“Ah, aye, I remember that sermon. He attributed that little bit of wisdom to the Apostle Roger, as I recall.”
Hearing the laughter in his voice, Lara cocked a brow at him as she dried her hands. “And ye didnae believe the good Father?”
“I dinnae recall there being an Apostle Roger, although I confess Malcolm is the Biblical scholar in the family.” He shook his head. “I think Father Ambrose makes up these lessons and just claims they’re in the Scriptures.”
Lara had long suspected the same. Still, she arranged her features into disapproval and tsked. “Shame on ye, Alistair, for insinuating our priest would fabricate a parable just to ensure his flock’s health and happiness!”
“I dinnae insinuate it!” he declared, holding his hands up in front of him and shaking his head. “I would never!” His defensive expression melted into a smile. “I flat-out declared it.”
They shared a grin.
Father Ambrose had joined them shortly after Malcolm had married Evelinde. Although nothing had been officially stated, the more observant of the clan often noted the striking similarity of features between Evelinde and Ambrose, especially the bright green eyes they both shared. ‘Twas assumed by some the priest was Alistair’s new sister-in-law’s father.
The Oliphant had offered the jolly Father a spot at Oliphant Castle, since their own priest had been recently, at the time, laid to rest. Ambrose had settled in quite well, and was known for his many nuggets of wisdom, such as, “Dinnae count yer chickens afore they’re hatched, for they might all die gruesomely from some auge ye dinnae account for, or might no’ hatch at all, and then where would ye be? Holding a bunch of rotten eggs. Who’s hungry? I could go for an omelet.”
When he’d uttered that lesson, and attributed it to having come straight from the Bible, Lara had had to actually cover her mouth to smother her giggles. And beside her in the chapel, her mother had snorted softly in laughter. Neither of them had any idea what an omelet was, but they’d made the good Father some eggs that afternoon.
“Father Ambrose cares about us all,” she said, still smiling as she cracked two eggs into a second bowl. “And I admire the fact he doesnae just care about our spiritual well-being.” Most of his lessons were about how to stay healthy, or how to live in peace with one’s neighbor. “I suspect the Oliphants will be better off for him being here.”
“I ken they will be. Let us hope he’s with us for many more years. ‘Twould be good for the next generation—our children—to be raised with such wisdom.”
The mention of his children—our children—sent a shiver through Lara. Since the laird’s declaration, she’d known Alistair would have to be married, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to stand it if he wooed another woman under her very nose.
When she’d discovered he’d asked his twin brother, Kiergan, to do the wooing—to find him a wife, since he was so busy—Lara had put her foot down. She was close with Kiergan, as close as any woman could be to a rake like him and not actually be in his bed, she supposed, and she confronted him. She’d told him if he so much as dared to woo a woman for his brother, she’d see to it he never got another berry tart for as long as she was in charge of the menus.
That was a real threat, as far as he was concerned, and he’d told Alistair he couldn’t help.
But Lara…? Lara had known she could help. And the other day, in Alistair’s solar, she had.
“What are ye doing with the eggs?”
Right. Focus, lass, she reminded herself. “I have to beat them first, see? Then I take a piece of the chicken and dunk it in the egg, getting it nice and goopy.” She demonstrated.
“Goopy?”
“ ’Tis a technical term among cooks.”
“Ah, I see.” His tone was teasing, and it made her heart feel lighter. “And then?”
“Then I plop it into the bowl with the spices.” Her fingers were clumped with egg, but that didn’t stop her from making sure the strip of meat was well-covered. “This is mainly flour, but there’s also salt and ground garlic, and a few other herbs.”
“Like the thyme.”
“Aye, it adds flavor. Look how the egg causes the flour and herbs to stick to and coat the chicken.” She moved quickly, dunking and coating all of the strips of chicken she’d cut.
“Now what?”
She threw a smile over her shoulder as she headed for the wash basin. “Just following the holy Father’s mandates. Raw chicken and all that.”
He chuckled. “Ye’re making me feel dirty, Lara. Mayhap I should’ve washed after my morning ride?”
“Nay,” she blurted, then offered a smile, as well as a blush. “I think ye smell fine. I mean—” Gah. “There’s naught wrong with a little leather and horse and sunshine.”
He’d blinked when she’d cried her denial as she had, but as Lara blundered through an explanation, his lips slowly curled upward. “Well, aright then.”
Her cheeks still flushed—part embarrassment, part pleasure, part heat—she hurried toward the hearth and the pan she’d set to heating there. The fire had long ago melted the fat into a layer of liquid, and now she flicked some water into the pan. It sizzled, telling her the fat was hot enough.
“Now, we fry the pieces,” she declared, bringing her board over to the hearth and placing the chicken in the hot oil. It spat and sizzled, but she worked fast and avoided being burned.
He came to stand beside her, and as she used a long tool to flip, then remove the meat, he held a plate for her to place them on. The strips of chicken were dripping with the hot oil, and the whole cavernous kitchen smelled delicious.
The two of them sat together at the small table in the corner, the plate between them.
“Ye first,” he insisted, staring dubiously at the fried, breaded chicken strips.
She nodded firmly, knowing these would be
