Leslie LaFoy (15 page)

Dear God in heaven, she silently swore, resolutely
turning away, heat suffusing her face again. Her heart was going to explode. Right after she fainted from lack of air. What a shameless wanton she'd become. She'd never noticed such things about any man before. And it wasn't as if Devon was the first one she'd ever encountered. In the last four years, she'd met hundreds of men, more than most women were introduced to in the whole of their lifetimes.

“Let me get the candle lamp,” she said, walking away before he could notice her blush. “I didn't see any lights burning in the kitchen.” To let the mere sight of manly attributes make her so light-headed was absolutely ridiculous, she admonished herself, setting the basin in the stand and then moving around the room to extinguish the extra candles.

“Why do you have the pitcher on the hearth?”

“I melted snow for bathing.” Claire picked up the candle lamp and turned to the door. He was watching her, his shoulder propped against the jamb, his arms folded over his chest, and one ankle crossed casually over the other. “My mother didn't see that you had any?”

Lord. Did he have any notion of how rakishly handsome he looked standing like that? Gathering her scattered wits and moving toward the doorway while trying very hard to see him as short, fat, and balding, Claire replied, “It must have slipped her mind. Considering all the strains she endured this evening, I'm not surprised.”

He stepped aside to let her pass into the hall, then strode ahead of her to the stairs, saying, “One person in this house making excuses for everyone's shortcomings is quite enough. I don't need a second. My mother's brain is a sieve on her best days, and totally absent on others. There's no need to pretend otherwise. I'd suggest that you simply allow for reality and go on with your own business.”

“Don't you think she might be offended by my
presumption? she asked, following him down the stairs. “I am, after all, a guest in her home. Guests should never presume to take actions or decisions upon themselves.”

“It's
my
name on the mortgage. And I expect you to
not
be a burden. I have enough of those already, too.” He reached the foyer and headed off to the left, into the dining room. “It's this way.”

Claire followed him around the dining room table and to a door at the rear of the room, glad she was wearing her boots. Had she been in feminine shoes, she wouldn't have been able to keep up with him. He had the longest strides. “Don't you need the light to see where you're going?” she asked as he led her into a large butler's pantry.

“I could find my way to the kitchen blindfolded and with my hands tied behind my back,” he replied, opening a door.

The crisp scent of snow rushed over her, borne on a gust of cold air. It felt good; renewing and exhilarating. She glanced around her. Not even the dimness of the light could hide the tarnish on the silver serving pieces stored on the open shelves. God only knew what lay inside the lower, closed cabinets—although she was fairly certain that, whatever it was, it needed to be polished. She'd leave the door open for fresh air when she and Mary Margaret tackled the work tomorrow afternoon.

“Give me your hand and I'll help you. The steps are slippery.”

She looked to the door to see him standing outside, waiting, his hand extended back to her. Pale moonlight gilded his shoulders and haloed his dark hair. It had stopped snowing, she realized as she stepped forward and put her hand in his. She traversed the short set of steps, waiting for him to remind her that he couldn't afford to pay a physician to set broken bones. He didn't.

“Thank you,” she said gratefully when she reached the base.

He didn't release her hand as she expected, either. Instead, he guided her forward, saying, “The walk's icy as well. I won't let you slip.”

Claire, clutching the lamp with one hand and allowing the other to be wrapped in the calloused warmth and gentle strength of Devon's, carefully made her way along the walk, wondering yet again what had happened to the man she'd met in Edmund Cantrell's office. How puzzling to have a person change so much and for no apparent reason. It was a change for the better, of course, but it was still absolutely mystifying. They reached the kitchen door and Devon released her hand only so that he could place his own on the small of her back.

“Thank you again,” Claire murmured, thinking it wise—considering their beginning—to make sure he knew she appreciated his small courtesies.

“My pleasure, madam,” he replied softly, pushing open the door and guiding her into the kitchen ahead of him.

“Sweet Mother of God!”

The voice was definitely Irish and feminine and coming from the far corner of the room. Claire instinctively turned toward it, an apology for surprising the woman on the tip of her tongue. The light from the candle lamp barely reached that far, but it illuminated just enough for her to see a flash of fair hair and a pale expanse of male back. She gasped and froze in her tracks, knowing all too well what she'd interrupted.

“Damn!” Wyndom snapped as he vaulted out of the narrow bed, naked as a jay.

Claire whirled about, unwilling to see any more than she already had, as Devon stormed past her.

“Devon, I can explain. It's not what you—”

Claire cringed as flesh and bone connected with flesh and bone. The impact was immediately followed by another—that of a body crashing hard against a
piece of sturdy wood. She could hear Devon swearing under his breath. The sound was low and hard and she caught only the words “goddamn” and “son of.”

“Oh, please don't hurt him!” Mary Margaret wailed.

Wyndom sputtered. Devon snarled, “Put some clothes on, woman.”

And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw yet another flash of Wyndom's pale skin. She turned away another degree, but not quickly enough to avoid seeing Devon dragging his brother—arms full of his clothing— toward the door by his hair.

There was a blast of cold air, a thud, and a yelp.

“Claire?” It was a command and she obeyed it, turning to face him. “I'll leave you alone with Mary Margaret,” he said, his eyes blazing and his jaw granite. “And if you wouldn't mind, could you make your first lesson one on how meeting the needs of the table come before Wyndom's more personal ones?” She nodded and he went on, “I'll return in a while to escort you back to the house. Do not return on your own. Understand?”

Again, Claire nodded. He left without another word, slamming the door behind him. She stood there, hearing Mary Margaret's movements behind her and wondering whether she'd been confined to the kitchen more out of Devon's concerns about wandering marauders or because he simply didn't want her to see him beating Wyndom senseless.

Lord. Why hadn't she just stayed in her room and waited until morning to deal with Mary Margaret and the kitchen? Why hadn't she anticipated the possibility that she'd find Wyndom and the cook together?

Behind her, Mary Margaret grew quiet. Claire sighed. She hadn't had the good sense to mind her own business and stay in her room, and now there was no choice but to deal with an awkward situation. Just how
would the mistress of a castle go about doing that? she wondered.

Staring at the door, an idea came to her. And since it was the only one that did, she acted on it. Setting the lamp down on the worktable, she gathered her skirts in hand and marched outside.

LAIRE CLOSED THE DOOR
behind herself, carefully turned on the icy flagstones, took a deep breath, pasted a smile on her face, and then knocked. It took several long moments, but the door eventually swung open. A tall, large-boned, copper-haired woman stood warily on the other side.

“Hello. I'm Claire… Rivard,” she began. “I assume that you're Mary Margaret Malone?”

The woman hesitated, her brows furrowed. “Aye, madam.”

“May I come in?”

Mary Margaret nodded and stepped aside. Claire went past her, moving to the table where she'd placed the candle lamp, before stopping and turning to face the Irish woman. Her smile and determination to begin anew still in place, Claire said pleasantly, “It's my understanding that you've been the cook at Rosewind for only the last month.”

“Aye, madam.”

Good, the woman hadn't hesitated to answer that time. Claire plunged ahead. “I've always believed in facing things squarely, so I'll just come right out and ask… Do you know how to cook, Mary Margaret?”

“Just a bit and not well,” she admitted with a weak smile. “And Mr. Rivard be the only one who calls me Mary Margaret. To everyone else, I be called Meg.”

They'd successfully crossed the hurdle; they were on to names and easy conversation. Claire relaxed. “Meg's certainly easier to say than Mary Margaret,” she replied. “I'm assuming the Mr. Rivard of whom you speak is Wyndom?”

“Aye, madam. The owner of Rosewind.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Aye. When he bought me papers at auction.”

That explained a great deal. “Well, I think you should know that he isn't the owner of this estate. His older brother—the man who threw him out into the snow—is the true master of Rosewind.”

“Mr. Devil?”

“Devon,” Claire corrected, chuckling. “Yes.”

Meg considered the door, her eyes blazing. “The lying little… If I'd a but known …” She turned and met Claire's gaze to add, “I thought I was a savin' meself a warm place to sleep. He said he'd sell me papers if'n I didn't … ye know …” She glanced toward the bed in the corner.

“A decidedly low thing for him to do. I think you can rest assured that Wyndom won't be blackmailing you for your favors anymore.”

“I don't want his bones broken. He really isn't a bad man. A girl could do worse, ye know.”

“Yes, I do,” Claire admitted, remembering a host of cads from her own past. They had been everywhere in London and especially numerous behind ballroom potted plants and garden hedges. But sharing stories with Meg wasn't why she was here. “If I might change the
subject and return to my purpose for coming to the kitchen this evening?”

“Of course, madam.”

“I don't mean to be unkind, Meg,” she began softly and with a smile, “but the food at dinner tonight was inedible. I've been given to understand that it hasn't been any better at previous meals. Mr. Devon asked me if I'd be willing to undertake your cooking instruction. If you're agreeable, I'm certainly willing to give it a try.”

“If'n I'm not, Mr. Devon would be a-thinkin' about sellin' me papers, wouldn't he?”

“It would be the reasonable course. And one made purely in the interest of self-preservation.”

“Then I suppose that I've got no choice but to learn, do I?”

It wasn't the enthusiastic response Claire had hoped to hear, but it was better than outright refusal. “Why is it that you don't know how to cook, Meg? A woman your age usually does.”

“I've never had to,” the woman replied, the tone of her voice implying that it should have been obvious. “Meals was always cooked by the kitchen staff an' served to the maids.”

“So you've been a domestic servant,” Claire observed, remembering how the Seaton-Smythe household had functioned.