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“I have to see to the animals before making the morning meal. Why do you not try to rest a little before joining me?”

“I could make the morning meal,” she suggested. “Then it can be on the table, ready for you when you return.”

“There is no need—”

“I really would like to.” She took a step closer, those innocent eyes drawing him in much like they did yesterday.

How could he deny the woman anything? Even when he doubted she knew anything about cooking. He was now in a position to have chefs and servants, but in his younger years, he had to cook for all the family. He imagined Minerva never had such an opportunity.

Nevertheless, he nodded. He marched down the corridor and stomped down the steps into the kitchen. Snatching up his jacket, he thrust his arms into it and did up his shirt, then pushed a hand through his hair and donned a floppy hat. Though he missed the luxurious fabrics of his finer clothes, he did not much miss having to wear cravat and breeches all the time.

Lachlan stepped outside, pausing to shut the door and draw a long breath of fresh air. The previous night’s rain had cleared the air, leaving it slightly scented with heather. He filled his lungs as though he could replace the air in them that had been tinged with the sweet fragrance of Minerva. There was a reason he had offered to come and look after the farm.

And it had certainly not been to run into a strange lass who occupied his thoughts far too much for someone he had only just met and knew nothing of.

He fed the pigs and the chickens, checking the eggs, before walking out to the border of Mr. Stewart’s land. One of the walls needed tending to, but he was pleased to note that it could wait a little while longer. If he had time today, he would start restacking some of the stones that were crumbled. In fact, even if he did not have time today, he might try to make time for it. At least then he would not have to be in the house with her.

He glanced back at the farmhouse, imagining her bustling around the kitchen. The image made him smile. Her in her finery, buttering toast and cooking meat. It had a strange sort of warming effect on him. Odd indeed since his whole purpose in coming here had been to have some solitude. Being surrounded by servants and the clamor of people constantly wanting his company was something he was still not used to. As the eldest of his family, there had been many a day and night when he had been alone, slaving to ensure none of them starved. There was little chance of that now, but he almost missed those times alone.

He headed back to the gray stone building. Melmuir Valley farm was not one of the largest farms on his land, but it was one of which he was most fond, and he had known Mr. Stewart since he was a lad. Minerva might have been surprised that he was no farmer given that he likely looked the very picture of one, and farming was in his blood, so he did not begrudge the image.

He paused outside the front door, bracing himself. He wanted her gone. And yet he did not. He needed his undisturbed solitude back, but he had this horrible inkling that once she left, he would miss her. He removed his hat, shoved a hand through his hair, and sighed. There was something distinctly awry with him getting so worked up over a strange lass.

When he shoved open the door, a cloud of smoke greeted him, swirling about him and clogging his lungs. He coughed and waved a hand in front of his face, squinting into the kitchen.

“Oh dear. Oh no.” Minerva rushed from the sink to the open fire from which whatever it was burning was being cooked. She went to grab the pan and squealed, snatching a hand swiftly back.

Lachlan rushed over and took her hand at the same time as grabbing a cloth to put around the handle of the metal pan. He dunked the pan into the sink and dragged her to a pitcher ofcold water. He plunged her hand into the cold water, and she squealed again. Though she wriggled against his hold, he kept his grip firm.

“If you’ve burnt yourself, lass, you’ll need it to calm down. Now cease wriggling.”

She stilled and pushed a strand of hair from her face. Now that the smoke cleared, he could see she was in the same dress as yesterday, which was looking a little crumpled and tired. He supposed without aid to help her, she could not look as neat and pressed as usual. But Minerva was the sort of woman who did not need to look neat and pressed. With her golden hair pulled up into some haphazard style, and her cheeks flushed, she could almost look like a farmer’s wife.

At least if it were not for the tears in the corners of her eyes.

He grimaced. “Is it very painful?”

She sniffled. “It is not that. I am just…” She blew out a breath. “I am just annoyed. You have helped us greatly, and I was hoping to repay the favor. And to try something new.” She murmured the last part under her breath.

“Try something new?”

She sighed. “Well, that is why my grandpa wanted me to do this journey. Not just to travel again but to do new things. I think he was right. So, I am trying my best to do things I have never done before.” She gave a little shrug. “I thought I might try my hand at cooking. You made it look easy yesterday.”

“I have had a lot of experience cooking,” he explained. “I imagine you have not.”

“You must think I am very pampered,” she said sheepishly.

“Not at all. I know lasses like yourself are not afforded opportunities to be independent very often.”

She tilted her head and eyed him. “I do not think my brothers would be able to cook as you do either. So, how is it a man who must have vast wealth is able to cook a simple stew?”

He removed her hand from the water and blew on it, turning it this way and that in the light of the window to inspect it. A small red mark lingered on her palm, but it would not scar, he did not think. He dried her hand carefully and released it.

“I have not always been a wealthy landowner.” He waited for the judgement, the pursed lips. Yet, somehow he knew it would not come from her, and he was right. For the past five years, he had been pretending his past did not exist. Sometimes, he wished to stand up in the middle of a ballroom and declare that he was no more than a son of a coward with the blood of a pauper running through his veins. To admit as much to her sent a rush of relief through him.

He nodded toward the table. “Why do you not sit down, and I will ready some food?” He looked at the charred remains of what he suspected was once a slab of gammon. “I’ll make it simple, I think,” he said with a smile.

“I think that is a fine idea indeed.” She sat with a grin.