Page 14 of The Splendor of Fire
Génial.They were off to agreat start.
Her hands produced three jars from the basket, and she placed each one down on the hearth with an annoyed-sounding bang.
“What’s for supper today?”
Moira shot him a look that reminded him of the many times he’d made Théa mad. He swallowed. Guess it would be a surprise.
Minutes passed as she prepared the meal. Unable to help himself, he studied every detail of her charming face as she looked over her ingredients. The twitch of her eyebrow as she struggled to get the cork out of a bottle. The press of her coral lips as she blew into the fire. The stubborn curl that kept dropping in front of her crystal-colored eyes and was pushed away with an irritated swipe.
The smell of beef made his mouth water, and he watched each move she made with increasing hunger. When the pot was steaming, she poured in a small jar of vegetables. Several more minutes passed and she opened the final jar and began pinching dough off and dropping it into the broth.
Saliva filled his mouth. “Stew.”
The aquamarine of her eyes lifted to his and her lips twitched.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
The barest of grins passed over her face and he became drunk on the thought of making her laugh. Now he was getting somewhere.
Taking a cloth from her basket, she removed the small cauldron from the fire, placed it in front of him, and handed him a spoon.
Tender, savory beef filled his mouth and he blessed God aloud. It was delicious, the best food he’d tasted since leaving France last spring. He looked up and realized she was giggling, but no sound beyond a low rasp came out. He felt himself smiling stupidly at her. He’d made her laugh.
She leaned over and touched his lips and his heart skipped.
“What was that?”
She touched his lips again and then her ear. His lips and then her ear.
“My words?”
She nodded, then lifted her shoulders and palms, touched his lips and her ear.
“What language am I speaking?”
Her eyes lit up. He’d guessed correctly this time and was filled with a sudden rush at figuring out a tiny part of her mystery.
“Je parle français.French. I speak French.”
Moira rested her chin in her hand and mouthed words, but he couldn’t make them out.
“Again. Slower this time.”
The ripe peach of her lips enunciated a silent word.Not.Then enunciated another.Islander.
Meaning dawned on him. “I am an Islander. Born right on Skye at Dun Ringill. My father was Chief of the MacKinnons, my French mother was his leman?1.” An attractive primrose blush spread over her cheeks, and he imagined her thoughts. “I know. Scandalous.”
He spooned a fluffy dumpling into his mouth. Saturated with hearty broth, it was the perfect consistency. Words from the one-hundred-and-third psalm spilled out of him. If he closed his eyes he was at his grandmother’s table in France, eating in freedom. When he opened them she was staring at him, looking entertained.
A smile spread across his face, matching her own. He shook his now-loose tunic in his hand. “You would rejoice too if you were given porridge once a day for six days and got one extra portion a week. Where did you learn to cook?”
Her lips mouthed a word.Maw.
“Your mother?”
She nodded.
Eating in silence for a few minutes, he was relieved that a companionable feeling had replaced the awkwardness of their last visit. As he neared the bottom of the cauldron he realized she was studying him.
