brigette's feelings for “Ross,” Iain was reluctant to leave her behind, lest she flee while he was gone.
The two of them sat at the table eating their usual morning fare, oatmeal porridge – Sly preferred his in a bowl on the floor. “I'm ridin' to Dunridge today,” Iain said casually. “Would ye care to join me?”
“N-No,” Brigette sputtered, almost choking on her porridge. “I-I-I think not.”
Iain's lips twitched with the urge to smile. “I may be gone several hours.”
“I'll be fine,” she hastily assured him. “I won't even leave the lodge. And don't forget, I've Sly to protect me.”
Iain's gaze drifted to Sly, who appeared to be no protection at all. “Well, ye might clean up a bit and try yer hand at cookin' supper for once.”
“Clean and cook?” Brigette was taken aback by the suggestion.
Iain nodded and smiled.
“But – but I don't know how to cook.”
“A Gypsy lass wi' nae idea of cookin'?” His dark eyes gleamed with amusement.
Meeting Iain's questioning stare, Brigette flexed her imagination. “Ross,” she explained in a condescending voice, “my father is the king of the Gypsies. I was never required to cook. We'd servants to do that.”
Tickled by her glibness, Iain choked back his laughter. His wife as as slick with her tongue as the serpent in Paradise and as sly as the beast she called her pet. “Do ye think ye might try?” he asked.
“Yes, I'd try anything for my rescuer.” Brigette smiled brightly, relieved he'd swallowed another of her lies.
Iain arched a brow, certain she'd no understanding of what she offered. He stood to leave, then stooped to kiss her forehead. “I'll be back long before supper.”
After he'd gone, Brigette felt lonely and abandoned. She lifted Sly onto her lap and stroked him, more for her own sense of well being than his pleasure. Ross fills this lodge to capacity, she thought, and without him, it seems empty. Oh, Lord, what a coil! She was beginning to care for her husband's brother. Thinking about that would give her a headache. Mindless chores like cooking and cleaning would make her feel better. She hoped.
How does one go about cleaning and cooking? Brigette shrugged her shoulders. If servants could do it, then so could she. Brigette began with the breakfast bowls, and when she'd finished, she felt a real sense of accomplishment. Next Brigette tackled the bed. With that done, she decided to begin supper's preparation. An accomplished cook Brigette was not, but even she knew that stew must simmer. The longer the simmer, the better the stew.
Brigette started a fire in the hearth and gathered the necessary ingredients as she'd seen Ross do. When the pot was filled and simmering, Brigette decided she needed a rest. Cleaning and cooking were wholly rewarding tasks, but terribly tiring, and she'd experienced enough fulfillment for one day. Brigette lay down with Sly upon the bed and fell asleep.
It was late afternoon when Iain returned, pleased with the way his day had gone. When he had arrived at Dunridge Castle, he'd reported first to his father and had assured the earl that Brigette and he would return home soon. He had refrained from mentioning the fact that his bride was still a virgin. That was a thing Black Jack would not understand.
Next Iain had enlisted Percy's aid in gathering food, clothing, and a good supply of whiskey. By the time he'd left Dunridge, Iain had totally managed to avoid Lady Antonia, who had never realized that he'd been there and gone. Escaping Antonia's notice had made the day successful!
Whistling a happy tune, Iain dismounted and entered the lodge. His nose twitched and his stomach growled, calling out to the delicious smell of simmering stew that permeated the chamber. His wife had obviously done well in her culinary efforts.
Iain sat on the edge of the bed and watched Brigette, enchanting in sleep. Her hair was in wild disarray and her cheeks were flushed. Her lips were moist and parted in an irresistible invitation. Iain leaned over and touched his lips to hers. Those incredible eyes of green opened, and she smiled.
“Somethin' smells good,” he said. “And I'm so hungry I've a mind to gobble ye up.” Brigette giggled, especially when Sly climbed on Iain's lap and demanded his own share of attention.
Iain sat at the table and watched Brigette fill their bowls with stew. “I've brought ye a change of clothin',” he told her.
With a start, Brigette realized he'd probably heard about Iain's runaway bride. “Anything of interest happening at Dunridge?” she asked casually, placing the steaming bowl of stew in front of him. She took her own seat.
“All was as usual.” There was a long pause while Iain ate several spoonfuls of stew. “Bria,” he said finally, “ye said ye made stew. Is this stew or soup or perhaps spicy water?”
“It's stew,” Brigette cried.
“Then where are the meat and vegetables?”
“Damn it! They're in the pot!”
“The pot, ye say? They belong in my bowl.”
“I couldn't get them out!”
“What? I dinna ken.”
“The meat and vegetables stuck to the bottom of the pot,” Brigette answered through clenched teeth, “and I could not get them out.”
Iain threw back his head and shouted with laughter. At least she'd been game enough to try. “I amna' laughin' at ye,” he lied. “The verra same thin' happened the first time I made stew.”
“It did?”
“Even my broth was foul tastin', but yers is excellent.”
“Truly?” Brigette's eyes gleamed like emeralds.
“I've tasted many and many a broth,” Iain declared, “but I've never tasked a finer broth than this.” At that moment, Brigette thought Ross MacArthur was the most wonderful man in Scotland, or England for that matter. Correctly reading her expression, Iain mentally rubbed his hands together.
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