Sure, she had eaten a roasted pig, apple in its mouth and all, in Hawaii at a luau, though when they served the meat, she didn’t see them carving it from the poor pig. And she’d been a long way from the table where the pig was. The night had been upon them, torches wavering in the oceanic breeze, and the pig not even visible.

Everyone observed her, waiting to see her reaction. She had to put on a great show, though this would be tougher than she’d thought.

“Over here,” Grant said, guiding her to the head table, and yes, he sat her right in front of said pig. The only good thing was that she was seated smack dab in the center of it, not at the tail end or where she had to look at its snout.

Then she noted she had a huge portion of blood pudding and haggis sitting in the middle of her…trencher? A piece of brown bread was being used for a plate as in early medieval times. Come on. They couldn’t be living that far in the past. Where were the plates? The silverware? She was dying of thirst and was looking forward to drinking a cold glass of water. She hoped Grant wouldn’t serve honeyed mead or ale on top of everything else.

A servant carved slices of pig for Grant and her.

“We bring our own knives,” Grant said as if he could read her mind and handed her his sharp-looking knife. “Sgian dubh,” he said. Then he took another knife, stabbed his slice of pork with it, and began to eat off it like a barbarian!

No forks. No spoons. No napkins. No plates. And no glasses of water.

Tankards of… She sniffed at her drink. Whisky. Great. She didn’t drink anything harder than sweet, syrupy, fluffy drinks like margaritas, daiquiris, and on occasion, a minty green grasshopper. And no straight-up alcohol.

She’d never get through a meal if she had to drink from a huge tankard of whisky, especially with as many hours as had passed since she’d last eaten and the jet lag she was suddenly feeling. She’d be under the table in a flash.

***

Grant almost felt sorry for the lass when he saw her eyeing the pig. Colleen put on a face that said it didn’t bother her, but her scent told him a different story. Yet he couldn’t back down now. He hadn’t expected her to be so…accepting of him and his attempts at unsettling her. She really was remarkable in the way she had handled the fighting, him, the dogs, and now the pig. He couldn’t help but admire her for it.

His people watched him as much as they did her, judging for themselves if he could go through with this. As their leader, he had to lead by example. Yet, he was already feeling somewhat guilty. When did he get to be so indulgent?

To her credit, she’d eaten some of the blood pudding and haggis. Not even he could eat as much as was piled on her trencher. Had he told the staff to use trenchers of bread? He hadn’t recalled going that far.

One of his clansmen, serving as bard, told bawdy jokes that would shock any woman to the core. Colleen smiled and laughed with the rest of them, not acting as though any of it disconcerted her.

She’d enjoyed the pork, pretending that the sight of the dwindling pig didn’t bother her. But the whisky seemed to give her pause. If she thought she’d come to tell him how to do his job, then she should be able to hold her whisky, just like anyone who had been in charge in the past. Even her grandmother, Neda.

He motioned for the carcass to be taken away. Men carried it off, and the dogs ran after them, interested in the scraps they dropped on the stone floor as they headed for the kitchen.

“You don’t like our whisky?” Grant asked, sounding as though she was insulting him by not drinking it.

She’d taken a small sip and then tried hard not to choke on it. Her eyes flushed with tears, and her cheeks grew red. He wanted to slap her on the back, treating her like one of the warriors, and say, “Well done.” But he kept his hands and his words to himself.

“It’s good,” she said, her voice a little rough.

“Do you not drink it at home? Any Scotsman worth his salt drinks whisky. Or…” He gave a dramatic pause. “Do you drink it with water? No good Scotsman dilutes his whisky in such a manner.” He had figured she wouldn’t be able to drink any of it.

It was the smoothest brand they had, so he would rather not waste it on the woman if she couldn’t manage it. He just wanted her to admit that she was not a true Scotswoman and, though she owned the castle, she would never be one of them.

She kept sipping it, taking a lengthy break, then clearing her throat and trying again. He had to admire her for keeping up the pretense. Then he frowned at her. He didn’t want her to feel bullied into drinking the whisky and become sick over it. She was supposed to acknowledge he was right and leave well enough alone. What if she never drank any liquor and had a fatal overdose? That wouldn’t do.

“Bring the lass a tankard of water,” he ordered one of his men, not wanting to sound desperate, but he must have because all of a sudden every eye was on him and the lass.

“Are you all right?” Ian asked Colleen.

Grant noticed then that she was no longer sitting up tall and straight. In fact, she listed to the side. His side.

Without warning, she fell over and planted her head in his lap. No one said a word, wisely, as all eyes remained on him, waiting to see how he would handle the matter.

Bloody. Hell.

He hadn’t expected her to pass out. Why couldn’t she have just admitted she couldn’t handle the liquor and given up the deception that she could?

He sat there for the longest time—at least it seemed that way to him—as he tried to decide what to do next. Her head was resting on his groin, which had a mind of its own as it began to react to the woman’s touch.