Page 43 of The Laird's Bride
"We'll eat in front of the fire, the way I sometimes did as a wee boy."
Jeannie arranged dishes on a cloth in front of the hearth. Chicken and mushroom pie, the crust golden and flaky, cabbage and greens stewed with bacon pieces, and mashed neeps, steaming and fragrant. And for after, tucked under a cloth was a steamed rhubarb and apple pudding and a pot of thick clotted cream to top it off.
She sat back and surveyed the feast. "We'll never get through all this."
"Don't you bet on it." Cameron poured the wine. "I'm hungry enough to eat a horse."
They ate then, in silence, the only sound the clink of cutlery against crockery, the crackling of the fire and the rain drumming against the window panes. But it was a comfortable silence, Jeannie reflected as she ate the delicious supper.
Cameron ate neatly and quietly. He had served her first, filling her plate and passing it to her, and keeping her well supplied with wine.
"If your mother died when you were a bairn, who taught you your manners?" she asked without thinking. And then flushed. "I'm sorry. That was rude. I didn't mean—"
"No, it's all right. You can ask me anything." He quirked a brow at her. "My manners, is it? I trust you're not complaining about their lack."
Embarrassed, she shook her head. "On the contrary, they're very fine."
"I'm glad. Between my father, a very high stickler, you understand, Uncle Ian, more of a martinet than anything, and Uncle Charles, the quintessential courtier, I had no chance to be uncouth or unmannerly." He winked and added, "Uncouth I learned from Donald and Jimmy when they came to live with us." Jeannie had no trouble imagining that.
The pie was soon demolished, but somehow there was room for the rhubarb and apple pudding with dollops of thick, rich clotted cream on top. As they ate, Cameron entertained her with tales of the pranks he and his cousins got up to as lads. Until the arrival of the other boys, Cameron's life had been rather dull and duty-bound, she could see.
They finished eating, and Jeannie tidied away the plates, while Cameron refilled their wine glasses. He stirred up the fire and settled back. Clearly he was enjoying this relaxed talk as much as she was.
"You said you wore a sprig of white heather as a lad. Was that for one of the games you played with your cousins?"
"In a way." He grimaced. "It was a boyhood fancy—a sprig of white heather signifying the white cockade—the symbol of Bonnie Prince Charlie, a secret pledge to 'the king o'er the water'." He raised his own glass in an ironic salute.
"I grew up on my grandfathers' tales of the Bonnie Prince, you see, saw it all as a grand adventure, a romantic tale, dreaming of righting a great wrong, wishing I'd been born in their time. My father, Uncle Ian and even Uncle Charles were the same. Dreaming of the glories of the past, and what might have—should have been." He gazed brooding into his wineglass. It glinted blood red in the firelight.
"Later, I realized the unpalatable truth." He drank deep of the wine.
"What truth was that?"
"That the bonnie prince, for all his charm and good intentions, and for all that he was entitled, he destroyed us, destroyed Scotland." There was a short silence, then he added, "Or, I don't know, maybe we destroyed ourselves."
He picked up some nuts and cracked them between his hands, picking out pieces of nut meat and passing them to her as he talked. "I visited Culloden Moor once, the place where it all finally came to naught, a nation to ruination. It's a dour, grim place. Haunted. The flower of Scottish manhood slaughtered, the very ground soaked with their blood. Leaving a generation of widows and orphaned bairns. And a nation divided, and given over to the ungentle mercy of the English."
Jeannie watched in silence as he sipped his wine, the strong column of his throat burnished bronze by the firelight, his eyes in some faraway time and place. She knew the tales, the bitterness and the vanquished dreams. It was all long in the past, but for many it was still a dream they kept alive. Looking backwards. If only . . . She'd heard it argued a thousand times.
"Now Scotland is left impoverished, and a new generation of braw Scots lads are off awa' to take the English king's shilling—German George's shilling—for the privilege of fighting in his wars across the sea. Because there's nothing for them at home. Nothing!" His fists bunched.
"And the Scots that aren't awa' fighting are leaving in droves; the lifeblood of the country, draining away overseas, to Canada, to America, and even as far as the Antipodes, on the other side of the world."
He tossed the nut shells into the fire and watched as they flamed and burned. "I want to build something here, at home, to make a future for my generation, men and the women both, and for their bairns—our bairns." He glanced at her. "Are you with me on this, lass?"
She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. This man, with his hard male beauty, strength tempered by honor, dreaming of a better future not only for himself, but for his people.
She told him then of her meeting with Uncle Charles and the women, and was gratified to see his eyes light up. He rose and held out his hand to help her up. "Aye, that's exactly what I'm talking about. 'Tis a grand idea, Jeannie. Those women are too proud to accept charity, but this way they keep their pride, and the extra money they earn will make for an easier winter for them and their bairns."
She nodded. "And their work will be on show for all who come here to admire, so it's not only fine ladies from Edinburgh who see it."
He drew her from her seat. "And it will keep Uncle Charles occupied and out of my hair, for which I cannot thank you enough."
He said nothing for a moment, just stood there holding her hand, and looking down at her. Then in a soft, deep voice he said, "T'was a blessed day, that day I pulled you from the bog, Jeannie McLeay Fraser. Are you a gift from the fairy folk, perhaps?"
She shook her head, feeling a little bashful under the warmth of his gaze. "Just an ordinary girl, I'm afraid."
"No' ordinary. No' the least bit ordinary. Not to me." He turned her hand over and, keeping his gaze locked with hers, he planted a slow kiss in the centre of her palm.
