*Cait*
The scent of peat smoke and porridge clings to the air as I break a hunk of oatcake and dip it into my bowl.
Rory passes me the honey with a smirk. “Here, you’ll need this.”
He’s still not quite used to the food we eat in this era—claims he misses something called McDonald’s breakfast.
“Are you missing your McDonald’s breakfast this morning?” I ask, raising a brow.
“Perhaps,” he says, that familiar twinkle in his eye.
Duncan leans in with a shrug. “I don’t see the difference. McDonald sounds Scottish to me.”
Rory laughs and bumps his knee lightly against mine under the table. I let it stay there longer than I should.
Before I can think of a sharp reply, the door creaks open and a messenger lad steps in.
“I bring word from Drummond. Laird Lachlan Drummond,” he announces.
