So she narrowed her eyes and kept her perusal appraising.
There had to be something that would get her past his head-shakings and lock-jawed denials.
Not nearly as old as she would have expected, Hugh MacHugh appeared genial enough otherwise.
Clear blue eyes, twinkling and bright, watched her from beneath a high forehead, smooth if a bit wary. Autumn-bronze hair graced his brow, if the carefully combed strands were a bit wispy. And he sported round apple-red cheeks and a curling copper beard, obviously his pride.
He was pulling on that beard now.
Yanking on the glossy rose-red curls as he wagged his head, tsk-tsking her every request.
“Nae, it canna be done, my lady.” He folded massive, well-muscled arms across his chest. “In all my days, I have ne’er gone against Lord Raven’s wishes.”
He looked at her, his red-bearded chin outthrust.
Gelis took a step closer to him. The reek of onions and simmering beef pottage swirled around her, as did the pungent smell of fresh fish packed in barrels of seaweed and brine.
“But you have the goods here,” she wheedled, lifting a hand to count the delicacies on her fingers. “They’ve not yet been returned to the larder.”
Hugh MacHugh grunted.
His arms remained firmly crossed.
“See you for yourself ” — Gelis pointed to the heavy oaken worktable forming the centerpiece of the kitchens — “is that not the selfsame joint of roasted mutton, platters of which were sent to my room yestere’en?”
A crimp appeared in the cook’s fine, high brow.
“The scent still lingered in the air.” Gelis twitched her nose, demonstrably. “ ’Twas the same roasted mutton I can smell now.”
She flicked a glance at the savory evidence. “Ah-h-h, yes,” she observed, letting her nose quiver again. “I am quite sure of it. The seasonings, see you . . .”
The crimp in the cook’s brow became a crease.
Gelis waved a hand, silencing him when he opened his mouth to protest.
“And there, on the trestle table by the far wall” — she whirled in that direction — “are those not the spiced salmon pasties prepared to tempt the Raven’s palate?”
Hugh MacHugh’s tight-drawn lips said that they were.
“Or there . . .” She trailed off, thrusting out an arm to indicate a bowl of jellied eggs and a linen-draped platter that she suspected held Hugh’s own prized honey cakes, the tasty delicacies dusted with ginger.
She lifted a brow. “Are those not leftover goods? Victuals now destined for the castle dogs?”
The cook shuffled his feet, unable to meet her eye.
Sensing victory, she went to the table and lifted the edge of one of the cloth-draped bowls.
“ Ah-h-h . . .” She nodded thoughtfully. “More than enough for your lord’s hounds and any empty-bellied beggars who might come calling at the postern gates!”
To her surprise — or not — Hugh MacHugh began to flush.
He looked down, nudging a surprisingly small foot against a crack in the kitchen’s stone-flagged floor.
“I, too, would have relished such a feast.” Gelis pressed her luck. “I know you ken I was robbed of such enjoyment — as was your lord.”
The cook’s head snapped up, his pink-tinged flush turning scarlet.
“I told you, my lady—”
