Page 13 of Tempted by a Highland Beast (Tales of Love and Lust in the Murray Castle #9)
CHAPTER SEVEN
D awn broke cold and gray over Duart Castle, but Rowena had been awake for hours, staring at the ceiling as her mind churned with worries that sleep couldn’t quiet.
What lies had Alpin spun in her absence? Had he told her people she was mad, unfit to lead? The thought of her clan believing such poison made her stomach twist with anguish.
She knew her uncle well enough to understand that he wouldn’t simply accept her disappearance.
Even now, he would be searching, sending men to scour the countryside, weaving tales that painted her as everything from a wayward child to a dangerous threat to clan stability.
All while positioning himself as the reasonable choice, the steady hand needed to guide them through troubled times.
Rowena sat up with a weary sigh, pushing the tangled thoughts aside. She couldn’t stay there much longer, couldn’t continue to impose on Constantine’s hospitality when Alpin’s reach was long and his patience finite.
I need tae find a way tae gather meself some power if I am tae go against Alpin.
She dressed quickly in the simple wool gown Lilias had provided the day afore and made sure her pendant was in place, adorning her chest the right way.
Rowena figured the best place to start was weighing the man standing nearest. Constantine had yet to speak of what he planned for her future, but that didn’t mean his intentions were ill.
She knew well enough the power her clan’s name still carried in the halls of Highland politics.
An alliance with the MacKenzies came with land, influence, and access to key trade routes.
If Constantine meant to help her further, it wouldn’t be without reason. And to see where she stood, Rowena needed to better understand the man.
I ken the perfect way tae dae this…
The castle corridors were still quiet, save for the distant sounds of servants beginning their morning routines. Rowena made her way toward the kitchen, following the scent of wood smoke and baking bread. She encountered a young maid carrying flour, her arms full and her step hurried.
“Pardon me,” Rowena said gently, causing the girl to pause. “Might I ask if there is anything I can dae tae help with the morning meal?”
The maid’s eyes widened with surprise. “Help, me lady? But ye’re a guest?—”
“I ken me way around a kitchen,” Rowena interrupted softly. “I would like tae contribute, if ye’ll have me.”
The girl hesitated, clearly uncertain about the propriety of a noblewoman working in the kitchens. But something in Rowena’s manner, earnest and without pretense, seemed to sway her.
“Well,” she said slowly, “the Sir often takes his morning meal in the library. Perhaps... perhaps ye could help with his breakfast?”
Rowena’s heart gave a small flutter at the mention of Constantine, but she kept her expression neutral. “Aye, I can dae that.”
The kitchen was a warm, bustling space that immediately put Rowena at ease. The head cook, a stern-faced woman with graying hair tied back in a practical knot, looked up from her work with obvious suspicion.
“What business have ye here, me lady?” The woman’s voice held a mixture of disbelief and wariness.
“I would like tae help with the morning meal,” Rowena replied. “I ken it is unusual, but I have learned a little in the past about cooking."
The cook, who she learned was named Moira, studied her with shrewd eyes. “Ye wish tae cook? Nae just watch?”
“Aye. I would like tae prepare the Sir breakfast meself, if ye’ll allow it. Daes he like porridge?”
Moira’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. After a long moment, she gestured toward the large pot hanging over the fire. “Go on then, lass. But if ye ruin it, ye’ll answer tae him, nae me.”
“Aye. I accept.”
She moved to the hearth with practiced ease, testing the consistency of the oats already simmering.
The wooden spoon felt familiar in her hands, and memories surfaced unbidden.
Standing on a wooden stool as a child, her mother’s gentle hands guiding her movements.
Her mother had believed that cooking was an act of love, that food prepared with care nourished not only the body but also the soul, so they had spent a lot of time in the kitchens despite their station.
“A touch more salt,” Rowena murmured to herself, adjusting the seasoning. She added a drizzle of honey, watching as it dissolved into the creamy mixture. The kitchen staff had gathered at a respectful distance, their curiosity evident as they watched her work.
She tested the consistency with the back of the spoon, adjusted the heat without hesitation, and seasoned by instinct rather than measurement. Rowena had done this countless times before, and it was muscle memory at that point.
“Where did ye learn tae cook like that?” asked one of the younger maids, her voice filled with wonder.
“Me maither,” Rowena replied softly, not looking up from her work. “She said it was important fer me tae ken how tae care fer people, nae just command them.”
Moira’s expression had shifted from suspicion to grudging respect. “Aye, she taught ye well.”
“Ye dinnae have tae flatter me, Moira.”
“Aye, ‘tis nae flattery. Only the truth.”
As the porridge reached the perfect consistency, Rowena requested fresh bread, cheese, and preserved fruit and she arranged everything on a wooden tray with attention.
Working in the kitchen, flour dusting her hands and the scent of fresh bread around her, Rowena felt like herself again. Not the fugitive heir, not the political pawn, but simply Rowena, the kind of girl who expressed her care in quiet, thoughtful ways.
At that moment, she had control over something good.
“There,” she said finally, stepping back to admire her work. “Will this dae?”
Moira nodded approvingly. “Aye, me lady. The Sir will be well pleased.”
Rowena lifted the tray, its weight solid and reassuring in her hands. As she turned to leave, Moira called after her.
“Ye’re welcome in me kitchen anytime, me lady. ‘Tis rare tae find a noble who remembers the value of honest work.”
Rowena thanked her with a smile and made her way to the corridors eager for Constantine to see what she had prepared.
A knock at the library’s door broke the quiet of the morning and Constantine glanced up from the spread of correspondence and maps before him.
“Enter,” he called, his voice even.
The door opened, and Rowena stepped inside, a breakfast tray balanced in her hands. Her cheeks were flushed, likely from the heat of the kitchen, and her hair was loosely braided over one shoulder.
He hadn’t expected her, and the surprise of seeing her lingered for a beat longer than it should have.
“I brought breakfast,” she said, setting the tray on a side table near the window.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with the memory of their last private encounter; he in her chamber, she in little more than a shift, the tension that had crackled between them like lightning.
“Ye didnae need tae serve me,” he said finally, his tone neither ungrateful nor particularly welcoming.
“I ken, but ‘tis the least I can dae,” Rowena replied, then hesitated. How to explain without sounding like she was trying to manipulate him? “I asked tae help with the cooking.”
His eyebrow raised slightly, and she caught the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. “Ye cooked this yersel?”
The question hung in the air, and Rowena suddenly realized how this might appear. The noble fugitive trying to curry favor through domestic service. Her cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze steadily.
Constantine leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her face. “Is this yer attempt tae win me over before I uncover whatever secret ye’re still hiding?”
The directness of it caught her off guard, and to her own surprise, Rowena laughed. The sound was genuine, not nervous, and it transformed her face completely. Constantine found himself momentarily caught by the sound, by the way it lit up her features.
“Ye’re direct,” she said, moving to pour him ale from a pewter pitcher. “I suppose I should expect that by now.”
She settled into the chair across from his desk, her posture relaxed but alert. “I am nae trying tae manipulate ye, Constantine. Though I understand why ye might think so.”
“Then why?” His tone was genuinely curious now, the suspicion tempered by interest.
Rowena’s fingers traced the edge of her cup as she considered her words. “I used tae cook with me maither. Often, actually. She said it was important fer me tae show me care fer people through actions, nae only words.”
Something changed in Constantine’s expression. The recognition, perhaps, of someone else who had learned that nobility came with responsibilities beyond privilege.
“After she died,” Rowena continued, her voice growing quieter as she toyed with her pendant, “I found that cooking... centers me. ‘Tis something I can control completely, something I can dae well. When everything else feels like chaos, I can still make a meal tae relax mesel’.”
She looked up to meet his eyes, and the vulnerability there was unmistakable. “This is me way of showing gratitude. Ye’ve given me shelter without demanding explanations I’m nae ready tae give. That means something.”
Constantine was quiet for a long moment, studying her face as if trying to solve a puzzle. When he spoke, his voice was softer than usual. “Try the porridge before ye take credit fer it.”
It was almost a joke, and Rowena recognized the olive branch. She watched as he lifted the spoon and saw the slight widening of his eyes as he took a bite. The porridge was perfect; creamy, well-seasoned, with just the right amount of sweetness to balance the earthy oats.
“This is very good,” he admitted, and there was genuine surprise in his voice.
“Dinnae sound so shocked,” Rowena said, but she was smiling. “I did say I ken me way around a kitchen.”