A pot of soup hung unattended and cold in the kitchen hearth. There was little left, not even a bowlful, but Alec did find a small hunk of bread left. Near the kitchen hearth stood a large water crock, and the small pantry held a few dirt-crusted turnips, carrots, rutabagas, and potatoes, a burlap sack of coarse flour, and half a crock of lard. That was the only food to be found, and being a duke, he hadn't the slightest idea what to do with it. He had never cooked a thing in his life. In fact he'd been in a Belmore kitchen only once or twice, when he was a child.
He walked over to the shelf and eyed the rugged-looking vegetables with trepidation. He was an intelligent man, he reasoned. He ran estates, argued points of law in the House of Lords, and was an eminent peer of the realm.
But peasants cooked. Women cooked. Peers of the realm did not cook.
He pondered that thought for a minute, then came to a perfectly logical masculine conclusion. He was a duke and a man. Surely he could do as well, no doubt better . . .
***
"You need to eat, Scottish. Wake up."
Joy groaned, then felt Alec lift her so she was once again against his chest, and such a nice warm chest it was, too. She placed her hand over his heart and drifted back to sleep.
"Do not go back to sleep. I will not allow it."
"So tired . . . ” she managed to mutter.
He gave her a little shake. "You must eat."
She sighed and opened her mouth, then took the opportunity to slide her arms around him and snuggle a bit closer.
"Good."
Yes, she thought, very good. She placed her hand on his heart and sighed just a bit.
"Now, here's some soup."
She felt the warm metal of the spoon against her lips, then the trickle of warm broth filling her mouth.
She gagged, turning away from his warm chest. Then she coughed and swallowed and coughed some more. She took a deep breath and, grimacing at the foul taste, looked at him, unable to believe he could be so cruel.
He sat perfectly stiff and eyed the soup for a moment. "You need to eat."
"I don't want it." She slumped back down on the mattress and pulled the blankets tighter around her.
"You must eat."
She shook her head. "No."
"You are my wife and I command you to eat."
"It tastes like dirt."
He stiffened, but she was too tired and too weak to argue. He could be as arrogant as he wanted, but she would not eat that vile brew. She told him so again and closed her eyes, missing the offended look that crossed his face as he looked into the soup bowl. After a very silent few seconds he placed a hunk of bread next to her and, bowl in hand, left the room.
***
Joy awoke to the smell of wood smoke . She peeled her eyes open and watched the flames of the nearby fire lick a blue-orange path up the stone chimney. It was a big fire that sent waves of undulating heat over her. She turned toward the window, hoping to see Alec. He was not there. Instead her hopeful gaze was met by white daylight that melted through the frost-framed windowpanes.
She sat up, wincing as her muscles ached in protest, and looked around the room. He was not there. She pulled the blanket tighter around her, feeling suddenly very alone and vulnerable and very naked beneath the blankets. She scanned the room again and spotted her clothes stacked atop a wood chest near the window. She tried to stand, a foolish act that sent the pain of unused muscles speeding through her feet and legs as if they were filled with swarms of bees.
She plopped back down on her bundle of blankets, feeling even more helpless. She rubbed her bare feet until they felt somewhat normal and then tried again to stand, successfully this time. With the awkward gait of a drunken duck she waddled, still wrapped in a bundle of heavy blankets, over to the stack of her clothing.
As quick as she could, she rummaged through the clothes, only to find her chemise a torn, gaping rag. She stood back a bit, one hand holding up the blanket and the other pointed at the chemise. "Oh, silky garment with ribbons of blue," she chanted, "go back to original form anew!"
The chemise disappeared in a pop! Joy stared in shock at the place where it had lain. She stepped closer, and saw a white cocoon the size of a robin's egg. Bending over the cocoon, she watched the tiny silkworm moving inside.
"Not that original form," she muttered.
Try again . . . . She closed her eyes, mentally picturing a new chemise: "I need an undergarment just for me, exactly like the one I see!"
She snapped her fingers for good measure and opened her eyes. The torn chemise lay there just as it had before. She sighed, reasoning that she was still a tad weak and her magic, which was not that strong anyway, must be suffering.
She picked up the chemise, looked at it for a moment, then, being a frugal Scot through and through, she put it on backwards, figuring it was better to do that than to go without. A few minutes and many stumbles and struggles later, she had dressed in the wrinkled and torn green cashmere dress haphazardly pinned together with two hairpins, the stiff once-white stockings, and the crusty hard viridian slippers. She pulled her hair from its tangled knot and ran her fingers through it, wincing. Finally giving up, she wrapped the whole mess around one hand and jabbed in a few hairpins.
Quietly, she opened the door, expecting to see the narrow hallway of a typical English inn. Instead she faced a small landing and a steep staircase. She stepped outside, quietly closing the door when she heard the muted sound of Alec's voice from below stairs. She gripped the rough handrail, and slowly and carefully on somewhat wobbly legs made her way down the narrow stairs. Little more than halfway down she could make out his words. She stopped, and listened.
"The Duke of Belmore stuck in the middle of God only knows where. Not a bloody servant to be found.
What the hell kind of inn is this?"
Joy waited for an answer. None came. Who was he talking to? There was only the loud banging of something metal. She crept down another few steps, ducked under a low beam, and saw Alec's broad back hunched over the kitchen hearth. Except for him, the room was empty.
"Here one minute, gone the next." He shook his head and muttered something strange about disappearing giants and dwarfs.
The Duke of Belmore was talking to himself—Himself. She heard the scrape of metal against metal, then the gritty high-pitched scraping of a flint . . . a loud
whoosh!
"Bloody hell!"
Hot blue flames shot like Easter bonfires up the brick chimney. He stood back from the blasting hearth, staring at the fire—giving it the ducal glare, no doubt. The oven door burst open with a blast of hot air and banged against the brick. Flames shot all the way up to the bread oven.
It looked like one of her magic spells on a really bad day. But it was nothing compared to how he looked.
His ears, his neck, his rolled-up sleeves, his forearms, his shirtfront, his chest, the brown leather apron that covered that chest, and a good bit of his hair were dusted white with flour. His hands were caked in lumpy dough. His Grace, the Right Honorable—and overly proper—Duke of Belmore, was a mess.
She couldn't help it. She giggled.
He looked up at her. The second their gazes met his face flashed with an instant of surprise, then a snatch of something that made her breath catch. He actually look pleased, very pleased, but the look of pleasure was gone so fast she wasn't sure she'd really seen it. He had almost seemed happy to see her.
Joyous hope in her heart, she searched his dark eyes, but she saw only his usual cool expression.
"You're well." He took a step toward her, his face unchanged.
She nodded, then descended the last two steps and returned his look. After a moment of serious staring between the two, she smiled. His face was streaked with flour where he'd obviously wiped his brow a few too many doughy times. He hadn't shaved, and his chin and jaw were dark with stubble and dusted with flour. The scowl, however, was very familiar.
"What are you doing?" she asked, looking around him.
His shoulders went back—his I-am-the-duke stance— before he announced stiffly, "I am preparing a meal."
She took a few steps closer and saw a wooden worktable in one corner. In its center was a huge white slab of something that, with a mountain of imagination, might have passed for bread dough. It was the size of a bagpipe, and it lay in state—a sad state—amid a good inch of coarse-milled wheat flour.
"I see."
He stood as stiff and still as a Celtic stone.
"Bread?"
He turned back and stared at the slab of dough. It was the first time she'd seen his self-assurance slip. He looked uncomfortable and not the least bit confident. Her proud husband didn't have any idea what he was doing, so she offered to help, figuring she might be able to convince him to let her conjure something up.
"Ah, you can cook." His voice was tinged with relief, although she could not see any change in his expression.
Now, Joyous Fiona MacQuarrie Castlemaine, the Duchess of Belmore, part Scot, part English, part witch, was anything but stupid. She would not pass up such a perfect opportunity to impress him. After all, her chances up until now had been few and far between.
She only hoped her expression didn't show the wee fib she was about to spill. She couldn't cook, but she could usually zap up a good meal. One deep breath, her eyes wide, and out it came. "Aye."
"Good."
It appeared that he couldn't get out of that apron soon enough. Joy bit back a grin. He hadn't moved that fast since she set fire to his dining room carpet. He glanced at her and she struggled to look properly serious. From his expression she was certain she'd failed. He stood a touch straighter— very ducal— then tossed the apron on the worktable, where it landed in a puff of flour.
"I shall see to the fire," he said.
Joy looked at the blazing fire in the kitchen hearth. His gaze followed hers.
"The fire in the great room." He made a military turn and left the kitchen. A few moments later she heard the thud of logs on a grate.
She turned back to the room and stared at the mess and at the meager supplies. She crossed the room and examined the vegetables. It seemed vegetable soup was destined to be their menu. If only she could use her magic. But there her husband wouldn't be fooled.
She crossed to the table, shook out the apron, and tied it on, then put some of the vegetables on the table. Flour was everywhere. She looked around the room and spotted a willow broom propped against a butter churn in a dark corner.
Should she? She was feeling stronger, and she'd finally managed to master broom control last year. She stretched her neck to see what Alec was doing. His back was to her and he was fiddling with the fire.
Quickly she looked at the broom, narrowed her bright eyes, and said, "Come." The broom took two wobbly leaps toward her then stopped, standing all by itself. Closer, she thought. She gave another furtive glance in Alec's direction and deepened her voice, "Come!"
The broom slammed into her and clattered against the table.
"Are you all right?"
She winced at the sound of Alec's voice. She stretched to see him again. He still knelt by the fire but was looking her way.
"I dropped something."
He nodded and went back to work.
She looked at the broom and grinned, then bent down and whispered, "See the flour, stone ground? Sweep it into one big mound. Do your work without a sound, and stop the instant Alec turns around."