Lady of Light by Kathleen Morgan Page A

My pleasure,” he added with a twinkle in his eyes as his glance swung to Evan’s, “in more ways than one.”

    By this time of day, Claire noted wryly as she scanned the few remaining turnips, potatoes, and onions, the vegetable stands were always sparse pickings. There was no making up for it, though, after all the time they had spent at St. Columba’s. The sparse pickings would just have to do for this eve’s meal.
    “Could you perhaps fit some poultry into your cooking plans tonight?” Evan asked from beside her. “I see a few still available over there in that butcher’s window.”
    Her glance lifted in the direction of his hand. Sure enough two plump, pale pink chicken carcasses hung in Robbie Stewart’s butcher shop window. She nodded, her mood brightening. “Aye, it would be a most welcome addition to the meal. We could have stoved chicken with potatoes tonight, then use the rest on the morrow for another meal.”
    “Stoved chicken?” Evan asked with an arch of a dark brow.
    “It isn’t as dreadful a concoction as you might think,” Claire said with a laugh, noting the wary look in his eye. “It’s but a layer of seasoned potatoes and onions in a cook pot, then some chicken joints, then another layer of seasoned potatoes and onions, then the rest of the joints and some water. I cook it all up in a pot over the fire. It’s verra tasty.”
    Relief slowly brightened his eyes. “Sounds like it. I’ll get the chicken then, while you buy the potatoes and onions.”
    “That’s a fine plan,” Claire agreed before turning back to the vegetable stand.
    Five minutes later, her purchases wrapped snugly in brown paper, she wandered over to another stand containing fresh herbs. Her stash of rosemary and sage was running low, she mused, and it would be best to replenish it.
    A hand settled on her arm. “So, lass, have ye been purposely avoiding me o’ late?” a deep voice demanded. “I havena seen ye the past two days, though I looked for ye daily at the kirk.”
    At the sound of Dougal MacKay’s thick burr, Claire winced in dismay. The burly farmer’s timing couldn’t have been worse. For the past few months, he had made it known about Culdee that Claire was his—even though she had yet to give her consent or ever would, for that matter. With the help of his tavern-drinking cronies, however, Dougal had managed by either verbal or physical intimidation to eliminate further potential suitors for her hand. He wouldn’t be pleased now to see her with Evan, who was bound to appear at any minute.
    “I’ve been busy helping a kinsman of Donall and Lainie MacKay,” she replied, gracing him with one of her sweetest smiles. Though they had yet to unequivocally confirm that Evan and the old couple were truly related, the odds were in their favor, which didn’t really make what she had just said an untruth. “Mayhap you’ve heard of him—the American—Evan MacKay?”
    “Aye, I’ve heard o’ him,” the reddish-blond-haired man growled. “All the lasses are nigh unto swooning over his braw form and fine looks. But ye’re not a MacKay. How is it ye’re spending so much time with him?”
    “He came to the kirk to ask Father MacLaren’s help in finding his kin. I was there, and Father asked me to assist him for a few days.”
    “And those few days are over then?”
    Claire shrugged out of his grip. “Nearly so.” Tiring at last of the man’s questions, she cocked her head and fixed him with a hard stare. “And what’s it to you, Dougal MacKay, if they aren’t? You aren’t, and never will be, my keeper.”
    Once more, Dougal took her by the arm. “I am if I say I am.” His gaze narrowed. “Ye havena gone and gotten any fool ideas, have ye, that ye’d rather set yer cap for the likes o’ him than me?”
    “Och, and aren’t you the big fool?” Claire pulled back, attempting to free herself of the farmer’s grip, but in response Dougal only held her tighter. “I’ve told you before