He thought it was a good time to bring out the pie and set a pot of tea to boil.
“Did they teach you how to serve tea and cook at the university?” Mirin asked with amusement, watching Jack handle the kettle.
“They didn’t,” he replied, pouring a cup for Frae and Mirin. For Adaira. “But mainland fare is quite dry. So I asked the cook one night if I could use the kitchen after hours, to make my own food for the next day. He agreed, and so I began to cook for myself whenever my lessons gave me a moment to breathe. I remembered everything you taught me, Mum, even though I once disliked cooking. Cream and honey?” he seamlessly asked Adaira as he handed her a cup.
She was sitting on the divan beside Frae. Her fingers brushed his as she accepted the tea, but her eyes were wide, as if she were battling shock, watching him serve tea. “Just cream,” she said. He walked to the buttery in the corner of the kitchen to get the chilled glass of cream, then brought it to her.
“Jack? Jack, the pie!” Frae whispered between her fingers.
He winked as he returned to the kitchen for one of the two pies he and Frae had baked together that afternoon. One for them, and one for the Mitchell family. At first it had felt strange to bake for people he didn’t know, until he remembered the old ways of the isle. For any event, be it joyful or sorrowful—a death, a marriage, a divorce, a sickness, a birth—the clan rallied and prepared food to express their love for those involved. Cottages became gathering places for hearty, comforting food whenever tears or laughter flowed. Jack had forgotten how much he liked that tradition.
He served Adaira the first slice and grinned when she cast a wary look his way.
“You made this?”
“Aye,” he said, standing close to her, waiting.
Adaira took her spoon and poked at the pie. “What’s in it, Jack?”
“Oh, what all did we dump in there, Frae? Blackberries, strawberries, pimpleberries—”
“Pimpleberries?” Frae gasped in alarm. “What’s a pim—”
“Honey and butter and a dash of good luck,” he finished, his gaze remaining on Adaira. “All of your favorite things, as I recall, heiress.”
Adaira stared up at him, her face composed save for her pursed lips. She was trying not to laugh, he realized. He was suddenly flustered.
“Heiress, I did not put pimpleberries in there,” Frae frantically said.
“Oh, sweet lass, I know you didn’t,” Adaira said, turning a smile upon the girl. “Your brother is teasing me. You see, when we were your age, there was a great dinner in the hall one night. And Jack brought me a piece of pie, to say he was sorry for something he had done earlier that day. He looked so contrite that I foolishly believed him and took a bite, only to realize something tasted very strange about it.”
“What was it?” Frae asked, as if she could not imagine Jack doing something so awful.
“He called it a ‘pimpleberry,’ but it was actually a small skin of ink,” Adaira replied. “And it stained my teeth for a week and made me very ill.”
“Is this true, Jack?” Mirin cried, setting her teacup down with a clatter.
“’Tis truth,” he confessed, and before any of the women could say another word, he took the plate and the spoon from Adaira and ate a piece of the pie. It was delicious, but only because he and Frae had found and harvested the berries and rolled out the dough and talked about swords and books and baby cows while they made it. He swallowed the sweetness and said, “I believe this one is exceptional, thanks to Frae.”
Mirin bustled into the kitchen to cut a new slice for Adaira and find her a clean utensil, muttering about how the mainland must have robbed Jack of all manners. But Adaira didn’t seem to hear. She took the plate from his hands, as well as the spoon, and ate after him.
He watched her swallow, and when she smiled at Frae, telling his sister it was the best pie she had ever tasted, Jack felt a stab of vulnerability. It disquieted him, and he turned away with a frown and sought refuge in the kitchen. Mirin was there, viciously cutting into the pie.
“I can’t believe you did such a thing to the laird’s daughter,” she murmured, mortified. “People must think I let you run wild!”
The truth was that Adaira had never exposed him as the pimpleberry culprit, and so he had gone unpunished. Mirin had not known, because Alastair and Lorna had not known. Only he and Adaira.
“Go spend time with your company, Mum,” he said, carefully taking the knife from her. “And if you’re not completely ashamed of who I once was, enjoy a piece of pie.”