of her given name, but didn't she wish to create more intimacy? Fan his desire so that he'd be at her mercy when she manipulated him into playing cards?
She offered him a fleeting smile. "Very well, Dougal." The name slid over her lips delightfully.
"Sophia suits you. Is that your full name?"
"Sophia Beatrice MacFarlane. Beatrice was my mother's name."
"It's lovely. My full name is Dougal Charles Alistair Donald MacLean." He gave her a rueful smile as he ladled soup into his bowl. "I inherited both of my grandfathers' names, as well as the name of one of my great-uncles."
"How sad." She peered into her bowl, noting with satisfaction the murky color and the globs of congealed fat that floated among half-cooked carrots and huge chunks of onion. The smell was even more unappetizing. "I'm fortunate that I never knew my grandfathers. They died before I was born, and from what I hear, neither of them was very pleasant."
Dougal lifted his spoon and slid it into his mouth. Immediately, a frozen look came over his face.
Sophia tensed.
He removed the spoon from his mouth.
Sophia gripped her own spoon tighter.
A slow red crept up his face, his eyes watering slightly.
Ha! Mary's soup was working its magic. Pleased, Sophia pretended to eat some soup.
Dougal slapped a hand on the table. The dishes and Sophia jumped.
"What's wrong?"
He pointed it to his bowl with his spoon. "
That
."
"The soup? Why, whatever's wrong with it?"
"Nothing. That is the best soup I've ever had."
Sophia blinked. Surely, he hadn't just said—He dipped his spoon back into his bowl and took another large bite. Though his eyes watered and his face turned a deeper red, he continued to eat, murmuring, "Excellent!" every third bite or so.
Sophia looked at her own soup, which was a muddy gray with some oddly shaped vegetables floating here and there. It reeked of garlic and pepper and onion. Mary had added a large amount of salt, as well. But watching MacLean eat with gusto made her question her perceptions.
What if Mary's natural ability to cook had overcome her attempts to provide an inedible meal?
Sophia dipped her spoon into her bowl and gingerly sniffed the contents, grimacing at the strong odor. Casting a puzzled look at MacLean, who was about finished with his soup, she put the spoon into her mouth.
The burning sensation of pepper mingled with the rancid taste of uncooked garlic and what could only have been salted dishwater. She jerked the spoon from her mouth and grabbed her water goblet, pouring it into her mouth to wash down the horrid taste.
Gasping, she glared with watery, accusing eyes at MacLean.
He seemed not to have noticed anything, too busy scraping the bottom of his bowl, as if afraid some succulent tidbit might have escaped him. Finding nothing more, he placed his spoon on the table and sat back, wiping his mouth with his napkin. "That was the best soup I've ever been served. I believe I'll have more."
"More? Are you… are you certain?"
"I'm positive."
Unable to believe her ears, Sophia placed her own spoon on the table and watched as Dougal refilled his bowl. Within moments, he was eating yet more of the soup, making appreciative comments as he went.
Sophia looked at the soup in her own bowl. Maybe the soup on the
top
of the bowl was not as good as the soup from the
bottom
, where all of the more edible layers might be hiding. Her stomach growled, and she wished she'd remembered to eat something earlier. Her father's accident had gotten in the way of that, too.
She picked up her spoon again and dipped it into the bottom of the soup bowl, trolling for a better sample. She lifted the spoon and took a hurried bite. This time, a sweltering fire began to simmer, a slow burn tickling her tongue. It simmered through her nose to her eyes, which watered as if she was standing in smoke. Choking, she gulped the soup down. Now her throat and stomach were also on fire. She dropped the spoon and grabbed at her water goblet, gulping as
She offered him a fleeting smile. "Very well, Dougal." The name slid over her lips delightfully.
"Sophia suits you. Is that your full name?"
"Sophia Beatrice MacFarlane. Beatrice was my mother's name."
"It's lovely. My full name is Dougal Charles Alistair Donald MacLean." He gave her a rueful smile as he ladled soup into his bowl. "I inherited both of my grandfathers' names, as well as the name of one of my great-uncles."
"How sad." She peered into her bowl, noting with satisfaction the murky color and the globs of congealed fat that floated among half-cooked carrots and huge chunks of onion. The smell was even more unappetizing. "I'm fortunate that I never knew my grandfathers. They died before I was born, and from what I hear, neither of them was very pleasant."
Dougal lifted his spoon and slid it into his mouth. Immediately, a frozen look came over his face.
Sophia tensed.
He removed the spoon from his mouth.
Sophia gripped her own spoon tighter.
A slow red crept up his face, his eyes watering slightly.
Ha! Mary's soup was working its magic. Pleased, Sophia pretended to eat some soup.
Dougal slapped a hand on the table. The dishes and Sophia jumped.
"What's wrong?"
He pointed it to his bowl with his spoon. "
That
."
"The soup? Why, whatever's wrong with it?"
"Nothing. That is the best soup I've ever had."
Sophia blinked. Surely, he hadn't just said—He dipped his spoon back into his bowl and took another large bite. Though his eyes watered and his face turned a deeper red, he continued to eat, murmuring, "Excellent!" every third bite or so.
Sophia looked at her own soup, which was a muddy gray with some oddly shaped vegetables floating here and there. It reeked of garlic and pepper and onion. Mary had added a large amount of salt, as well. But watching MacLean eat with gusto made her question her perceptions.
What if Mary's natural ability to cook had overcome her attempts to provide an inedible meal?
Sophia dipped her spoon into her bowl and gingerly sniffed the contents, grimacing at the strong odor. Casting a puzzled look at MacLean, who was about finished with his soup, she put the spoon into her mouth.
The burning sensation of pepper mingled with the rancid taste of uncooked garlic and what could only have been salted dishwater. She jerked the spoon from her mouth and grabbed her water goblet, pouring it into her mouth to wash down the horrid taste.
Gasping, she glared with watery, accusing eyes at MacLean.
He seemed not to have noticed anything, too busy scraping the bottom of his bowl, as if afraid some succulent tidbit might have escaped him. Finding nothing more, he placed his spoon on the table and sat back, wiping his mouth with his napkin. "That was the best soup I've ever been served. I believe I'll have more."
"More? Are you… are you certain?"
"I'm positive."
Unable to believe her ears, Sophia placed her own spoon on the table and watched as Dougal refilled his bowl. Within moments, he was eating yet more of the soup, making appreciative comments as he went.
Sophia looked at the soup in her own bowl. Maybe the soup on the
top
of the bowl was not as good as the soup from the
bottom
, where all of the more edible layers might be hiding. Her stomach growled, and she wished she'd remembered to eat something earlier. Her father's accident had gotten in the way of that, too.
She picked up her spoon again and dipped it into the bottom of the soup bowl, trolling for a better sample. She lifted the spoon and took a hurried bite. This time, a sweltering fire began to simmer, a slow burn tickling her tongue. It simmered through her nose to her eyes, which watered as if she was standing in smoke. Choking, she gulped the soup down. Now her throat and stomach were also on fire. She dropped the spoon and grabbed at her water goblet, gulping as
Similar Books
