Maclean Curse - To Scotland With Love Part 21

Ravenscroft hurried to stand. "Venetia! I think I shall join you."

"No, thank you," Venetia said smoothly. "I am certain you'd be better help here, a.s.sisting Mrs. Bloom."

"But I-"

"Mr. West," Mrs. Bloom said. "Here are the spoons." She held out a handful of cutlery.

Realizing he'd been outmaneuvered, he went to a.s.sist her.

"I'll help, too!" Miss Platt said brightly.

Ravenscroft winced.

"Mrs. Treadwell," Venetia asked, "what sort of stores do you have?"

"Oh, all sorts! We've that brace of partridges, some nice venison, and some fat hens behind the barn, if it gets to that."

Ravenscroft choked. "Hens? Still alive?"

"Indeed they are. And fat as can be, too. 'Tis a wonder they can walk. I daresay they'd braise up right juicy."

He shuddered. "I cannot eat meat that is just blooded! That's-that's-"

"Too much for your delicate stomach?" Gregor suggested.

The squire choked back a laugh.

"Uncivilized!" Ravenscroft finished, sending a black look at Gregor.

Mrs. Treadwell looked confused. "Ye liked my ham pie yesterday, did ye not?"

He gasped. "That was fresh?"

"O' course! We killed the pig just the morning afore we cooked it up." She brightened. "Which reminds me, we also have fritters and a nice hock left, as well as the innards, which we can tie up in a sack and make-"

"Mrs. Treadwell," Venetia said hastily, catching sight of Ravenscroft's sudden pallor, "let's see what Mr. Treadwell has already accomplished." She took the older woman's elbow and led her to the kitchen.

There, she and Mrs. Treadwell coughed at the smoke. "Heavens!" She waved at the thick air. "Open the door to the yard!"

Mr. Treadwell, wrapped in a large, messy ap.r.o.n, turned to do her bidding. Venetia went to the spit, where a brace of partridges were charred to a crisp, a large pot boiling noisily to one side. She lifted the lid, and more smoke poured out. Venetia grabbed a hook and lifted the pot from the fire, set it on the table, and used the poker to tip off the lid. Bubbles roiled through a thick, black ma.s.s.

"My porridge!" Mr. Treadwell exclaimed, peering into the smoking pot. "Do ye think we can save any of it?"

Venetia thought they'd be hard pressed to save the pot. "Perhaps we should just begin again."

"But the gentlemen are hungry."

"They'll survive." She reached for an ap.r.o.n hanging on a hook and swiftly tied it on. "Mr. Treadwell, perhaps I should take over."

"Can ye cook?"

She smiled, rolling back her sleeves. "Heavens, yes. I've even cooked a partridge that the prince swore was the best he'd ever had."

"The prince?" Mrs. Treadwell looked impressed.

Looking relieved, her husband unlaced his ap.r.o.n. "Very well, then. I'll leave it to you, Miss West."

"Thank you. While I'm doing this, can you open a new bottle of port and tell the gentlemen it will be at least thirty minutes before dinner is served."

"That's a capital idea!" Mrs. Treadwell said. "Perhaps I should make some tea for the ladies, too?"

"That would be lovely," Venetia said as she ran an expert eye over the large and well-appointed kitchen.

A wood-burning oven sat to one side, a neat stack of logs ready for use beside it. A long table ran down the center of the room, its much-marked surface proclaiming it to be both preparation area and cutting board. A variety of spices sat beside a stack of crockery bowls.

"This is a lovely kitchen," she said.

Mrs. Treadwell looked around, blinking. "Why, so 'tis," she said as if seeing it for the first time.

Mr. Treadwell gave Venetia a proud smile. "I spared no expense for Mrs. Treadwell's kitchen, though she'd never stepped more'n a foot in it."

"Why would I do something as ninny-hammered as that? You'd be expecting me to fix all of the meals then." She winked at Venetia. "I may not be the smartest woman there is, but I know a trap when I see one, I do."

"A trap?" Mr. Treadwell protested. "I thought you wished to help me run me inn!"

"And so I do, but not from the kitchen," she said, fists planted on her hips. "I help as I can, greetin ' the guests and such."

"Runnin' yer yapper is more like," Mr. Treadwell said, humor in his eyes.

Mrs. Treadwell grinned. "We all have our gifts."

Chuckling, they departed on their separate errands, leaving Venetia alone.

She filled a pan with water from the cistern and hung it on the hook over the fire, then gathered potatoes, four rather dried-out carrots, a slab of bacon, some salted pork, a bundle of dried fish, some onions, and several bags of wheat. Further digging unearthed a small store of dried blueberries, a crock of sugar, and some yeast.

Venetia decided to make a nice stew, followed by scones. "And maybe a comfit, if I can get the fire hot enough," she said thoughtfully to herself. "That will be a nice touch."

"Yes, it would be," came a deep voice.

Venetia turned. There, just inside the door, stood Gregor.

Chapter 15.

There comes a time in everyone's life when they have t' decide whether they wants t' be right or if they wants t' be happy.

OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING.

V enetia turned away, hot tingles making her b.r.e.a.s.t.s tighten in a most inexplicable way. She busied herself filling a bowl with water and setting it on the table in order to wash the vegetables. "I thought you' d be drinking port with the gentlemen."

He held up a half-filled gla.s.s, his eyes glinting with amus.e.m.e.nt. "It was, of course, delightful hearing Ravenscroft tell of his gambling woes, much to the squire's disapproval, but I thought I'd be more entertained here." He watched as she deftly chopped a potato. "I had no idea you possessed such a skill."

"How do you know I do? You may dislike my dishes."

"Because I know you. You wouldn't have offered if you didn't."

The praise sent a real smile to her lips. She picked up a potato and began scrubbing it in the water.

"The real question is," he said, "how did you learn to cook, and when?"

"Who do you think prepared all those meals when my mother quarreled with that horrid French cook of ours?"

"The fat one who could not speak a word of English?"

"He could say 'I quit' well enough." She took a folded cloth and lifted the burned porridge from the table.

"Allow me." Gregor placed his gla.s.s on the table and came to stand beside her.

A prudent woman would have sent him away. But a prudent woman would also have ended up cooking the entire meal by herself. Venetia handed Gregor the folded cloth. "Thank you."

It wasn't as if she could force him to leave, anyway. He was far too big to push around, she thought, eyeing the rippling of muscles in his forearms as he lifted the heavy iron pot.

It always amazed her how Gregor managed to keep from becoming as soft as all of the other men in London. It was but one of the things that kept the women of London panting in his wake.

Blast it, I wasn't going to start doing this again! Venetia picked up Gregor's gla.s.s and returned it to his hand. "Thank you for your a.s.sistance. I believe I have it now."

There. That was certainly direct. But all he did was take a sip, then lean against the table, his gaze never leaving her.

Venetia chopped another potato. "Really, Gregor, I don't need any a.s.sistance."

"I would rather stay. Ravenscroft is brooding."

"Miss Platt must find that exceedingly attractive."

"Oh, yes. I believe the word she used was Byronic."

"Goodness! No wonder you wish to escape." Venetia glanced around. "If you must help, you could chop the carrots." She gestured with a knife over her shoulder. "They're in the storeroom."

In that moment, Gregor had to face a rather uncomfortable fact about himself. In the many months since he'd first gone to London, he'd gotten a bit spoiled. Somehow he'd become accustomed to being treated...not differently, exactly, but definitely with more than the usual deference.

He'd thought he hated the fawning obsequies, the eager attentions, and the obvious invitations. Yet now, facing Venetia's pragmatic orders to chop carrots, he found he rather missed the attention he'd once scoffed at.

"When you are done with the carrots, you can also chop a few onions," Venetia said, setting aside the scrubbed potatoes and finding a bright blue bowl. She poured in a measure of flour and then a little cream from a pitcher and began to mix it vigorously with a wooden spoon. "You do know how to chop an onion, don't you?"

Despite his irritation at being ordered around, Gregor grinned at her audacity. "No, I don't know how to chop an onion, as I've never done so before, though I feel reasonably certain I will manage the intricacies on my own."

"I knew I could count on your excellent understanding."

Gregor wrinkled his nose at her and headed to the dry room. It was a small area, barely large enough to stand in, packed to the ceiling with barrels of salted pork and crocks of honey and lard and lined with bags of flour.

The air was pungent with the scent of dried herbs and various vegetables that hung from the corners.

He brought the carrots and several large onions back to the table and set them down, grimacing at the dirt on his coat. He was not a fastidious man, but he had already been reduced to blacking his own boots and brus.h.i.+ng his own clothes.

He took off his coat and hung it on a peg by the door, rolled up his s.h.i.+rt cuffs, and returned to the table to begin sorting the vegetables.

Venetia kept her gaze on the table before her, but if she tilted her head ever so slightly, she could see his hands. The man had amazing wrists, thick and strong and faintly tanned.

She found it difficult to swallow. He was all man, from his black hair to his booted feet. She turned a bit so she could see more of him without openly staring. His knitted breeches were molded to his muscular thighs, tucked into high-top boots that ensconced large, masculine feet.

Hmmm. Didn't they say a man's feet echoed the size of his manhood? Of its own accord, her gaze darted up Gregor's legs to where his deliciously tight breeches caressed his- "Knife."

She blinked, her gaze jerking up to his face, her skin flus.h.i.+ng. Please, G.o.d, don't let him know what I was thinking.

"Knife," he said again.

"Knife?" she repeated dumbly.

"Good G.o.d, Oglivie. I will need a knife if I'm to cut these vegetables. I can't do it with my bare hands."

"The knives are in the block behind that red crock," Venetia said hurriedly. Heavens, what had she been thinking? She hoped he didn't notice her cheeks were as hot as the fire.

To keep him occupied, she added in a rather breathy voice, "Please make certain you wash those before you cut them. We cannot eat dirty carrots."

His gaze narrowed. "And the onions?"

"You peel the skins from those, so they won't need was.h.i.+ng."

"Ah." Gregor lifted a brow. "I want to point out that I am not the finicky sort of man who pales at the thought of eating freshly blooded meat."

Venetia had to fight a grin at that. She didn't appreciate Ravenscroft's softer side, either. Yet neither did she relish Gregor's less than sympathetic character. The perfect man would be somewhere in the middle.

She cast another glance at Gregor from beneath her lashes. No, the perfect man would be Gregor, with his black hair and lopsided smile, looking so intriguingly and deliciously male, and yet he'd possess...a touch of empathy, perhaps. Something that made him less stern.

For all his handsomeness and breath-stealing maleness, he lacked pa.s.sion. Oh, he had l.u.s.t, but did he have the ability for love? Didn't that take something more?

Venetia realized Gregor was holding the dripping vegetables in his large hands, and she gestured to the other side of the table. "You may cut them there."

He lined the carrots in a row, watching Venetia as he did so.

She was thinking about something serious. He could see it in the way her brows were lowered, her mouth set in a straight line. She dipped a finger in the batter and lifted a large dollop to her mouth.

Gregor's breath stopped. Knife suspended, he watched her pink tongue flick out to taste the batter. Her gaze narrowed, then she took another delicate lick.