For a moment she stood openmouthed before her gaze swiveled from him to the set table. Rather than being served, he was serving them? To her utter astonishment he’d placed flowers from the tavern’s garden in a small pitcher at the table’s center. Pale pink roses and purple irises and butter-yellow day lilies. Somehow it seemed he’d picked them for her. Or was she so starved for attention and affection it made her more fanciful?
Without turning around he said, “Good morning,MademoiselleFarrow.”
Did he have eyes in the back of his head?
“Good morning,MonsieurGalant.”
“Bleu,” he countered, looking over his shoulder with a half-smile.
Flustered, she sat down at the table, biting her lip lest she offer to help. What could she possibly do given he had all in hand?
“May I call you Brielle?”
His pronunciation was perfect. So very French. If he’d not won her over already the way he said her name would have settled it. “Oui… Bleu.”
He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her. Had he milked the cow, too? She saw no cream yet the cow wasn’t bawling. At once he brought cream in a small pitcher. Amused, she wondered. Would he churn the butter or leave that for her to do? Though he was reassuringly near, she still feared going beyond the back door…
“I took liberties and turned the cow out to pasture and gathered eggs.” He gestured to his weapon leaning against the wall. “Safely.”
She tried to imagine him picking flowers and doing chores encumbered with a gun as he turned back to the hearth and reached for a spatula, flipping…plogues?
Again she felt that bittersweet, disbelieving tug.Plogueshad often graced her family’s table—steaming, buttery stacks overflowing with molasses.
“We have nocretons,” he lamented, placing a stack of steamingploguesnear her. “But one miracle at a time…”
She smiled. “I imagine you make excellentcretons, too.”
“On occasion.” He looked back at her, eyes alight. “When you live alone for so long, you learn to do all manner of things.”
Surprise pinched her. Had he no wife? No sweetheart? How was that even possible? He was sobeauhe took her breath away.
Her musings ended when Titus appeared. Despite his reddened eyes—from crying or a sleepless night?—he looked more pleased than surprised. Rarely did they sit down for a breakfast feast together. That was reserved for tavern guests.
“Thank’ee.” Titus surveyed the spread in wonder and took one of theploguesin question.
“I’ve eaten these since I was a boy like you in Acadie,” Bleu told him, setting molasses on the table. “A sort of pancake.”
He looked at Bleu with bleary eyes. “Is it wrong to be hungry when my sister’s just been buried?”
“Non, it simply means you are still alive.”
They bowed their heads and said their own silent grace. The scent of the flowers, the pop of the hearth, the delicious breakfast she didn’t have to make rendered Brielle speechless. Such a comfortable, companionable quiet so unlike the stilted, cowering silence when Griffiths was near. Her relief that he was gone shamed her as much as it assuaged her. Already the tavern’s tense mood had been broken.
“Since we cannot all safely venture outside at the moment, we can tend to matters inside.” Bleu’s gaze swept the kitchen. “I will straighten your master’s office, to start, if you can find other useful work to do.”
Brielle nodded. “I’ll ready the bedchambers for the next lodgers once I clean the kitchen.”
“I can tidy the bar,” Titus said, already retrieving a broom.
Bleu rose from the table while Brielle began gathering the empty dishes. “I heard the tavern’s owner—Griffiths—has an heir.”
Oh? She knew of no heir. Would he be like Griffiths? Cold, shrewd, avaricious?
She watched Bleu leave the kitchen, wishing he was the rightful owner and there’d be no end to this current arrangement. Already she felt bereft at the thought of his leaving. He’d been uncommonly kind to them. He’d stayed on to be their defender, delaying his own travels, when most men would have been on their way, leaving them to the militia in the meantime.
Why had he lingered?
7
