Lady of Light by Kathleen Morgan

of honey, butter, raspberry jam, and orange marmalade.
    “Looks like a fine feast, ma’am,” Evan observed as he graced the rotund, white-haired woman with his most appreciative smile.
    Mrs. Fraser blushed prettily. “’Tis hardly aught to crow about. If I’d known earlier Father would be having guests, I’d have really given ye a taste o’ my culinary skills. But as ’tis,”—she made a dismissing wave over the tray of luscious bakery goods—“I canna claim to any great pride this day. Ye must return another time, when I can serve ye a tea worthy o’ guests.”
    Father MacLaren chuckled. “Och, aye, that ye must. Just be certain, though, ye havena eaten all day and mayhap the day ’afore, too, or ye willna do such a fine tea justice.”
    Once more, Evan smiled his most charming smile. “I’d be right honored, ma’am.” He pulled up a chair and indicated that Mrs. Fraser should sit. “But for now, why don’t you rest up a bit while I serve you?”
    The older woman sent the priest an uncertain look.
    “Aye, sit, Mrs. Fraser,” Father MacLaren urged. “If Evan wishes to wait on ye, then ’tis best ye enjoy it to yer heart’s content. Claire and I can see to ourselves.”
    With one final, half-hearted protest, the elderly housekeeper did just that, basking in the attention Evan proceeded to lavish upon her.
    Claire couldn’t believe her eyes. Never in her wildest flights of fantasy could she have imagined a cowboy capable of such fine manners or knowledgeable of the proper way to serve tea. But then, when it came to a certain American, she was learning quickly not to limit her expectations.
    By the time tea was finished and Mrs. Fraser had whisked away a far lighter tray, Father MacLaren had narrowed their painstakingly researched list to just two people still living in the area. “Old Donall and his wife Lainie MacKay are yer best bets. They’re well into their eighties, yet their minds remain as sharp and clear as a Highland burn running fresh from the mountains. They’re also the kindest, wisest folk ye’d ever hope to meet.”
    Claire cocked her head. “They don’t live in Culdee, though, do they? I would know of them.”
    “Nay, they dinna,” the priest agreed, leaning back with a satiated smile. “They live out near the glen between Ben Loyal and Loch Naver. On foot, ’twould take ye a good hour’s walk.”
    She turned to Evan. “It’s best, then, we plan to visit them on the morrow.”
    “We?” The tall American arched a brow. “I don’t expect you to come, Claire. You’ve already sacrificed enough of your time on my behalf.”
    “And do you seriously think you can find your way out to the glen all by yourself?” She gave a laugh. “I think not. Besides, Father bade me take a day or two to help you, and this is but the first full day. However you look at it, I owe you yet one more day before my obligation is fulfilled.”
    “Well, since you put it that way, I reckon I’d be a fool to refuse.”
    The wry twist of Evan’s lips belied his mild response, and Claire immediately felt ashamed. She hadn’t meant to convey the impression that the rendering of her assistance had been a burden. That would’ve been inhospitable. And it also would’ve been far from the truth.
    But honesty and common sense weren’t always agreeable bedfellows, especially when it came to a certain cowboy. So Claire chose to ignore the message inherent in his words, and respond only to his statement.
    “Aye, you would be a fool to refuse my offer of escort,” she retorted briskly, “and since it’s apparent you’re not a fool, the matter’s settled.” Claire rose and brushed a few lingering crumbs from her skirt. “I’ll be happy to be of assistance.”
    She smiled then at Father MacLaren. “Thank you for your aid in finding some of Evan’s kin. And thank you, as well, for the fine tea.”
    “Och, dinna fash yerself, lass.” He gave a merry laugh. “’Twas my pleasure, and no mistake.