Catherine -
The kitchen was everything the formal dining rooms were not—warm, cluttered, alive with the kind of comfortable chaos that spoke of actual use rather than ceremonial display. Steam rose from pots that bubbled on the great hearth, the air thick with scents of rosemary and roasting meat that made my mouth water despite the complicated emotions churning in my stomach.
I'd refused Lord MacAllister's dinner invitation three hours ago, and the satisfaction I'd felt at that small act of defiance was still glowing in my chest like a banked coal.
Let him dine alone in his grand hall, I thought with perhaps more spite than dignity warranted. Let him understand that courtesy requires more than beautiful prison cells and carefully worded requests.
"Miss Catherine!" Mary looked up from
