by Deb Marlowe
He released her, stepping back and taking a hold of her shoulders. She had to fight to keep from backing into his embrace once more. Oh, but this mission was going to be more difficult than she’d expected—and in entirely different ways.
Careful. Not pushing him away was one thing. She couldn’t hold him in contempt any longer or even at a distance, yet she was going to have to be so careful. Not to give these sudden yearnings away. Not to blossom into one of those women who threw everything away to chase this glorious heat and flow of passion in their blood.
She summoned a smile, forced herself to step away from the comforting weight of his hands on her, and walked a slow circuit of the room. “Thank you, my dear. You are generous and I think we’ll be happy indeed here.” She turned her smile on Marie. “Thank you for the tour, but you have saved the best for last, have you not?” She rubbed her hands together. “Please, lead on. I am longing to see the kitchens.”
Chapter Nine
When I could finally get out of bed on my own, I wrote to my family, asking for permission to come home. I told them everything, left nothing out, detailed every abuse I’d suffered at the hands of Lord M---
--from the Journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Tru set two pints of ale down with a flourish. Channeling the restlessness that surged in his veins, he used it to summon up a good-natured smile. “Drink up, gentlemen! The rain has not let up, and now the fog and the damp grow thicker. Dinner is nearly ready and my wife has crafted a meal guaranteed to warm the fires of your heart.”
“Damned if I don’t think your wife could hold off the North Wind itself, Chaput.” Penrith toasted him with the new pint. “And all with just the sweat of her brow and the fruits of her ovens.”
Rackham tossed down the book he’d been poring over. “What does she have for us tonight?”
“Oh, a rare treat. A baked seafood pie with a white sauce and a tender, flaky crust. Braised sweetmeats and a handsome brûlée to finish.” Tru swept up their empty tankards, making sure to flash the scar on his hand. “Would you like me to set up the nearest table or would you care to dine here by the fire?”
“Let’s have the table.” Penrith shivered. “Though I vow I’ll be right back after to soak up the heat before I head out. You’d scarce know it was July with that chill wind off the sea.”
“Very good.” Tru nodded and moved off a short way. He’d held his doubts about Stoneacre’s plans, but he had to give the man credit—they were working a treat so far. The pair of young traitors had drifted in the first evening, complaining bitterly of the poor fare at their absent host’s table. They’d taken ready comfort in the taproom’s free-flowing ale, and even more in the large platter of freshly made galettes that was all Callie had been able to pull together so quickly.
They’d raved about the savory pancakes and since then, they’d been back regularly and at all hours and she’d made it a point to send them out a basket of warm, crusty rolls or sweet biscuits when they arrived before dinner.
“You’re a damned lucky bloke, Chaput, even if you are a bit of a grinning fool.” Rackham, who’d spoken in English, watched him closely.
“Eh?” Tru looked up from smoothing out a cloth over the selected table. He and Callie had both taken care to speak only French since their arrival and they’d invented a Breton aunt to explain her knowledge of the local language and customs.
“Nothing, Chaput,” Penrith assured him in French. “Rackham only says that you are a fortunate man.”
“Ah,” Tru nodded. “Well I know it.” He aimed a big, deliberate smile at Rackham. “It’s a wise man who knows his blessings.” He let the grin fade. “And one wiser still, who will fight to protect them.”
Rackham rolled his eyes. If he meant to test Tru, he’d been apparently satisfied. He picked up his book, but with a sigh, tossed it down again. “God’s truth, you are the lucky one, Penrith.”
The blighter spoke English again, and Tru let his attention visibly wander. He carried on with the setting of the table, careful to betray no interest.
“We’re in the same coil, Rackham. No difference,” Penrith sighed.
“I beg to differ, but there’s a damned big difference! Yours is horse mad and a bruising rider. Easy enough. Why does mine have to be enamored of the Romantics?” Rackham threw back his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“What? You think I have it easy? I’ve memorized racing bloodlines back to the Byerly Turk!”
“Yes, but that’s not poetry!” Rackham’s lip curled in disgust. “I have to learn reams of the stuff—and all to heart. You could actually put your work to good use later, at the track or when you set up your stables. At what other point in my life am I going to need to be able to discuss the Lake Poets?”
Penrith snorted. “Well, yours is likely to be pretty, at least. I live in dread that mine will be horse-faced as well as horse-mad.”
“At least you’ll be able to turn off the lights, should it prove true. Am I to be expected to spout Goethe and Wordsworth every time I wish to bed my German princess?” He waved a hand at his companion. “Laugh if you must, but that’s if I even manage to win her. Marstoke doubts whether my family’s money will make up for my lack of a title. He says I must work all the harder. Do you know,” he leaned in, “he wishes me to write an epic poem about a river siren? And be ready to spout it at a moment’s notice?”
But Penrith’s expression had grown serious. “It’s little enough to ask. He rescued your hide when your family’s money fell short once again, did he not? After the aid he’s rendered us in the past, we’ve neither of us room to complain.” He lowered his tone. “Not to mention that doing as he asks will see both our futures set higher than we’ve right to expect.”
“I know you’re right. But I’d rather be off traveling with him now than sitting around here, rhyming breeze and leaves and please.” He sighed. “What do you suppose he’s doing out there in the countryside, in any case?”
“Anselm hinted that he’s looking for something. Or someone.”
“And that’s another thing—why does he take that slimy weasel and leave us here? I’ve a mind to—”
Tru couldn’t stretch out the setting of the table any longer. Reluctantly he moved off toward the kitchens, his mind awhirl. A pair of German princesses? And these two young pups groomed specifically to their taste. His fist clenched. He’d been of the mind that Stoneacre and the rest of them were overly fearful of what Marstoke could accomplish with Letty Robbins, but hearing these two set him to rethinking. It sounded as if the man was lining up future European allies. For himself? Or for a puppet of an English monarch?
He pushed through the green baize door to the kitchens—and paused on the threshold as Callie looked up, mid-stir.
He swallowed. It had been easy enough, these last days, to carry on with his original plan of avoiding her. He’d had plenty of work to do, preparing the inn, hiring job horses and an extra servant or two, and making contacts with vintners, vendors and prospective customers.
Callie, too, had been busy. That first day she’d stepped in the main kitchen, looked up to see cobwebs in the corners—and rolled up her sleeves. Gaubert, Marie and Victoire spent their first day in their employment scrubbing all the kitchens with boiling water, top to bottom. Callie had scarcely stopped cooking since. She’d also forged relationships in the markets and put homey touches throughout the inn using bits of local lace and hand painted pottery.
Tru had been careful. He kept busy working about the stables and the areas of the inn where she was not. He filled his days with business and his thoughts with plans for Marstoke. He stayed away from their private rooms until she was in bed and asleep. He’d refused to indulge in more than a glimpse of her there, soft and vulnerable, with all that mahogany hair in a loose braid.
But then there were moments like this. Moments of unexpected confrontation when he was caught unawares and struck hard by the sheer, unavoidable appeal of her.
He wanted to go to her, to toss the bowl aside and kiss her senseless, push her against the table and lick that flour off of her porcelain skin, then send his lips and tongue foraging south, exploring all of her hills and valleys.
But he would not. His respect and admiration for her had continued to grow—but so had his determination to resist her many temptations. He was staying focused and here was his reward—the game was truly beginning.
“Do they stay for dinner?” She waited, bright-eyed with interest.
“After I told them of your menu? Of course.” He stepped all the way in. “I think it’s time we introduced you.”
He felt strangely resistant to the idea, although that was just foolishness. It was time to get this plot moving. The quicker they got Letty Robbins in tow, the quicker he could join Stoneacre in the hunt for Marstoke, and the quicker he’d be able to hold his head up in England again.
“I’m ready.”
She was already unwrapping herself from the depths of the oversized apron. She smoothed a lace trimmed replacement on in its stead and Tru tried not to stare at that tempting expanse of bosom, contrasted so nicely with her nipped in waist and softly flaring hips. “No cook I know of ever looked like that,” he murmured.
“What’s that?” Callie was supervising as Victoire dished out dinner plates and placed them on a large tray. Looking it over, she gave a tweak here and there, placed a small vase with a single, long poppy stem on one side and gave him a nod.
“Nothing. Let me take that.” He led the way out. “And if they speak English amongst themselves, just look polite and puzzled.”
He used his larger frame and the tray to block her from view at first, but she moved from behind him as they grew closer to the fire. True clenched his teeth as the men, catching sight of her, stood.
Penrith recovered first, closing his mouth and summoning a smile. “Chaput, is this your wife?”
Tru made the introductions and began to transfer plates to the table.
Penrith gave Callie a nod. “Madame, how happy I am to meet you at last and thank you for all the delicious meals you’ve provided us.”
Callie lowered her gaze and dipped a curtsy.
Rackham let his gaze travel the length of her. “A pleasure, Madame.” He raised a brow at Tru. “No wonder you hide her away in the kitchens.” He gave Callie an oily smile. “You must not allow it, Ma’am, but come and visit us in the taproom.”
Callie gave him a bob. “You are very kind, sir, but my duties in the kitchens and with the rest of the house keep me busy.”
“To great advantage,” Penrith replied. “The place is much improved by those feminine touches that must surely have come by your hand.”
Rackham said something under his breath and in English. Something about touches and hands.
Penrith ignored him. “We spoke truer than we knew when we called you a lucky man, Chaput.”
“But not truer than I knew, sir.” He struggled to keep the anger from his tone. “It is an honor to provide for and protect a woman like my Chloe.”
“Indeed.” Penrith stepped back. “We will not keep you from your duties, and I confess I’m anxious to sit down at your table again.”
Tru pulled her away. He handed her the empty tray and began to gather up empty tankards.
“Food be damned,” Rackham grumbled as his friend urged him to sit. He was still watching Callie. “It’s the forbidden fruit in this country that is getting to me.”
“Don’t be an arse,” Penrith scolded. He’d already seated himself, but he stopped with a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth. “I hope you aren’t also referencing that pretty girl Marstoke has tucked away back at the manor.”
“Who else? Her and now this voluptuous vixen of an innkeeper’s wife.” He shot Tru a look of disgust. “I suppose I’ve been warned off both of them.” He sighed. “What do you think Marstoke means to do with that chit he’s housing?”
“I’m not fool enough to ask.”
“Well, neither am I, but it doesn’t keep me from wondering. Maybe he’s training her up to be his wife? After all, the last one ran out on him.”
“You are a fool indeed, if you think to mention that within a hundred miles of the man.”
Tru caught sight of Callie’s face as she swept a table with a towel as she walked by. She’d lit up with interest and suppressed excitement. Regretfully, he tugged her away. Her lips pressed thin, but she went willingly enough back to the kitchens.
“They spoke of Letty!” she hissed as they entered. “She’s there. At least we know she’s still there.”
He nodded significantly toward the little servant girl. “We’ll talk of it later.”
Stalking across to the scullery, he dumped his armful of tankards. He was fuming. His father, a wise and gentle man, had always said a man’s character could be read by how he treated those supposed to be beneath him. Such a measure left Rackham lacking. Tru wanted to pound that smug look from his face. But a tradesman couldn’t readily respond to such—and he had to play his role.
“Stay in the kitchens until they are gone,” he told Callie curtly. “And if you must step out, take Marie or Edgar with you.” He slapped on the slouched hat that Gaubert had given him.
She nodded. Bless her, of all women, she knew well enough what a snake like Rackham could get up to. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“To the stables. The frustration of it all is eating into my gut. I mean to take a pitchfork to that newly delivered pile of hay—as a means of keeping me from taking it to Rackham.”
He thought she might scold, but instead she picked up a meat cleaver and waved toward a stretched out side of pork. “I’ll be doing the same.”
Chapter Ten
While I waited for a reply, I did my best to pay Pearl back for her generosity. I moved slowly, but I worked hard. I must have taken a bucket and scrub brush to every inch of that lovely old place before I was done.
--from the Journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
“Do you think the master is happy, married to the mistress?”
Victoire spoke low, but loud enough for the worry in her tone—and the subject matter—to capture Callie’s attention.
“Why should you think to ask such a thing? Have ye gone sweet on him, girl?” Marie teased.
Callie froze where she was, crouched behind the door in the long pantry that ran like a passage between the kitchen and the back entry hall. She stopped loading parsnips into her apron and listened.
“No!” the young girl exclaimed. “But he doesn’t act like he’s married to her. Papa is always stealing a kiss or sneaking up to Mama for a squeeze. Even my old master liked to kiss his lady’s hand in public but press up behind her when he thought no one could see.”
“Well, all marriages are different, my girl. Maybe the mistress don’t like such things.”
“But she ain’t cold-hearted or high-browed. And Master Chaput does not like it when those other men look her over. Why doesn’t he—”
“Just you never mind, young one. Maybe they like to keep such things private. Don’t matter in any case. We got a good situation here and you don’t want to go stirring anything up.”
Callie stood up carefully and slowly, her mind awhirl. Moving as silently as she could, she exited out the other door. In the back hall she grabbed a basket, dumped her parsnips inside and slipped out the door.
Half an hour later she was back, the parsnips buried under several pints of summer berries. She bustled into the kitchen and handed them over to Victoire. “Wash and dry these well, will you, my dear?”
The girl’s face lit up. “Oh, lovely. What will you make with them, Madame?”
“Tarts. They are a particular favorite of my husband’s. We’ve been so busy with the setting up and ordering of ever
ything, I feel as if we haven’t exchanged a word that was not about horse feed or cleaning schedules.” She laid the parsnips out on the chopping board. “I’ve a mind to fix him something special so we can celebrate how smoothly it has all come together.”
She pretended not to see the significant look that Marie shot the younger girl. “Speaking of cleaning schedules . . . Marie, is the Crescent Room all scrubbed and ready for linens?”
The day passed, but Callie’s thoughts were not fixed on braised root vegetables or pastry crust. Their plans were moving forward now. Yesterday a messenger from Stoneacre had arrived with word that the earl had found something of Marstoke. The marquess had taken rooms at an inn and was traveling about nearby smaller towns. Almost as if he were looking for something, she thought privately. Or someone. Stoneacre was going to investigate further, and the messenger, Nardes, was to stay in St. Malo and continue the process of clearing out everyone out of Marstoke’s villa.
And if they’d done their job well, it wouldn’t be difficult to convince Penrith and Rackham to come straight here, with Letty in tow.
“Have you got a place for me to store this for the night?” the man had asked, indicating a medium sized wooden box. “A room in the stables or a storage shed preferably.”
“What’s in it?” Tru had asked.
“Take a look,” he’d invited.
Tru had opened the lid cautiously, then clapped it back closed. “Bugs. Big ones,” he’d told her. “And a lot of them.”
“They’re to go into the butler’s pantry and the dining room tomorrow,” Nardes told them. “Our unhappy under-butler says the cook’s watching the kitchens with an eagle eye now. The next day it’s to be rats coming down from the attic.”
“Rats?” Callie had shuddered. “Couldn’t that be dangerous? What if they are diseased?”
“Nobody’s died yet,” Nardes answered with a shrug. “As long as the folks clear out quick, they’ll be fine.” He handed Tru an invoice with a rat catcher’s stamp on it. “Your job will be to recommend me to the swells. Tell them I come reasonable. Once they’re out of the house, I’ll round the critters up again.”