At least that came out clear.
The cook hesitated, and it was only then that Emma realized that the kitchen had gone quiet. The maids held their pans half out of the water and hovered, unsure whether to move.
Emma rolled up her sleeves. “I am not made of glass,” she said. “If I burn myself, I will scream, and you may scold me. Until then, show me.”
The cook’s lips twitched, then thinned. “All right then,” she said. “Come here.”
Emma learned with her hands. How long the meat needed on each side before it charred. How the sauce smelled when it was stirred enough. One time, the cat came to distract her, almost causing an accident.
The cook clicked her tongue and tapped Emma’s wrist with a spoon. “Daenae stare at the creature when ye should be staring at the flames.”
The cat wound itself around Emma’s leg, tail flicking. Emma bent, stroked its head once, and turned back to the fire.
A few hours later, Emma’s hair smelled of smoke and herbs. Tiny specks of sauce stained her dress, and her fingers ached pleasantly from chopping and stirring. She thanked the cook properly and pretended not to notice the impressed looks the younger maids gave her.
In her chamber, she stripped out of her stained gown and washed as far as the bath and a jug allowed. She donned a dress that sat well on her shoulders and did not make her feel like a doll.
While Jenny braided and pinned her hair, Emma’s thoughts drifted to the look on Logan’s face when he tasted something she had made with her hands. If he still meant to leave, he could do it after he had eaten what she had labored over.
If he stayed, even for one night, she wanted the taste of that night to be something other than quarrel and hurt.
When the bell rang for supper, she was ready.
Logan pushed his chamber door open with his shoulder, still tugging at his cuff, his mind half on what David had said about the beach and the men.
Three steps in, he stopped.
The wall opposite the bed looked back at him.
What in God’s…
It was not the stone or the bare grey wall he was used to. No, this was something else. On the wall was a field of soft wool creatures. A lamb with eyes too big for its head. A fox lying inflowers and a fawn that looked as if its hooves had never seen mud.
His hand froze on his cuff.
Of course,his wife had found the worst thing in the storeroom.
The tapestry hung perfectly straight. No sagging corners. It sat on the wall like a flag.
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. “For God’s sake,” he muttered.
He could have it taken down before he came back from supper. One word, and it would vanish.
But he did not give the word.
Instead, he crossed to the washstand, unfastened his cuffs, and poured water. His reflection in the basin’s surface looked older than he liked, due to the shadows under his eyes and the thick stubble along his jaw.
If she doesnae like ye, there is nothing ye can do, Logan.
The thought came quickly and quietly.
He splashed his face to chase it off, or tried to. He could command men and sail through weather that would break fools.He could not make an English lass look at him the way she looked at a calf learning to walk.
He dried his face, changed his shirt, and draped his plaid round his shoulders. When he turned to leave, the lamb on the wall seemed to be watching him.
He scowled at it, snorted once, and stepped out.
The hall felt almost warmer than he remembered. A part of him wondered if that was because of the walls or because of something else he could not put his finger on. At least not yet.
