by Mariah Stone
“’Tis nae to yer liking, lass, ye clean it. My food is fine whether ’tis clean or nae. Ye even heard of my lamb roast. I must be doin’ somethin’ right if strangers ken my cooking. Aye?”
She shook her head. “Sure. I’ll clean. Can you at least point to clean water, a bucket, and something to clean with? A cloth maybe?”
He removed the apron and threw it on the floor.
“Find all that yerself. I wilna lift a finger to help someone insulting my kitchen.”
Chapter 8
Ian helped Kate find the things she needed for cleaning and brought fresh water from the well into the water barrel.
He went out to take care of his father’s body and start the arrangements for the funeral. Kate found some lye soap and vinegar, which she knew from somewhere was good for disinfecting things. After a couple of hours, the kitchen was as clean as she could make it. She’d used most of the water from the barrel.
The drain for the dirty kitchen water was a hole in the wall and she wondered where it went. She hoped not into the loch.
Her hands and lower back aching, her head spinning, she sat down on the stool to take a breath. What could she cook?
She’d looked in the cauldron before and seen that several things were boiling there wrapped in linen sachets: vegetables in one, eggs in another, and pork in the third. She’d removed them from the boiling water when she’d thought they were ready. Now turnips, eggs, and meat lay on the clean cutting board staring at her expectantly.
She looked around. Herbs hung in bunches suspended from the ceiling. Fish hung drying in the corners of the fireplace.
She went to look in the pantry. There were more eggs, and vegetables lay there already drying up and partly spoiled. Sacks of flour stood in the corners. There was also a bit of butter, cottage cheese, and milk in clay jars.
The milk was probably unpasteurized…
Pasteurized?
That was when the milk had been heated to kill the germs, she heard in the back of her mind. Again that word “germs,” something that made the men think she was a witch.
She sighed.
Looking at what she had, she could make a meat pie. There was enough butter for puff pastry dough, and she’d use the boiled pork—she’d mince it and fry it with some onions and garlic and make mashed turnips with some potatoes… Oh there weren’t any potatoes…or carrots for that matter. There were beans and peas, and she’d use them another time. But some mashed turnips with butter and salt would do nicely.
She had no idea how she knew that, but she knew. She got to work making the dough with some whole wheat flour, water, and butter. She minced the pork. There weren’t any pans for frying and no stove, anyway, so she’d have to settle for using the meat and vegetables boiled. She found some dry parsley and cumin but no salt.
Somehow her hands knew what to do. And something inside of her told her how much flour, butter, and water to use, and how to knead the dough, how much meat she’d need for the pie, and how to form it. How to chop the onion and the wild garlic.
More than that, she enjoyed the process. She loved every part of it, even peeling and the hard work of kneading. She knew instinctively how the food would taste and also how to make it better. And she loved it.
She made four pies to use all of the meat available. She was sure there would be enough eaters for that many pies, and even if something was left, it would be better to have things cooked considering the lack of refrigeration.
Refrigeration…that big, clunky metal thing she’d seen in that kitchen in her mind.
She shook her head, willing the memories to fade away. She looked at the oven dubiously. How would she light it? Her hands itched to reach out for a round handle and turn it to 375 degrees Fahrenheit to preheat.
She needed someone to help her light the oven. While the pies baked, she’d make the mashed turnips. With the eggs, they’d be great tomorrow for breakfast.
Coffee…
She hadn’t had coffee for what felt like ages. She missed the pungent, rich, roasted taste.
Could that be a hallucination, too? Could she have really imagined all those vivid details, the tastes, the smells? Something told her they were way too real to be just in her head. But wouldn’t a crazy person think exactly that?
Was she really going insane?
No point of thinking of it now. The best thing she could do was to act. She released a long breath, stood up, and went outside. She found a teenage boy who was carrying firewood to the great hall and asked him to light the oven for her. Once he’d done so, she put the pies in there and closed the door. Then she set to peeling the boiled turnips and mashing them with butter. Then she added spices for flavor.
Soon, the pies were ready, and she took them out, inhaling the savory aroma.
The mouthwatering smell that came from the kitchen made Ian stop, turn around, and enter. “Lass, if ye’re going to cook something as good as this smell every day, I’m going to need to keep ye captive here.”
She turned, her face lit up. She was so breathtakingly beautiful, her cheeks flushed from the heat and work, strands of blond hair framing her face, her eyes shining. It was the first time he’d seen her as happy as she was now.
“This kitchen has never smelled better,” he said, and what he meant was, the cook had never looked better.
Fool. What was he doing, thinking of her like that? He’d just told himself he couldn’t have feelings for the lass. He couldn’t have feelings for anyone. He needed to concentrate on the estate. Clearly, his father, bless his soul, hadn’t been managing it at all.
From talking to Crazy Mary and the few servants who still worked here, things were bad. And not just in the house, with the tenants, too. Of course, they didn’t know the details, but those were the rumors. Both Dundail and its lord had been in decay for some time.
Uncared for.
And Ian didn’t think he cared, either. He would do what he could, of course, but the last thing he wanted was to chase after the tenants and the tacksmen and collect rent.
He wanted peace. To be left alone.
His eyes fell on the four round, golden pastries which were probably the source of the divine smell.
“Are those meat pies?” he asked.
“Yes.” She smiled. “You were right, I think I am a cook, Ian—although we’ll need to judge that once we try the pies.”
His stomach growled, and he realized how hungry he was.
“Let me be the judge then,” he said, took the knife and then cut a piece.
It steamed, but Ian bit into it. He swore from the burning in his mouth and on his tongue but continued chewing. It melted in his mouth, the taste a divine combination of meat and soft-crunchy pastry. It was savory and a little sweet at the same time, rich in flavor and a little pungent from the garlic and onion.
“Oh, Jesu and Mary, this is delicious,” he mumbled through a full mouth. “Ye are a cook, Katie. And what a cook…”
Her face changed.
“Katie?” she said.
Ian coughed, realizing he’d called her a nickname he had no right to call her. Something a husband would call a wife or a brother his sister—something intimate and loving, and not for a lord and his servant.
Something he wasn’t looking for.
“Forgive me, lass,” he said, shoving another piece of pie into his mouth. “I meant Kate.”
But the nickname hung in the air between them, like a soft cloud.
“That’s okay. I like it,” she said.
She came closer and stood right next to him, leaning her hip against the table. The scent of cooking reached him, and the clean, sweet smell of her. The woman.
He hadn’t had a woman since a couple of months ago. On the way here, in Germany, a willing widow living next to the blacksmith he’d worked for, had taken a liking to him and took him to bed. She was the first woman he’d had since he’d been enslaved. And although his body had enjoyed it, demanding the release, it had been a soulless con
nection.
But Katie… Again that nickname. Kate—he corrected himself—even after knowing her for a few days, he felt in his bones there was more to her than just her beauty. She was like this pie. Pretty and ripe on the outside, and a mystery on the inside. But once one tasted, the whole world of flavor revealed itself, juicy, and fresh, and full of life.
“Thank you for giving me this opportunity, Ian,” she said, looking into his eyes. Her hand lay on the table, one of her fingers almost touching his. His skin burned from wanting to take her hand and kiss it.
“I’d be a fool nae to hire the best cook in Scotland,” he said. “And I’m nae fool.”
And he also wasn’t a saint. And he wanted this delicious, golden woman with eyes like blueberries and lips like sin.
He wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her closer, sealing his mouth with hers.
Chapter 9
His lips were surprisingly soft and warm. His whole body was as hot as the oven. He smelled like male musk and a midnight forest. When her tongue touched his, the most delicious cocktail of flavors spread in her mouth. He was delicious. Silky.
A low, sexy growl was born at the back of his throat. He gently sucked her tongue, and a velvet pleasure ran through her body. Her arms wound around his shoulders, and his hands glided up and down her back.
The whole experience was like a triple chocolate cake. Where she remembered the taste and the image from didn’t matter now. She couldn’t get enough of him.
As his tongue lashed against hers, teasing her and urging her to come closer, her bones liquefied, and her body sang.
He was so big, all-consuming, larger than life.
Dissolve with me, was all she could think. Take me.
He stopped.
Released her.
Stepped back.
She staggered and had to hold on to the table. He eyed her from under his brows, his brown eyes almost mahogany.
“I am sorry, lass,” he said at the edge of his breath. “I canna. I shouldna have.”
Kate blinked. The surprise from his withdrawal faded, replaced by a sense of being rejected. She’d enjoyed the kiss. She liked Ian. Clearly, he did not feel the same.
Her stomach hardened, her shoulders slumped, her chest hitched, and she stepped back.
“Thank ye for the pie,” he said.
He opened his mouth as though to say something else but froze, then turned and left without another word.
Kate’s gaze followed his broad back. He walked as though something heavy pressed on his shoulders.
She released a shaky breath and turned to face the table, supporting herself with both arms. Was she the heavy weight? Did he feel like he needed to take her in because she had nowhere to go?
That must be why he’d stopped the kiss. He had Manning, so he actually didn’t need a second cook. He’d hired her out of pity.
She released a long breath to stop tears that threatened to fall.
Better make herself useful then. Manning clearly didn’t do his job well. Maybe she was a burden now, but she could earn her keep by helping. She would finish cleaning the kitchen and then help tidy the rest of the house.
Just until she found out more about herself and could leave.
Then she’d free Ian of the burden she had become to him.
Kate set the pies aside, took a wet cloth and wiped a few crumbs off the table. Then she went outside to get another bucket of water. She noticed the cart was empty now and stood without the horse. Ian was nowhere to be seen.
Kate had just put the bucket on the hook above the well when a female voice called out, “And who would ye be, lass?”
Kate turned around. On a bench a few feet from the door sat a short, plump woman in a simple dress and apron, wiry gray hair sticking out from under her white cap. She had adorable rosy cheeks.
Kate wiped her hands. “My name is Kate. Ian hired me to cook.”
The woman’s eyebrows rose to the cap. “Lord hired ye? Oh, dearie, what about my brother?”
“Your brother?”
“Aye. Manning. The cook.”
This woman was Manning’s sister? Maybe she knew something about Kate.
“We both will be cooking. I hope Ian doesn’t fire him because of me.”
“Aye?” The woman looked her over suspiciously. “Mayhap so. Manning and I worked here our whole lives. My name is Cadha.”
The woman stood up and walked towards Kate, wobbling on one leg a little. Stopping in front of Kate, she propped her hands on her hips.
“And where do ye come from, lass? Ye speak peculiar…”
Kate sighed. “I don’t know. I lost my memory in a fall. I don’t remember anything about myself, except that I’m a cook. But I did recall the lamb roast. No idea why.”
“Ohhhh!” Cadha glanced her over with curiosity, then pity. “Ye poor lass. Losing all yer memory?”
“I was hoping Crazy Mary—well, Manning—would know something about me, since the name Crazy Mary was one of the first things I remembered. But he said he doesn’t know me. Do you?”
Cadha cocked her brow. “Nae, lass, sorry. ’Tis the first time I see ye. But I can tell ye one thing. Ye’re nae from the Highlands.”
Kate looked down at her feet. It didn’t surprise her—the memories that were coming back were way too different from anything she’d seen or experienced here so far. Still, the words sank in her psyche like rocks. She was no closer to understanding who she was. She was a complete stranger who couldn’t even relate to people.
“Ah, dinna look so sad, lass,” Cadha said. “Come on, let us get ye settled. If ye’re goin’ to work here, ye need somewhere to sleep. Aye?”
Kate pressed out a smile. “Aye. Well, yes. Thank you, Cadha.”
“Follow me.”
They went into the house again and climbed the circular stairs of the tower. Cadha told Kate that on the first floor was the lord’s hall and a chamber, on the second were three bedrooms, and on the third was the biggest bedroom of all—the lord’s bedchamber—and another small chamber. The stairs continued up from the third floor, and that was where Cadha led Kate.
“Maids sleep in the garret,” Cadha explained through a strained breath. “We dinna have any currently. I do all the housekeeping, but as ye can see, I’m nae enough. Cooks used to sleep in the kitchen, but the old lord, God rest his soul, was kind enough to allow Manning and me to live in what used to be a larder. We’re nae young chickens nae more.”
She finally climbed into the attic and stood, panting, before a small door. Kate joined her, breathing heavily as well.
“I used to sleep here, too, with the maids, when we had any. Now ’tis for ye. A luxury, havin’ a room all to yerself.”
She opened the door into a room with a low ceiling, one side of which slanted down at a steep angle. There was only one small window on the opposite wall, and the shutters were closed. It smelled like dust and mice. Kate could see five beds in total.
“Sorry, dearie, ’tis nae tidy. No one has been living here since our Ian was gone. That was when the old lord started to decline.” She sighed heavily, her face sad. “Everything changed that year. ’Twas as though the lord didna ken what to live for any longer. And didna want to. Stopped caring about the rent collection. About the household. What he ate. What he drank. Stayed indoors. He’d already been grieving his whole life after his wife died. But after Ian… All his lands became like him. Lost and uncared for.”
Kate listened with an aching heart. She knew Ian had been away and had been assumed dead, but she hadn’t given much thought to what it had meant for his family. Seeing this great house in such a condition of desolation said it all. Her hands itched to clean it and make it better.
“I’ll help you with cleaning and tidying whenever I can. I like to be useful.”
Cadha reached out and squeezed her elbow. “Well, aren’t ye a dearie! Thank ye, lass. And dinna fash, ’tis only us four ye’ll be cooking for—the lord, ye, Manning, and me. Mayha
p the lord will have occasional guests. I take care of the chickens and the cows. There’s a groom and a shepherd who come from the village. So ’tis just us.”
She sighed again, then quickly narrowed her eyes.
“Do ye think ye’re marrit? Have any bairns?”
The earlier kiss with Ian consumed Kate’s mind, the heat of his body, the soft and delicious feel of his lips against hers. God, what if she were married? Kate blushed. She had no way of knowing, but something within her told her she was not.
“I don’t think so.”
“Aye. Good,” Cadha said with a satisfied smile.
But why it was good, she didn’t explain.
Chapter 10
Ian stared at Kate’s meat pie in front of him. It was just him and the pie in the dusty great hall. Cadha had served him his dinner.
Not Kate.
He supposed it was Cadha’s task, after all, as the housekeeper, not a cook’s. But he wanted to see Kate.
He couldn’t put the kiss from earlier today out of his mind. Her warmth, her softness, the luscious taste of her, the feel of her body—pliable and strong at the same time…
But there was more. She was a mystery. A beautiful, broken mystery.
And he knew what broken was.
Ian took the pie and bit into it, closing his eyes to shut out the devastating loneliness of the dirty, empty great hall. The stone walls pressed in on him.
He remembered last time he’d been here. His father had held a gathering of his clansmen, tenants, tacksmen, and friends. It was after they’d freed Marjorie and Ian had returned home with the clansmen who’d participated in the battle. There were the heraldic sigils of the Cambel clan on the walls, the chatter, the feast to celebrate their victory. His father had been less mournful than usual. The hall had been lit with candles. A lyre played and people sang. Then men had fought, which often happened after a few cups of uisge.
Did Ian want the great hall to ring with life like that again?