Evan tilted his head to one side. “It might get messy…” He looked at her gown. “I should hate to see your pretty clothing stained with blackberry juice.”
“I can change. There are several quite old things in the wardrobe, any of which could be thrown away if need be…”
He smiled. “Go then. I’ll start picking these over…” He grabbed a basket and spread out a cloth on the large table. Emptying the blackberries, he distributed them into an even layer.
She snatched one and popped it into her mouth, loving the sharp burst of flavour on her tongue as she bit into it. “Mmm.”
“Go, Miss Mischief. Don’t eat the jam before it’s jam.”
She stuck out her tongue at him, knowing it was probably stained with juice. “Don’t start without me.”
It took her less than fifteen minutes to find the oldest dress—a thin cotton affair—and squeeze herself into it. She’d gained back some weight since last she wore it, and it was tight across her breasts. With a muttered oath, she took it off, removed her chemise and slipped it back on. The fit was better, and the sensation of lightness…well it was admittedly sensual. Knowing there was nothing but a thin sheen of fabric between her and the rest of the world sent a tiny thrill of excitement darting along her nerve endings.
She hurried back down to the kitchen—and Evan.
He took one look at her and groaned. “God, you’re everything a man could want, Gwyneth. Did you realise that?”
She shook her head. “No. No I don’t realise that, although since I’ve been here…”
He crossed the room with her apron, repeating the earlier steps, but this time his hands lingered after tying the tapes, sliding own to cup her bottom. “Do you have a stitch on underneath this?” He squeezed her, making her moan a little with pleasure.
She shook her head.
“Wicked,” he said, letting her go with a little sharp slap.
“Evan,” she gasped.
“Gwyneth,” he answered, a smile in his eyes.“Jam. Jam now. Later…”
“Later?”
“We’ll see.”
Pouting, she obeyed and followed him to the stove where two large pots were already warming. Wood piles stood ready in case more heat was needed, and she carried out his instructions, adding sugar and water to the cleaned and prepared blackberries as he added them to the pot and mashed them up a little.
“How many pots will this make?” she asked, curious, and noticing the small china containers lining part of the table.
“I’m hoping for three dozen. As you are well aware, our jams and jellies are much prized. I make a batch every few days for market, but these are for tomorrow.”
“So the carts I see coming and going now and again…they are your supplies? Pots and cloths to cover them?” She stirred gently as the fragrant mixture heated over the stove.
“Yes,” he nodded, adding the last of the sugar and a few squeezes of a lemon to each cooking pot. “There. That has to heat up now until it’s bubbling nicely.” He came to stand behind her, running his hands over her backside again. “I will note thatI’malready heating up quite nicely, thanks to you and your lovely bottom, Gwyneth.”
She sighed and leaned against him. “I shouldn’t say it, but I do love feeling your hands there.”
He closed the space between them and dropped a kiss on her neck as he squeezed the firm globes.
“Well then.” He pulled away and handed her a wooden spoon, then drew the pots slightly off the heat. “You have to watch the pot now. It mustn’t catch, but it must keep simmering.”
“All right.” She stayed in front of the stove, covered in an apron, holding a wooden spoon. Never had she seemed so at home. The smell of the blackberries, the gentle sound of the jam as it slurped tiny bubbles to the surface and steamed happily away…Gwyneth felt something in her soul lift at the sheer, simple joy.
Evan stood beside her, tending the other pot. He leaned against her for a brief moment. “You’re very good at this.”
She glanced at him. “Thank you.”
He wouldn’t know she was thanking him for more than just a compliment to her stirring abilities. He’d given her a moment, a brief and tiny slice of time where she was free of all her worries and troubles. All she had to do was stir the pot.
“It’s thickening nicely,” he said quietly, lifting his spoon. “See how this is starting to hold on to the back?” He showed her what he meant.
