Baird sipped grimly and true to her word, Elizabeth was back in record time. With a flourish, she slid a plate loaded to overflowing with eggs, bacon and sausages onto table in front of him. Baird eyed the three eggs and what looked like half a pound of meat with doubt.
Never mind the six slices of wafer thin toast.
His stomach rolled in protest, but he knew that anything less than cleaning the plate would hurt Elizabeth’s feelings. Even though she was paid, it was awfully good of Elizabeth to come all the way up here every morning, just to fix breakfast for himself and Julian.
“You’re sure you’re not wanting oatmeal this morning, Mr. Beauforte?” Elizabeth asked, her ruddy face wreathed with concern.
“No, really, Elizabeth, this is more than enough.” Baird patted his abdomen and smiled. “I’m not usually a big breakfast eater.”
She looked unconvinced. “First meal of the day, Mr. Beauforte, and the most important of the lot. You should see Talorc put the sausages away.”
Ah, so there was more than himself and Julian benefiting from Elizabeth’s culinary efforts.
“Really, Elizabeth, this is plenty. I don’t even know that I’ll be able to finish this.”
She leaned closer and twisted her hands in her apron as her voice dropped. “Mr. Beauforte, are you feeling well? It’s not right and proper for a man to be greeting the morning without an appetite. Talorc, now, he’ll eat twice this and then some if I don’t put a stop to it!”
It looked like Baird was going to need an excuse.
“Well, to tell the truth, I didn’t sleep well last night,” he confessed and Elizabeth clucked her tongue.
“I’ve just the thing for you, Mr. Beauforte!” She bustled back to the nook where her hotplate and toaster were rigged up and emerged victorious with a small jar. “Some of my sister Mary’s marmalade will have you set straight in no time.”
The marmalade jar in question landed on the table with a thump.
“Now, Mr. Beauforte, if you don’t mind me saying so, tonight as when you go to bed, you take a bit of Mary’s marmalade and you drop into a wee dram of whisky.”
The thought made Baird’s stomach roar an objection, but Elizabeth nodded sagely at his glance. “You try it, sir, and mark my word, in the morning, you’ll be fit as a fiddle.”
Baird couldn’t help but wonder what Mary put in her marmalade.
“Fit as a fiddle?” Talorc echoed cheerfully from the doorway. “Elizabeth, are you advising folks to be destroying good Scottish whisky again? How many times have I been telling you that’s blasphemy? Trust a woman to be spoiling the only decent pleasure left to a man!”
Elizabeth straightened and fired a scowl across the room that would have sent a lesser man running for cover. Talorc puffed up his chest and glared back at her, his blue eyes twinkling merrily.
Not only were they both disgustingly morning people, but the pair of them obviously loved to spar.
“Talorc! If you’re thinking that you can sniff around my skirts and get yourself another breakfast, then you’ve another think coming, sir! Off with you and see to Mr. Beauforte’s hedgerows. Mr. Beauforte isn’t paying you to eat every speck of food in his larder. Go on! Go on with you!”
When Talorc took a tentative step towards the kitchen nook, Elizabeth let loose a cry of protest. She snatched up her broom and chased Talorc back out into the foyer.
“Talorc Sinclair, you’re no better than a stray hound, coming into my kitchen begging for scraps…”
Baird shook his head and grimaced as he took another swig of coffee. The eggs weren’t going anywhere without his help.
What he wouldn’t give for a decent cup of coffee. Another fortifying sip and Baird picked up his fork.
Julian strolled into the room in full sartorial splendor, his olive double-breasted suit accented surprisingly well by his cardamom tie.
But despite his dapper dress, Julian looked how Baird felt.
“Oh, my head,” he groaned. “Have you got any aspirin?”
Baird touched his knife to the marmalade jar. “That’s the only cure-all around.”
“Jam. Processed sugar. That stuff will kill you.” Julian dropped into a chair and eyed Baird’s plate with a grimace. “Looks like you’ve got everything but the squeal.”
“Careful, careful,” Baird wagged his knife at his friend, immeasurably pleased to find that he wasn’t suffering alone. “If Elizabeth sees you, she’ll be loading up the frying pan.”
Julian shuddered. “Won’t she just. Why can’t the woman understand the simple fact that I’m a vegetarian?”
“It’s unnatural, laddie.” Baird tried his Scottish accent, but it was as bad as ever. They both winced, then Baird poked his fork at his legal counsel. “She’s trying to convert you. Or save you.”
“And not successfully either way. There’s enough grease on that plate to lube a midsize car.”
“It’s not that bad.” Two slices of something dark lurked beside the eggs. Baird couldn’t guess what it was, resolved it was some kind of sausage, and cut a slice.
Definitely sausage.
And kind of good. Baird cut another slice.
“Ooooh, Mr. Preston! There you are, looking as splendid as ever, our gentleman from Savile Row!” Elizabeth beamed from the doorway, her hands rubbing together in anticipation of more cooking to be done. “Will you be having eggs and sausages? The butcher has brought us some lovely haggis this morning.”
Baird froze mid-chew, suddenly certain of what he was eating.
His gaze flicked to Julian, who was not hiding his laughter very successfully. “And how is the haggis this morning, Mr. Beauforte?” he asked wickedly.
*
Chapter Twelve
Baird wasn’t quite so badly impaired that he would miss such an opening.
“Very, very good,” he said enthusiastically, then turned to their expectant cook. “You know, Elizabeth, I’m certain that Julian would just love this haggis. We might make a meat-eater of him yet!”
“Oh, truly!” Elizabeth smiled with delight at the prospect. “It’ll just be a moment, Mr. Julian! You stay right there!”
“I only want coffee!” Julian wailed as she disappeared into her nook. He glared at Baird. “You get to eat the haggis.”
“Mmm, are you sure?” Baird granted his friend a knowing look. “If I eat yours, she’ll be convinced that you loved it.”
“And if I don’t touch it, she’ll be insulted.” Julian gritted his teeth. “Thank you very much.”
“What are friends for?” Baird was feeling much livelier as he refilled his coffee cup.
Elizabeth trotted back to the table with a cup and saucer and a second steaming thermos of coffee. One thing she had learned about “her Americans” was their need for copious quantities of caffeine.
Regardless of its quality. Julian rolled his eyes and poured as Elizabeth trotted away.
“She’s in her element,” Baird whispered with a wink.
“Like I wasn’t last night. Guess I lost that bet, hmmm?” Julian took a swig of coffee as Baird nodded.
“Oh yeah.”
“Well, the consolation prize will be seeing the state of your princess this morning,” the lawyer said grimly. “If we even see her at all.”
“I bet you will.”
Julian fired a dark glance at Baird. “No more bets, at least until I get rid of the hangover.”
“Don’t underestimate her. She wasn’t very drunk when she went to bed.”
“Mmm. All that vile pizza probably soaked up the booze. Or she’s got a cast-iron gut.” Julian shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. “Too bad you can’t say as much for her sanity.”
Baird frowned, unable to explain his desire to defend this woman who thought so little of his character. “She’s had a shock, apparently from losing her father.”
“She’s wacko.” Julian waved his cup for emphasis.
“I don’t think so.” Baird frowned. “It’s all very logical,
if you start from her premise.”
“Which would be?”
“That she’s the daughter of Hekod the Fifth.”
“That would be Hekod the Fifth, King of Dunhelm and Lord of Fyordskar.” Julian grimaced. “Nobody I’ve ever heard of.”
Baird indicated the book Talorc had leant him with one finger. “Hekod was an eighth century Viking who conquered Dunhelm and married a Pictish woman.”
Julian’s glance slid to the book, then swivelled back to Baird. “You don’t see any logical problems with her thinking her father is over a thousand years old?”
Baird shrugged. “If you start from the premise, her behavior makes sense. The clothing, her not understanding the taps in her room, not knowing what wine or pizza is. It’s all logical - an eighth century person wouldn’t understand these things.”
Julian leaned forward and his eyes gleamed. “An eighth century person would be really, really dead by now.”
Baird grinned despite himself. “I know, I know, she’s not an eighth century person, obviously, but she thinks she is, and everything she does follows from that.”
Julian looked skeptical. He coughed. “I hate to spoil this theory that Aurelia is perfectly sane except for one comparatively minor delusion -” he widened his eyes to show his judgment of that “- but only a lunatic would accept the premise that they were actually over a thousand years old.”
Baird stabbed a sausage. “Yeah, well, there is a little glitch in the system there. She and her father must have been really close. I wish we could help her somehow.”
“A little good PR for the grand opening?”
Baird scowled. “This has nothing to do with PR.”
“Wow!” Julian shook his head. “I must be hungover. That sounded like the second time in less than a day that you’d said ‘forget PR’. What’s that now, twice in your life?”
“Laugh if you want,” Baird growled. “She needs someone.”
“Doesn’t have to be you.”
Baird frowned, not liking the idea of anyone else helping Aurelia, though he couldn’t explain why to his own satisfaction. “Dunhelm is my property, which makes this my responsibility.”
“And never was there a nobler impulse.” Julian drank his coffee thoughtfully. “She certainly is entertaining, I’ll give you that. I’d pay good money to see her bait Marissa again.”
Baird fired a glance at his legal counsel. “You two really have to get over that.”
Julian’s answering glare was just as sharp. “Well, I don’t see that happening before you get married to someone else and put an end to Marissa’s ambitions.”
Baird felt his expression turn sour at another mention of marriage so soon after his nightmare. “Marriage is not an agenda item. You know that.”
“Then, neither is Marissa and I settling our differences.”
Before Baird could comment, Elizabeth gasped from behind them. “Oh, and who might this little Gemdelovely be?”
Baird choked on his haggis. His fork clattered to the table as he spun in shock.
It was Aurelia, of course.
Baird’s heart thumped. Aurelia was dressed the same way as the night before, although this time her hair hung in one long braid down her back. She looked disgustingly well-rested.
“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” Baird muttered.
“Fourth foster mother?”
“Fifth.”
“Mmm. Mrs. Morning Sunshine, didn’t you call her?” Julian drank deeply of his coffee.
Didn’t it just figure that Aurelia showed no ill effects after the night before? Baird forced himself to turn back to his breakfast, retrieved his fork, and determinedly ignored Julian’s obvious inquisitiveness about his response.
“Good morning. But my name is Aurelia, not Gemdelovely.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Oh, lass, that’s what we call all the pretty lasses up thisaway. On account of the story, as you know.”
“The story?”
Baird’s ears pricked with curiosity but he wasn’t going to turn around again. He ploughed through his eggs with purpose.
“Oh, you’ll have to be having one of the old ones tell the tale, for they know it best.” Elizabeth rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “Aurelia! Such a lovely name! Could I be getting you a wee breakfast, lass?”
“Yes, please! I am quite hungry.”
Hungry? Baird met Julian’s astonished gaze across the table, certain his own was just as surprised.
“She must have a tapeworm,” Julian declared and buried his nose in his coffee cup. Baird chuckled mid-sip at the unexpected conclusion and snorted some of his coffee.
“Serves you right,” Julian muttered unsympathetically. “Haggis.”
“Well, then, lass, you’ll be wanting a good hot bowl of oatmeal before your eggs. With bacon or sausages or both? Would you like a bit of haggis?”
“Must I choose?”
“Of course not, lass, there’s plenty to eat! There’s coffee on the table, lass, and I’ll be right along. Don’t you fret, Mr. Preston, I’ve not forgotten you!”
Elizabeth scampered away, quite beside herself with excitement.
“How’s your head?” Julian asked wryly as Aurelia came to the table.
She blinked confusion at him and settled into a seat. “My head?”
“From the wine.”
Aurelia looked to Baird, her eyes wide. “I do not understand.”
“Oh no,” Baird winced at the childishly high pitch of her voice and waved his fork at her impatiently. “None of that today. You may be nuts, but we know you’re not stupid.”
He pushed the plate away, the better part of his breakfast untouched and growled into his coffee cup. “Don’t play that game with me today, princess.”
Aurelia’s frown deepened and to Baird’s relief, her voice lowered slightly. “But I still do not understand.”
“The wine!” Julian confirmed expansively. “We drank a lot of it. We were drunk! Falling down drunk. Doesn’t your head hurt? Mine is killing me.”
“You are a fragile sort for a priest,” Aurelia said scathingly. “A sore head from fruit juice.” She rolled her eyes, then examined Baird’s abandoned plate with obvious interest. “Are you going to eat that?”
“No. Do you want it?”
Aurelia tucked in as soon as Baird pushed the plate her way. She used neither knife nor fork, to his surprise. She ate even the eggs with her fingers by sliding each one carefully onto a piece of toast. She was quite graceful about it and both men watched with fascination as she methodically cleaned the plate.
Baird had to hand it to her - she never missed a beat.
“What is the matter with you?” Aurelia asked, looking from one to the other. “Have neither of you learned to eat with any grace?”
Before Baird could summon an answer to that, Elizabeth appeared at his elbow, her hands buried in thick plaid potholders.
“Oh, lass! I’ve just brought your oatmeal and you’ll be all filled up!” Elizabeth was obviously crestfallen, but Aurelia accepted the steaming bowl appreciatively.
“It smells wonderful!”
“And here’s a cup for your coffee, lass. Mr. Preston, here’s your oatmeal, as well.” Elizabeth folded her hands together, her eyes hopeful. “Unless you’ll be wanting tea? Talorc always has a hot cup of tea in the morning.”
Aurelia flicked a glance over the woman’s expression, then smiled. “I would love to have this tea,” she said graciously and Elizabeth, transported with delight, raced back to her kettle.
Aurelia looked to the men and shrugged philosophically. “It was of such import to her,” she murmured, then slid a spoon into Elizabeth’s trademark oatmeal.
The substance was so thick that Baird was convinced they could use it for mortar on the brickwork. He had only faced it with success once and was not entirely sure that it was edible.
But Aurelia’s oatmeal disappeared in record time. Julian was slower but when Aurelia cast a longing glance at h
is bowl, he possessively pulled it closer. “You can have my haggis,” he muttered, and Aurelia’s eyes lit up.
She eyed Baird for a long moment. “Your charm is markedly lacking this morn,” she commented finally, then tilted her head to watch him like a perky sparrow. “Are you irked with me?”
“He’s just not a morning kind of guy,” Julian confided. “His bark is definitely worse than his bite.” He eyed his employer. “Though today, he’s barking - and looking - a bit worse than usual.”
“Thanks for the character reference.”
“Least I could do.” Julian smirked.
“I thought perhaps you might have slept poorly,” Aurelia suggested quietly. She watched Baird steadily, her blue gaze seeming to see more than Baird would have liked.
He actually felt like fidgeting.
“Were you troubled by dreams last night, King Bard?” she asked softly, her eyes wide. “I had a most unusual one, myself.”
Baird’s heart lurched, but her fathomless eyes revealed nothing. How could she know?
She couldn’t!
Baird jabbed a finger through the air at the woman he knew was the source of his troubles. “Let’s get one thing straight, princess. I don’t dream.”
“But everyone dreams,” she protested. “It is a natural part of sleep…”
Baird impaled her with his sternest glance, the one he had perfected in the boardroom and which sent most men running for cover.
Aurelia didn’t even flinch.
“I don’t dream,” Baird insisted. “Never have. Never will. And that’s final.”
Aurelia frowned, but Elizabeth brought the teapot in that moment. Although Aurelia looked unimpressed at first sip of the beverage, once she had dropped a third of the sugar bowl’s contents into her cup, she seemed to like it more.
Baird told himself that he was irritable not only because it was morning, but that his head hurt and, just to add insult to injury, the one who had drunk the most showed the fewest ill effects.
Maybe it was just his headache making him more grumpy than usual. He sipped his coffee, well aware that he had affected the mood at the table.
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