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He cooly watched her coming, and by the time she reached the table, Raven felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment. Close up, he was even more dazzling to look at. He had the fine, chiseled features of a classical statue from ancient times, with brown stubble that glinted with gold covering his squarish chin and thick golden-brown slashes for brows. But the most startling thing about him were his eyes.

Emily had been right about them, for Raven had never seen such beautiful eyes on a man, and she found herself staring helplessly into them, transfixed. They were a light, silvery-blue, like a blue wintry sky shining on crystals of ice. Their unwavering gaze seemed to pierce her to her soul.

When he smiled at her, revealing even, white teeth, her mouth went dry, and her heart began to pound,thump, thump, thump, beneath her bodice.

“Hello, lassie,” he said, his lovely deep voice pouring over her like warm honey.

Pull yersel’ together, ye silly goose,she silently chided herself,and get on with yer job.Somehow, she got control of herself enough to drop a small curtsey. “Good evenin’ tae ye, Sir. May I bring ye somethin’ tae drink, or perhaps ye’re hungry?” she asked, returning his smile.

He leaned back in his chair, not taking his eyes from her face, and folded his arms. “I’m nae sure. What d’ye recommend?”

“Well, if ye’re nae decided yet, then ye could start off with a tankard of ale or some wine or whisky if ye prefer, while ye make up yer mind.”

“Good idea. What’s the ale like here? If ’tis like gnats’ piss, I’ll give it a miss and have some wine instead.”

Raven could not stop the laugh that slipped form her lips. She glanced around to check if Morag was listening before telling him in a low voice, “Well, I shouldnae say this, but ye’re probably best off skippin’ the ale and havin’ the wine.”

“And what’s the wine like? Horse piss?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

This time, Raven snorted and chuckled. “’Tis nae too bad. I’ve tasted worse. And the whisky is quite good.”

“I’ll go fer the wine then and maybe move on tae the whisky later.”

“Very well, Sir. I’ll just go and fetch that fer ye.” She went to the sideboard on the other side of the room. It was loaded with glasses, goblets, jugs, and drink and food of all kinds. She selected a flask of the finest wine they had and decanted it into a pewter jug.

This she carried back to him, along with a large goblet, and placed them on the table. “Would ye like me tae pour that fer ye, Sir?” she asked.

“Aye, if ye dinnae mind,” he told her with a nod, his icy eyes dancing with something she could not name but which made her feel hot all over.

“Say when,” she told him, lifting the jug and starting to pour the wine for him. She began to feel a little worried when it almost reached the brim before he said, “When.”

Then he lifted the goblet to his firm, sculpted lips and, his eyes locked with hers, took a long sip of the ruby liquid. As he did so, Raven noticed his hands, large, tan, capable-looking, covered with fine golden hairs, and a network of scars. A warrior’s hands. Yet he held the goblet delicately, with refinement.

The sight of his thick fingers delicately clamped around the stem of the goblet was oddly exciting, and she could not stop herself from wondering what it would be like to feel them upon her skin. She suspected they would feel far different from the cold ones she had known before.

He nodded his blond head and smiled approvingly. “Aye, that’s nae bad at all. Thank ye fer yer recommendation,” he said, placing the goblet back down. “Will ye come and join me fer a drink?”

Raven was startled by the unexpected invitation. “Och, nay,” she said, hiding how flustered she was behind a small laugh. “Ye need tae speak tae Morag. She’ll get one of the other lassies tae come and have a drink with ye if ye want some company.”

“But I’m happy with the present company,” he said, his strange eyes gleaming in the amber lamplight. She stared at him, at a loss as to what to say for a few moments, her whole body tingling. “What’s yer name?” he asked suddenly.

“Maeve. Maeve Carter.”

“Maeve. That’s an awful pretty name.”

Raven’s cheeks flamed. “Thank ye, Sir.”

“Me name’s Arne, Arne MacLeod. How d’ye dae, Maeve?” He held out his enormous hand to her. She looked at it in disbelief for a moment, but then she reached out and took it.

“Very well. And yersel’?” she asked as his large, warm palm enclosed her hand. A shock like lightening rushed up Raven’s arm at his touch. He shook her hand briefly and let it go, a trace of surprise on his face. She wondered if he had felt the strange sensation as well.

“Right as rain, lass, right as rain,” he replied, giving her an indecipherable look. Raven suddenly became acutely aware of a peculiar tension hanging in the air between them. She had never experienced anything like it until then.

“Tell me, Maeve, what can a hungry man get tae eat around here?”

She struggled to compose herself. “That depends on what ye fancy,” she heard herself say, only realizing after she had said it how coquettish it must have sounded. She blushed again. “I mean, how hungry ye are. We have bread and cheese and cured meats, or ye can have somethin’ hot.”

His golden-brown eyebrows shot up, and he grinned. “Somethin’ hot, eh? And what might that be?”