Page 25

Turning, her heart gave a jolt as she saw Jacob standing in the doorway.

‘Just a blackberry pie. There’ll be bread soon too.’

‘The smell…’ He took an appreciatively deep sniff. ‘This is the closest I’ve ever been to a working kitchen. As a boy my mother said they were too dangerous for me to go near and now I don’t like to intrude in case I get in the way.’

The idea of not daring to set foot in one’s own kitchen was so ridiculous Meg almost laughed, but instead she reached for her knife.

‘Do you want a piece? It’ll have cooled enough by now not to burn your tongue.’

‘Yes please.’

She retrieved the pie from the windowsill and cut a generous slice as Jacob seated himself at the table. She could sense his anticipation, an absurd coyness coming over her as she passed him a loaded plate.

‘I hope you enjoy it.’

He set to with flattering enthusiasm and she stood back to watch, crossing her arms over the flour-speckled bib of her apron. Beneath it she wore one of her own old dresses, slightly shabby but more comfortable than any fine gown, and as there was currently nobody other than Jacob to see her she’d deemed it safe to wear what she wanted. Casting off the unfamiliar clothes helped her feel more like herself rather than someone acting a part, although the scene currently playing out before her felt so unlikely it didn’t seem fully rooted in reality either.

She and Jacob sharing a pretty cottage, her husband sitting at their clean-scrubbed kitchen table while eating a slice of something she’d prepared earlier that perfect, sunny morning…

It was a picture of such cosy domesticity she could hardly believe her eyes. Once it would have been everything she’d dreamed of but now she didn’t dare look too closely. The cracks might show if she scratched the idyllic surface, revealing the uncertainty beneath; and yet she couldn’t deny the temptation to abandon her caution was growing by the minute.

Uneasy, Meg brushed a dash of flour from her sleeve. Would it really be such a bad thing just to enjoy herself while she could? Their arrangement couldn’t last for ever, after all: Celia’s christening was in just a handful of days, and what would happen after was still unclear. The Viscount might pose a danger if she stayed in the village without Jacob nearby to protect her, although she could hardly imagine he would want her to accompany him when he returned to his own home…

And of course, there’s the other thing, too. When—if ever—should I tell him that it was Peter who was poaching, not me?

Discomfort prowled around inside her. Jacob had been so good to her that it compelled her towards honesty, but could she really trust him with the truth?

He’d given her little reason not to since he’d come bursting back into her life, but she had to be sure. She’d promised her mother that she’d always take care of Peter and she intended to honour that vow. Jacob’s kindness in securing the cottage didn’t seem like that of an unreliable man, and yet she’d been wrong before, her judgement perhaps too flawed to make a decision that affected Peter just as much as it did herself.

‘That was delicious.’ He scooped up a final forkful of pastry with obvious pleasure. ‘I didn’t know you were such a good cook.’

Despite her current confusion, Meg couldn’t help a dry smile. ‘How would you? Baking and the like weren’t really the sort of things we used to talk about.’

‘That’s true. As I recall, quite often we didn’t do much talking at all.’

Warmth stole down the back of her collar. Hearing him speak about the old days was more agreeable than it should have been, even if what he was referring to skated close to memories she shouldn’t revisit. Did that mean he’d gone back over them himself? Or was he just making conversation, something they hadn’t had very much of since circumstance had thrown them together again?

Jacob sat back in his chair. He looked around the kitchen, from the well-blacked range to the curtains fluttering in a gentle breeze, a few moments passing before he spoke again.

‘Are you happy here? Do you feel more comfortable, being somewhere more familiar?’

Meg considered the question. ‘In a way, although I wouldn’t say this is typical. Life in a cottage is usually a good deal more difficult than this makes it seem. It isn’t all baking pies and picking flowers.’

‘No. I didn’t think it would be.’ He gave her a sardonic look she supposed she deserved. ‘If we were living in Hayworth, what would I be doing now?’

She snorted. ‘Don’t tell me you want to play the part of a village man?’

‘Why not?’ He tipped his head back to study her, his blue-eyed scrutiny sharp. ‘Tell me—what would I, as man of this house, be doing with myself at this moment?’

Meg’s eyebrow flickered. He wasn’t serious about claiming mastery of the cottage, but it was his apparent eagerness to step into a villager’s shoes that was most comical. As a viscount’s son he hadn’t done a day’s real work in his life, a symptom of the differences that had once stood between them, although she couldn’t fault his interest.

‘Very well. You’d be out working on your plot of land but, as you don’t have one, perhaps you could chop some wood, or fetch some more water from the well?’

Trying to hide her amusement, she watched as Jacob rose from his chair. ‘I’ll do both, starting at once.’

He strode confidently to the back door. Meg heard his boots crunch away down the garden path, but they quickly returned.

His head appeared around the doorjamb. ‘I wonder…where would one keep an axe?’