Page 79 of Stealing Sophie

Chapter 21

“Mary Murray makes a fine stew,” Andrew MacPherson remarked as he scraped his spoon across his pewter plate.

Murmuring agreement, Connor reached for another oatcake, breaking it to offer half to Sophie, who sat beside him. Alike as twin halves of an apple, Roderick and Padraig sat together.

The long table in the great hall gleamed with candlelight as Connor looked around at his comrades and his wife. The room, even with cracked and crumbling walls, seemed grand somehow, nicer than he had ever thought before, warm with firelight and camaraderie.

For a moment, he almost felt content, almost felt at home. These people were as dear to him as family, and he felt at home in their company. He smiled a little.

Sophie ate the oatcake with a small wedge of cheese, and as he slathered another cake with butter, he glanced over at her.

“You have eaten little tonight, and had none of Mary’s good stew, lass.”

“I am fine. You were all hungry and needed a good meal.”

Connor paused, oatcake nearly to his mouth. He and the others had eaten their fill of the meal in the kettle, while Sophie had taken only a little hot porridge with cream, and a slice or two of cheese. The lass did not eat much, he had noticed before. He had scarcely seen her eat a full meal since she had been at Glendoon.

“Here.” He slid his bowl toward her. “Will you finish the rest?”

Her eyes grew wide, dismay rather than hunger. “I am not very hungry.”

He took a little more, but soon full, bent to offer the plate to Tam and Colla. The little terriers, content with scraps, also trotted over, curious.

“Hey! I would have eaten that,” Andrew said.

Connor leaned toward Sophie. “You have not taken much all the while you have been here, I think. Just soup and porridge and suchlike.”

“I am fine,” she said, shaking her head.

“I hoped your time here agreed better with you,” he murmured.

She scowled. “Mary Murray makes good soups. And am not hungry just now, truly.” Her frown brightened to a fresh, warm smile.

Connor melted a bit at that, and again he marveled at the ease with which she showed politeness. He marveled at her influence at Glendoon, too. His comrades behaved with better manners in her presence, he had to admit.

“Perhaps Mistress Sophie prefers French fare to Scottish since she was there for years,” Roderick suggested. “Wheat bread and snails, I think they eat there.”

“Oh no, I never ate that,” Sophie said. “We made Scottish dishes there we could.”

“And in the convent?” Andrew asked. “Did the nuns eat bread and water?”

“More than that! We ate very well there. We had a big kitchen and bakery. Bread and pudding, cheese, soup, vegetables, fish, and so on. Bacon or ham too, though I do not care for those.”

“What! I am hungry again,” Andrew said. Padraig pushed oatcakes toward him.

“We have fine Highland beef here,” Roderick said. “You will have missed that over there, no doubt. And venison and rabbit too. Pheasant, grouse, capercaillies when we can get them. And fish, plenty in rivers and lochs.”

“It is our Highland beef you must have,” Andrew said. “It will restore you, lass. You are thin.”

“We will ask our mother to roast a lamb for you,” Padraig said.

The girl went pale, Connor noticed. “I am happy to have good Scots oats again,” she said, and took another spoonful of porridge, though it had congealed in her dish.

“Aye,” Connor said, “we should roast a lamb or two in honor of our wedding. We shall have a side of beef, bloody rare, with juices running. For our health,” he added.

Just as he thought. She went white as linen, fingers clutching the spoon. “Oh no, that is not necessary. Thank you.” She swallowed hard.

“You do not eat lamb or beef,” he guessed. “Or meat?”