Free The Laird (Captive Hearts) by Grace Burrowes

never did care for cinnamon,” Cook observed, removing the tray.
    “The Spanish put it in everything—their meat dishes, their desserts, their coffee and chocolate. Perhaps I’ve developed a taste for it.”
    “Don’t be barkin’ at me because your missus is out of charity with you. She treasures that horse.” Cook didn’t retreat to her pantries or larders after firing that shot, but lingered, wiping at a spotless table with a spotless rag.
    “You’re a female,” Michael observed. “Translate that last exchange between me and my wife.”
    Cook had sneaked him biscuits when he’d still been in dresses, and she’d explained to him certain curious aspects of female biology that neither of his parents had seen fit to enlighten him about. If he had an ally at the castle, it might be she.
    Heaving a sigh such as would prove her gender if nothing else did, Cook lowered her bulk to the opposite bench.
    “You’ve been gone a long time, Michael Brodie.”
    He’d been gone so long that even Cook showed the passing of the years. Her hair had been red, and now was faded to the sandy blond that befell a redhead in later years. Her face was lined, and she sat carefully, as if hips and knees protested silently against too many Highland winters.
    On the strength of his childhood memories of her kitchen, Michael felt entitled to some honest grousing.
    “A fellow doesn’t end up with a barony hanging around his neck because he’s dug a few ditches and marched about whistling some military airs. I wasn’t exactly having tea with the regiment for ten years.”
    “Neither was she.”
    When Michael wanted to upend the table and bellow that planning menus and stitching samplers were not the same as surviving for years behind French lines, something in Cook’s eyes stopped him.
    “Tell me.” Because his wife might never make the attempt.
    “Directly after you left, your mother took your wee sisters to Ireland.”
    “Because my grandda, the earl, had more consequence than my father. I understand that.”
    “You don’t understand as much as you think you do, laddie. Because Brenna was your lawfully wedded wife, it fell to her to manage the household. Nobody else could put up with your da’s rages and sulks.”
    The warning—about Brodie males and their tempers—was neither subtle nor appreciated.
    “As my wife, Brenna should have expected to take on that role.”
    “Ye daft mon, she was sixteen years old when you left.”
    And…chubby. Also quiet. “I assume Mother provided some instruction?”
    “Yer darling mother visited in the summers, though whether it was out of regard for your father, for the appearances, or for Brenna, I do not know. She was a good woman, was Lady Catherine.”
    A good woman who’d essentially deserted her husband and taken her daughters with her.
    “You’re saying Brenna faced a challenge.”
    “You never were stupid, Michael Brodie. Brenna faced a war. Your parents were too absorbed with their own dramatics, and everybody from Goodie MacCray to Angus Brodie assumed you’d left to get away from your bride.”
    This was, unfortunately, not far from the truth, though Michael hadn’t expected his departure to be blamed on Brenna.
    “People must gossip about something, and many young fellows join their regiments before the appointed day.”
    “One and twenty is young, is it?”
    So what does that make sixteen?
    “I was due to report in a matter of weeks. Brenna knew that when we married. The whole shire knew it.”
    If he’d been a little boy, Cook’s sad, patient expression would have had him searching his conscience for sins to confess, and his pockets for crumbs. When he remained silent, she shoved to her feet.
    “You’d best be off on that picnic, hadn’t you?”
    Michael rose as well and snatched a wicker hamper from the counter. “Yes, I had best be off, while the beautiful weather lasts.”
    ***
     
    The meal would have been ambrosial to a soldier on the march—some sort