“You cooked this yourself?” she marveled.
Ramsay lifted one shoulder without looking up at her.
“Where did you learn to cook?” she queried.
“Here.” He split the feather down the middle with a masterful stroke and then picked up the stick.
Having exhausted the scope of her conversation, she took a tentative bite.
Dark, rich duck meat so tender she barely had to chew melted into a savory broth with the perfect mélange of vegetables and barley.
Cecelia closed her eyes to lend her groan of appreciation adequate dramatics.
When she opened them, Ramsay had frozen mid-motion, his knuckles white on the handle of the knife as he stared at her, unblinking.
“Whoever taught you your culinary skills should be heartily commended.” She loaded the spoon with her next bite with relish. “My compliments to the chef.”
He grunted some sort of sound that might have been either appreciative or dismissive before returning to his work.
Cecelia studied him as she ate with as much vigor as her manners would allow. He’d never seemed quite so preoccupied before. Had never stayed silent for so long, at least not in her presence.
Granted, this was the first time they’d ever been alone together when he wasn’t either cursing her … or kissing her.
For some reason, she ardently wished he’d do one or the other now. Anything but this dour, distant silence.
She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from him as he worked. The cords and muscles of his forearms flexed and shifted with his intricate motions. The movements swift and sure, as though he’d done this thousands upon thousands of times.
Arrows, Cecelia realized around a particularly delicious mouthful. He was crafting arrows. What an odd hobby. Odd and … handsome in a rather masculine sort of way.
Cecelia had often caught herself wondering what it was Ramsay did with his free time, being a man without vices and all.
Now she knew.
Captivated, she hungered to learn more. To learn everything. Was this where he’d built a body such as his, tromping about the Scottish countryside? Had he brought her here simply to ignore her? Were they still at odds in his estimation?
She chewed on her thoughts through the entire bowl of stew. Once her hunger had been sated, she could stand his silence—his indifference—no longer.
“You have a lovely home here,” she ventured.
He snorted out something that would have resembled a laugh if it hadn’t contained such derision. “Ye doona have to be kind,” he told the arrow.
His answer troubled her. “I’m not being kind. I’m partial to simple quietude and much prefer cozy houses to grand ones. I find I’m eager to explore the countryside.”
That brought him to look up sharply. “Doona go into the woods or venture onto on the moors without me. It’s mainly bogs interrupted by patches of swamp and I’d not have ye get lost. Or worse.”
“I won’t,” she promised. She didn’t say that the terrain hadn’t seemed particularly swampy. Nor did she mention that she’d noticed more agriculture and grazing land than bogs.
She supposed it was best she remain indoors. It made his keeping her safe and hidden a great deal easier. However, if she were locked in here with his current attitude, she might well go mad.
Perhaps they could at least take Phoebe out of doors and allow her to wade by the little dam she’d seen in the river.
Had Ramsay swum in the pond as a boy? she wondered. What had his childhood been like? Certainly not carefree and happy, or he’d be some other sort of man.
He gained his feet abruptly, startling her out of her reverie. “Are ye finished?” he asked, gesturing to her empty bowl.
“Oh. Yes.” She made to rise, but he retrieved the bowl from in front of her and took it to the bucket beneath the water pump.
“It was wonderful, thank you. Let me help you clean,” she offered. “It’s the very least I can do.”
“Nay.” He abandoned the dirty dishes and went to the neat stack of trunks and supply boxes by the doorway. “Not until after dessert.”
She perked up instantly. “Dessert, you say?”
Cecelia did her best not to admire the very taut view of his backside as Ramsay bent to riffle through one of the smaller crates. He extracted a little flat box wrapped with a ribbon, and an unmistakably sized bottle.
Cecelia clamped her teeth over her bottom lip nearly humming with anticipation.
He didn’t.
The box landed before her with an unceremonious thunk. “I believe ye once said ye couldna go without truffles and wine.”
A smile broke over her that seemed to spread through her entire body. Were she a spaniel, she’d have wagged her tail until it fell off.
Ramsay’s expression stalled for a moment, going carefully blank.
Cecelia did her best not to do something inappropriate to express the depth of her gratitude because the impulse to leap up and kiss him was almost overwhelming. “And here I thought you condemned my affinity for such indulgences.”
He gave her a droll look she ignored as she tore into the box.
“I shouldna want yer exile here to be entirely contemptible,” he said by way of flippant explanation.
“Chocolate and wine could make a heaven of hell,” Cecelia claimed before she sank her teeth into the dark, delectable dessert and moaned her approval, massaging the truffle against her palate with her tongue. “You must try one, or perhaps five. They’re delicious.”
The cork came free of the bottle with a louder pop than usual, causing her to jump a little.
Abashed, she held her fingers up to her lips as she laughed at her own startle, in case her teeth were stained with chocolate.
Instead of returning her smile, he frowned, his grip tight on the neck as he stared at her. “I just realized I doona have wineglasses, not even ale tankards.” He gestured to the meager shelves, empty now that they’d used the few bowls and the one plate for supper, apparently. “Ye’ll have to drink from the bottle.”
“How scandalous of me. How will you ever abide?” She swiped the proffered wine from him and inhaled deeply at the vintage. Sweet berries and cassis. Perhaps a bit young, and not aerated, but what did she care?
“Tonight we will drink like the common folk we were born to be,” she said, adopting an admittedly horrific lowbrow accent. She saluted Ramsay, and then sealed her lips over the bottle and tipped it back.
Smooth liquid poured into her mouth, sharp at first, before thickening to sweet, mingling with the chocolate until a dry velvet finish left her wanting more. She corked the rim with her tongue to enjoy the flavor of the first swallow before allowing a second flood of the lovely vintage.
Her appetite whetted, she unsealed her mouth. The bottle made a hollow audible sound, and she pressed her knuckles to the corner of her lip where a small rivulet of wine escaped with a vampiric drip down her chin.
Unsure of what to do next, she extended the bottle to Ramsay.
He made no move to take it. In fact, he stood before her, his gaze affixed to where the drop of wine had disappeared behind her knuckle. His features frozen into an expression she might have recognized as hunger.
“Would you like a taste?” she asked.
“Ye tempt me, woman.” His growl held a note of accusation.