Paloma shrugged. “You’re grumpy enough. Who have you aggravated lately?”
“Ach! Still a brat!” Lowell splashed her and laughed. Spare Tyre ruffled his feathers and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Paloma remained still, but Lowell saw the corner of her mouth lift ever-so-slightly as he spoke. “Was it Father, do you suppose? It doesn’t seem like something he’d do, but…” His brow furrowed and two brownish-red droplets fell from his beard.
“Beats me,” Paloma said. “Seems more likely that it was a rabid bat, but what do I know? At least we can be sure it wasn’t the bestest rooster in the whole wide world, right, Spare Tyre?” She smiled and stroked the Bantam’s yellow-orange chest with one filthy hand.
Chapter Four
The next morning, Lowell exited Castle Speranza with Dax at his side just as Carmen entered its lawn from the woods. As it had for centuries, the pond behind the structure shone like molten silver, but the addition of flower beds and the newly expanded chicken coop made the castle especially lovely. “Hey, Lowell!” Carmen called. “I’ve got something for you.” She placed a pink and green floral envelope in his hand and winked. “Hope you have a nice day. I’m going to talk with the elves about some grape vines. Don’t you think Prescott Vineyards has a nice ring to it?”
She walked away, leaving Lowell alone with his letter and the Labrador they now shared. Lowell darted his eyes from side to side suspiciously and made his way to the clematis-covered pergola in the side yard. Dax, cheerful and unquestioning, followed and sat next to him on the pine bark mulch.
With shaking hands, Lowell tore open the rose-festooned stationery. The page ripped slightly as he withdrew it from the envelope. “Ah, shit,” he grumbled, easing it from its wrapping more carefully. He unfolded the page and took a deep breath.
Dear Lowell,
I’m so sorry that the Mathesons interrupted your visit yesterday. They and the Parkers are staying for another night, but I will be done with their breakfasts by ten and free for the rest of the day. All of my guests plan on spending the day in town. Would you like to come to Bohemian Rhapsody once more? I have plans to bake some bread and could use a pair of strong hands to help with the kneading.
Fondly,
Dora Fontaine
Lowell looked up from the page with a racing heart.
She wants me to come back. She thinks of me fondly… And that obnoxious couple in the twin outfits will be nosing around Charade for the day.
He laughed aloud and thumped Dax on his back.
“Care for some refreshment, does he?” a female voice rasped at his elbow. The gnome sniffled and wiped her nose on an orange handkerchief.
“Eh? What’s that?” Lowell glanced at the hunched form of the gnome. “Limax? What are you doing here? I thought you worked for Carmen.”
Limax sniffled and dabbed her eyes with the cloth. “Oh, I works here and there and all abouts, yes I do, and Carmen’s off to talk about squeezing grapes or some such stickiness, anywho. Some apple cider, perhaps, for him? Nicer than the squashy splashes from a grape, I’ll wager.”
“No, no, nothing at all. I’ve got things to see and people to do!” Chuckling, Lowell rose and whistled for Dax to come along. “That is…” He laughed. “Ah, you know what I mean, don’t you, gnome?”
Limax blew her nose as Lowell strode off through the trees of Prescott Woods.
* * * *
“Hi there,” Dora called from inside the house. “My hands are covered in flour, so please just let yourself in, Lowell.”
“You be good,” Lowell instructed Dax in a low voice. “You can bark if someone shows up, but for goodness’s sake, don’t make a mess of anything, all right?” Dax sniffed the air then turned once, twice, three times on the rag rug beneath the porch swing. The golden lab rested his head on his paws and closed his eyes.
Lowell entered Bohemian Rhapsody and closed the heavy front door. The mingled scents of vanilla and baking bread greeted him. “Everybody’s gone for the day,” Dora called from the back of the house. “And when they come back, they know the kitchen’s off limits.” Lowell made his way past an urn filled with a riot of blooms and beneath the rainbow-tinted glow from the stained glass chandelier.
Dora smiled up at him from behind a massive table decorated with a burning cream-coloured candle. “My guests have stocked mini-fridges, coffee makers and microwaves in their suites, so there’s no need for them to come back here anyway. This is part of my private space.” Lowell drank in the sight of her—as deliciously full-bodied as a rich brown ale. A dusting of flour decorated the tip of her nose and one cheek, and the frilly ivy-patterned apron exaggerated her hourglass figure. Her small feet, clad in floral sneakers, stood on a white-and-red enamelled step stool.
He placed his hands on the waist of his kilt. “You look very nice, Dora.”
“Oh, pooh, I’m covered in flour”—she laughed—“but I’m happy as a pig in mud when I’m baking. Why don’t you wash your hands and join me? There’s an apron for you next to the sink.”
Lowell scrubbed his hands with lemon-infused soap and dried them, then picked up a garment covered in a cheery daisy pattern. He lifted one yellow ribbon strap and curled his lip with disdain. “You don’t expect me to…
wear
this, do you?”
“It’s my biggest one,” she explained. “And there’s no one here to see you but me. Don’t you want to keep your clothes clean?”
Lowell held up the apron between his fingers and thumbs and raised one eyebrow. A perky green heart decorated the chest panel. “I won’t need it.” He folded and replaced the apron on the counter. “I’d rather just get dirty.”
“Suit yourself.” Dora pointed with her chin towards a blue sponge-ware mixing bowl. “You can put a handful of flour on the chopping block and rub it around, then dump that dough on it.” Lowell followed her instructions, then stared at the heap of beige matter on the wooden surface. “Now, sprinkle some flour on top and dig the base of your palms into it, like this.” Dora demonstrated how to fold, and work the dough. “It’s easy, see?”
Lowell watched her flour-covered hands manipulate the mixture before her. It
looked
easy enough. He mimicked her motions carefully. “Yeah, good,” she told him. “You’ll need to add a little more flour when it gets sticky. We’re going to knead it for about fifteen minutes.”
The front of Lowell’s kilt was already spackled with bits of dough and flour, but he ignored the mess. The dough felt warm and stretchy in his hands.
“We’re making beer bread,” Dora explained. “The dough recipe called for light rye flour, bread flour, salt and yeast. It’s been resting since late yesterday morning.”
Lowell grunted, concentrating on his kneading moves. “You serve this to your guests?” he asked.
“Oh, sure,” Dora replied. “I’m famous for my breakfasts. Sweet potato casserole, sausage links, parfaits with berries, yogurt and granola and this beer bread.” She sprinkled flour on her dough and folded it. “With coffee, tea and fresh orange juice, of course.”
A long growl, ending in a curious-sounding high note, emanated from Lowell’s abdomen. “Ah, that sounds mighty tasty,” he told her.
“I’ll fix you a meal after we’re done with this,” Dora said. “It sounds like you might have skipped breakfast. With that physique, I bet you work up an appetite just breathing, let alone walking all the way here from the woods.”
Lowell felt heat rise to his cheeks and bitterly regretted not eating breakfast at the castle.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Dora said. “Believe me, I get hungry, too. Let’s get this dough rising and I’ll whip something up. It would give me all kinds of pleasure to fix you a snack. There’s nothing more fun than feeding a hungry man.” She chuckled and slapped her dough down onto the table. “Well, not much, anyway.”
Lowell grunted and the burning sensation in his cheeks lessened. He moved his hands in a smooth kneading rhythm—stretch, fold, turn.
“You’re getting the hang of it, you know?” said Dora.
The bright mid-morning light shone through the kitchen window and the soft slap-pat of kneading dough filled the room. Lowell smiled and felt tension in his shoulders ease. The simple motion reminded him of whittling walking sticks from fallen branches during the construction of Castle Speranza.
What a strange time that had been. He had been just a kid, really, although as the oldest, he’d had to take over as a second parent when Mother had died. Father had brought them to a place out of a fairy tale, complete with elves, trolls and fairies, then asked Lowell to watch his siblings as he’d supervised construction of their home. As if the trip from New York to the wilderness of Kentucky hadn’t been crazy enough, protecting Paloma, Brock and Korbin from the strange magical folk of the woods had been downright surreal. Lowell had firmly put aside his childhood then and there. With his sister and brothers always in sight, he’d kept a stern expression on his face and tried to be the responsible man his father needed him to be. And whenever possible, he’d done the only thing that had soothed him—picked up a hardwood stick and sliced off one delicate curl of wood at a time. Whisk, slide, turn…whisk, slide, turn…until a pile of shavings lay at his feet and a silky cane slid through his palms.
Funny how pushing around a blob of flour, yeast and beer brought all that back. He could see the appeal of baking, perhaps, but those other inn-related jobs that Dora did were far less enticing.
“You don’t mind waiting on people?” he asked. “You don’t get tired of cleaning up after their messes and cooking for them?” He shifted on his booted feet. “I can see why a woman might like flowers and all the frou-frou stuff around here”—he waved a floury hand around in the air—“but the servant part—you actually like that? I mean, washing bedlinens, mopping floors, polishing silver…” He shuddered and thought,
That’s what gnomes are for.
Dora tilted her head from side to side. “Well, I don’t suppose I would say that I enjoy the cleaning part, exactly,” she answered, “although I do get satisfaction from making my home beautiful. I like gathering sun-dried linens from the clothesline. I love creating satisfying food and serving it in appealing ways.” She smiled. “It sounds very old-fashioned, I know, but it pleases me deep-down to present homemade food on lovely china to my guests. Besides, I love my home. Bohemian Rhapsody is filled with the treasures I’ve collected over the years. Every bit of furniture, every piece of china, all the linens and pillows and rugs—they’re all special to me, and it makes them even more valuable when I can show them off.” She glanced up at him before looking back down at her hands as they manipulated the dough. “It’s hard to explain, Lowell, but running this bed and breakfast makes me very happy.” She shrugged. “I could do without the sweeping and mopping and bathroom cleaning, but nothing is perfect in this life, is it?”
Lowell looked across the chopping block at her as she worked. She’d piled her wavy hair atop her head, but a few black curls had escaped to ring her face. The scoop neck of her pink T-shirt was modest, but nothing could hide those curves of hers, he thought. Her cleavage deepened with each shove of her hands into the dough, and he could just detect her heartbeat in the divot above her sternum. She wore a knee-length full skirt that was decorated with cabbage roses ranging in hue from baby pink to magenta to fuchsia. Her expression was peaceful—she was fully absorbed in her task. Lowell stilled his kneading hands as he let his eyes wander over the front of her leaf-festooned smock. Barely veiled by the ruffle of her apron, the sides of her breasts grazed the sides of her upper arms. Through the layers of her bra, T-shirt and apron, he detected the bumps of her erect nipples. Lowell swallowed.
“Don’t neglect your dough,” Dora scolded. “We’ve only got a couple more minutes to go, then it will rest for an hour.” She glanced at the front of his tan rugby shirt, now smudged with flour. “You should have worn an apron.” She let her gaze drop to the front of his kilt, where once more the fabric didn’t hang straight down to the floor. Her lips parted and she looked back up at him. Lowell’s heart quickened, but he didn’t turn away.
“Isn’t this stuff done yet?” he asked gruffly. “If it’s not ready for a rest, I know that I am.”
Dora took out two clean bowls. She coated the dough balls in oil, placed them in the vessels, and covered them with clean kitchen towels. “Okay, they get an hour to rise,” she said as she placed them on the counter next to the sink. She started to turn, but Lowell was at her back, holding her in place.
“I enjoyed that, Dora,” he whispered in her ear, “but I’ve got more on my mind than rising bread.” He pressed his erection into the small of her back and brushed his lips on the side of her neck. “Am I alone in that? Tell me so, and I’ll walk out the door, but…” He exhaled warmth on her skin. “Oh, Dora, I can think of nothing but touching you.” He brushed one dark curl from the side of her forehead and ran his fingertip down the side of her face. “Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it’s too fast, but woman…” He turned her slowly to face him. Light as a feather, Lowell traced the outline of her body from collarbone to the swell of her breast to the gentle curve of her hip. “You make me forget everything,” he murmured. Dora took his hand in hers as he spoke. “I feel stupid, ridiculous, bumbling. Should I just go?” She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed one dough-covered knuckle.
Dora shook her head. “You should stay right here.”
Chapter Five
Lowell tried to free her hair from the clip that held it, but succeeded only in tangling it further and eliciting a yelp. “Here, let me,” she said. He lowered his hands to her waist and watched as she tugged the hinged comb from the bun on top of her head. Seconds later, a rippling cloud of black silk settled around her shoulders.
He took a fistful of her hair, lifted it to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Jasmine?” he murmured.
“Gardenia,” Dora corrected. Lowell buried his nose in her hair and placed one roughened hand on her throat. Her heartbeat quickened beneath his palm.
“You are…” he breathed. “Oh, Dora, I don’t even know how to put it. I can’t think straight around you. You’re like…”