My breath coming a little short, I bent my head to my oyster stew.
Ragul appeared not to have noticed; he added a large pat of butter to his bowl, shaking his head as he did so.
“Sawney’s what they say in the Highlands,” he informed me. “And in the Isles, too. Sandy’s more what ye’d hear in the Lowlands—or from an ignorant Sassenach.” He lifted one eyebrow at me, smiling, and raised a spoonful of the rich, fragrant stew to his mouth.
“All right,” I said. “I suppose more to the point, though—who am I?”
He had noticed, after all. I felt one large foot nudge mine, and he smiled at me over the rim of his cup.
“You’re my wife, Sassenach,” he said gruffly. “Always. No matter who I may be—you’re my wife.”
I could feel the flush of pleasure rise in my face, and see the memories of the night
