Drop It Like It's Scot (The Hots for Scots Book 5)

by Caroline Lee

  Lara chuckled to herself as she darted toward the far corner of the kitchen’s herb garden. She always needed more time, it seemed like. Since she was a young girl, she’d helped her mother run this household; cleaning, supervising Cook, coming up with menus, overseeing servants.

  And now she had two more jobs: planning Laird Oliphant’s birthday celebration, and helping Alistair relax.

  But she’d make time for that!

  Smiling to herself, she began to snip off springs of thyme with her fingernail and drop them into the small basket she had looped over her arm. Alistair was worth all her time, and more. If she could just teach him to slow down, to enjoy life, she’d consider that particular task a success.

  It had been two days since she’d scurried from his solar, embarrassed and proud of what she’s accomplished, all at once. She hadn’t set out that morning to track him down and force him to masturbate…it had just seemed like the right thing at the time.

  When she’d given him the idea of giving up control, she hadn’t been quite certain how to prove the effectiveness…until he’d directed her to get on her knees. The command had been humiliating, aye, but she’d done it to show him how. And his reaction—his confession he hadn’t liked that kind of power—had been all the impetus she’d needed.

  And besides, watching him fook his own hand had long been a fantasy of hers.

  How many times had she snuck through the secret passages, hoping to find him alone in his solar, touching himself? The naked calisthenics were almost as good, but Lord bless her! When he’d taken himself in hand, she hadn’t been able to look away.

  His member was almost as long and thick as Treenis, and watching his hand stroke himself had almost been her undoing. It had been so coarse and crude, and utterly and completely enthralling, Lara had almost come undone then and there herself, with her hands on her nipples.

  She’d had to hurry out, aye, not because she didn’t want to be around him, but because she needed to find some privacy in order to relieve her own arousal.

  Lara realized she was crushing a sprig of thyme between her fingers, and her breaths were coming in harsh pants. Just the memory was enough to send liquid heat pooling between her legs! Blessed Virgin, ‘twould be difficult to see Alistair again and not think of him in that chair. ‘Twould be difficult to work with him on his father’s birthday celebration!

  “I hoped I’d find ye here.”

  His voice!

  Lara whirled around, the thyme still clenched in her fist, her breath suddenly stuck in her throat. ‘Twas him! Alistair was sauntering toward her along the path from the outer gate, one corner of his lips tugged upward.

  He looked more relaxed than she’d ever seen him.

  Had she done that?

  “Mi—milord,” she managed, dropping a quick curtsey.

  To her surprise, he rolled his eyes, and his smile turned wry. “Dinnae treat me like that, Lara,” he declared, as he stopped before her.

  And then he touched her.

  ‘Twas a simple touch, just his fingertips on her elbow. She could barely feel it through the layers of her gown, but still…there was a warmth—nay, an intense heat!—just as she always knew there would be.

  “Dinnae call me milord, Lara, no’ when I’ve heard ye call me Alistair.”

  Alistair, touch yerself.

  The memory, and the knowledge in his blue eyes, had her flushing.

  I did that to him. For him.

  And judging from his easy smile now, it was still working.

  “As ye wish, Alistair,” she conceded, answering his smile with a small one of her own. “I’ll treat ye as my best friend’s older brother, aye?”

  His eyelids lowered just slightly, giving him an aroused, intimate expression. “I’d rather ye treat me as a man, and I treat ye as a woman.” He lowered his chin and gave her a significant look.

  Oh.

  Oh, Blessed Virgin. Blessed Virgin!

  Sucking in a breath, Lara tried to get her arousal—her entire body, thankyeverramuch—under control. It wasn’t easy.

  There had to be something she could say in response to that delicious, delightful claim. Something which didn’t involve him thinking of her as a woman, pause, significant look. Something which didn’t involve his hands on her skin, or his lips, even better. Something which didn’t involve his penis. His shaft. His hardness. His—

  “Cock!” she blurted.

  When his eyes widened, she shook her head, aware her heart was beating far too fast, and her tongue had apparently developed a mind of its own. Time to get it under control.

  “I mean, chicken,” she babbled, trying to cover her mistake. “Yer sister told me I shouldnae bother ye with talk of chickens, but since ‘tis my idea for the menu, I thought mayhap ye’d like to— God’s Blood, I’m making a mess of this.”

  His expression had softened once more, and now he smiled, dropping his hand. “I’d love to hear yer thoughts on the menu, Lara.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “And seeing as how I havenae eaten, I’ll be happy to help while I do.”

  Flushing again—in pleasure, she assured herself—Lara led the way to the kitchen’s door, trying to pretend everything was normal, and she hadn’t always dreamed of Alistair Oliphant appearing in her kitchen, asking to see what she was working on.

  “Ye can sit there,” she offered, nodding to a stool near the table where she was working. The kitchen was empty this time of the morning; Cook and her helpers had since cleaned up from the morning porridge, but were not yet ready to prepare the main meal, and Alistair glanced around the room as he sat.

  “What has ye out of the castle so early this morning?” she asked, as she arranged the thyme on a board and picked up her knife.

  “I went for a ride.”

  Surprised, she glanced up at him and caught his slight smile. “I’m glad,” she said, remembering the way he used to ride each morning. “ ’Tis good to take time for yerself.”

  “Aye,” he drawled. “I was recently reminded I needed to take time to relax.”

  Her own lips pulled upward as she bent over the herb, chopping it into tinier pieces. “Whoever told ye that must be verra smart.”

  “Or care about me verra much.”

  The knife froze. “Aye,” she managed to rasp, before resuming her chopping.

  “So…” He cleared his throat, obviously searching for a topic of conversation less charged. “What are ye making?”

  Ah, this she could speak about!

  “Chicken. I’m frying it up.”

  “Really?” From the corner of her eye, she saw him shift forward. “Does that no’ make it tough?”

  Deftly, she scooped the thyme from her chopping board and dumped it into a bowl she’d already prepared with her flour and spices. “The secret is to use a young chicken,” she told him. “The pullet’s meat is still tender.”

  “But for every pullet ye sacrifice to yer hot oil, ‘tis one less animal to lay eggs in the coming months.”

  “True.” She pushed aside the bowl and reached for the chicken she’d already killed and plucked. “ ’Tis why the dish is so special. I thought yer father might enjoy it for his meal.”

  Alistair propped his elbow on the table and leaned his chin onto it. “I’ll reserve judgement until I taste this special dish.”

  Chuckling, Lara nodded. “Fair enough. Do ye want to help?”

  “Nay.” When she glanced at him, he was eyeing her hips. “I think I’d prefer to just watch.”

  He realized he’d been caught staring, but his unapologetic grin told her he didn’t mind at all.

  Heavens, he had changed, had he no’? This side of Alistair was so much more relaxed, at ease…much like the man he used to be. The man she remembered from when she was younger.

  He wanted to watch? Well, she could certainly accommodate him. After all, she’d watched him do all sorts of interesting things.

  With the back of her hand, Lara brushed her long, blonde braid out of the way a
nd offered him a grin. “Then prepare to be amazed!”

  “I think I shall,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping over her.

  His words should have embarrassed her, but instead, Lara felt like laughing. She was in her element, creating new dishes, and he was here! Just as she’d always dreamed.

  So ‘twas in something of a daze that she began to chop the chicken, narrating her actions as she did. “I’m going to use small strips of the meat for this. I got the idea from one of Cook’s stories. Ye ken she believes in roasting everything she can get her hands on, which is delicious, I admit, but there’s just something about hot fat which traps the moisture in.”

  “And I’ll wager it adds a different flavor.”

  “Aye!” She shot him a grin as she finished slicing the meat from the pullet’s breast. “I’m using hog fat today, which is a flavor all its own.”

  Before she moved to the next step, she went over to the basin of water and grabbed the soap.

  “Ye’re fastidious,” he commented, as if surprised, as she washed her hands.

  Chuckling, she shook her head. “Nae more than the next woman. But Father Ambrose was verra clear on the dangers of no’ washing yer hands after handling raw chicken.”

  “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 delicious. Aye, it burned her fingers a bit when she picked up a strip, but she blew on it, then took a dainty bite. The flavors—salt and bacon grease! Mm!—burst across her tongue, and she didn’t bother hiding her soft moan of pleasure.

  He snatched up a piece himself, blew on it, then bit into it. His eyes widened, and with the meat still in his mouth, uttered, “St. Elzear’s sacred kneecaps, lass!”

  Giggling, she took another bite, then another, and had to agree with him. ‘Twas saint-invokingly good!

  “Mm!” he declared, popping one finger into his mouth to suck off the last of the flavor. Her eyes were riveted to that fingertip and those lips. When he pulled it out with an audible pop, she shivered.

  “Ye like it?” she asked shyly, trying to keep her attention on her own chicken strip.

  “I love it. I think ‘tis amazing like this, but imagine the possibilities!”

  “What—what possibilities?
” She risked a glance up and found him grinning.

  He shrugged. “I imagine this travels fairly well, aye? We could pack it with us and take it on journeys to eat cold! We could smash it between two pieces of bread to keep our hands clean!”

  Caught up in his excitement, she chuckled. “With a pickle? Mayhap some sauce of some sort?”

  “We could call it a…a chicken sandwi— Nay, ‘tis a ridiculous word. Mayhap…a chicken-smashed-between-two-pieces-of-bread!” he declared triumphantly.

  Giggling, she picked up another piece. “That sounds delicious. We’ve created a brand-new kind of cuisine, for certes”

  “Nay, Lara, ye did.” His voice—and expression—turned soft. “I was just lucky to be here when it happened.”

  The admiration in his tone warmed her as much as his gaze did. Instead of flushing in pleasure, however, she lifted her chin and accepted his praise. She knew she was a good cook, and she liked experimenting. Now he knew it too, and he liked it as well.

  Which was, all things considered, absolutely wonderful.

  “So, do ye think yer da will like it?”

  “I think Da will love it. However…” Alistair frowned down at the remaining pieces between them.

  “Aye?”

  “I dinnae ken if, logistically, we can afford to slaughter enough pullets to feed the entire clan this amazing treat.”

  He had a point, though it was one she’d already considered. The young chicken she’d culled from the flock this morning would serve to feed the two of them, plus the kitchen staff later today. But ‘twould take many dozens of chickens to serve the whole clan at the celebration, and these were not seasoned egg-layers, but pullets who had not yet served their purpose.

  It would be considered wasteful and would likely ruin the festive tone of the event.

  So the smile she offered was a little hesitant. “Well, between the two of us, I’m sure we’ll come up with a solution. Working together, I mean.”

  “Aye.” His lips tugged up on one side in that adorably wry smile she hadn’t seen in so long. “Together.”

  Blessed Virgin, but ‘twas nice to see him this way: teasing, happy, and so relaxed.

  And all it had taken was a morning ride and a piece of fried chicken.