AT FIRST SIGHT: A Novella(3)
She replaced the pistol above the mantle, only to find, as she turned from the crackling fire, that he was regarding her closely. Uneasy, she nevertheless held out her hand. “Your saddlebags – I shall put them in your bedchamber upstairs.”
“Nay, these I shall keep with me.” He tossed the saddlebags on the nearby gaming table, next to the fireplace. They made a weighty thud. What looked to be a sugarcane stalk – apparently his emblem of ownership – was tooled into the weathered leather. He stripped off soft gloves of fine kid. “But I could use that toddy.”
Relieved for an excuse – and the kitchen’s half-door – to put distance between her and the man, she nodded and retreated. She sat a pan of butter she had churned only that morning to warm next to the flickering flames and took out the precious sack of maple sugar and the jug of rum from the cupboard.
When she turned, she found Adam Sutcliff watching her, his hands braced on either side of the half-door’s frame. There was something about him that reminded her of the Cavaliers of King Charles’s court. That should have eased her apprehension. But there was also that swashbuckler element about him.
“Then grace me with your travails,” she said, her voice limed with feigned airiness. She returned to the mixture of rum and sugar she was adding to the pan’s melted butter. The spot between her shoulder blades burned with his stare.
“I have been commissioned to purchase land in the Indian territory beyond,” came his unique voice. “But, t’would seem the elements conspire to delay me. A floundering ship. My livery mount threw her shoe. Inclement weather. And no room to be had anywhere . . . until I found you.”
At his phrasing of the last, she paused, then looked over her shoulder. Her smile was amiable enough. “Purchase land – for whom?”
“An enterprise involving many.”
An emissary he was? The Dutch, in constant friction with the Swedish, and the Spanish were competing with the French and English for the new continent’s domination. If he represented Cromwell’s England . . .
As she asked the next question, she watched his eyes. For her, eyes were more of a tell-tale than gestures. “Oh? Who is at the helm of this enterprise? Who commissioned you?”
As if he had not heard her, his gaze seemed to wonder over the kitchen aimlessly, then took in the holly and mistletoe draped on the sill above his head. “A festive occasion, is it?”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Have you hunger?” With inordinate attention, she cleaned her hands on the dish towel slung over one shoulder. “Your tavern bill includes a meal.”
“Aye, that I do.”
“I have leftover venison and pumpkin stew. Have a seat at one of the tables, please you, sire.”
“Adam, Eve.” His smile sank dents beneath each craggy cheekbone. “An interesting twist of irony, our given names, is it not?”
Incensed that he could address her so familiarly, she ignored his question, as she also ignored his dictum to use his given name.
She carried into the main room a tray, laden with a small basket of apples from the orchard along with a bowl of warmed stew, strong yellow cheese, and a slice of gingerbread. Food that she could ill afford to share that winter.
By that time, he had already installed himself at the gaming table, with one boot resting proprietarily on another chair. The boot’s heavy spur threatened to rip the chair’s rush-bottomed seating.
“Prithee, join me,” he said, delivering what might be interpreted as a warm, inviting smile and a flourishing sweep of one arm with its billowing white sleeve.
Disturbingly sensuous, his smile was. But not enough to catch her off her guard. Fretting, she thought of the three gifts still bundled, along with the wooden nativity scene, in the basket by the hearth – only feet from the gaming table. He had already taken note of the holly and mistletoe. She would have to proceed most cautiously.
“I have no time to dally. I have three servants who will be wanting a meal tomorrow.” This, to reinforce she was not alone.
“Ahh – those sadly plucked partridges on the work table.” He dipped a wooden spoon into the stew, closed his eyes as he savored its taste, then opened them to fasten an amused gaze on her for an undue amount of time. She shifted beneath his reflective regard. “Heavenly,” he said, at last. “Your cooking. And you can cook their meals while we game away the night.”
Standing in front of him, chaffed hands braced on hips too slender these days, she cocked her head. Gone was her amiable smile. “Game away the night?”
His abundant curling hair swished the collar of his buff coat, as he nodded indulgently at the gaming table’s chessboard, dice, and worn deck of cards. “Aye. Have you anything else to do tonight but cook?”
Until she knew better his allegiances, dared she alienate him? If a game was afoot, best she learn its rules. She shook her head. “Nay.”
“Splendid. Then you can attend to those kitchen tasks between chess moves – I tend to deliberate a long time before making up mind about something.”
“And my instincts know immediately.”
“Impulsive, are you?” Wooden spoon suspended in one hand, he reached with the other to dip inside one of the saddlebags. Flipping it open, he scattered a fistful of glittering coins to decorate the table top. “You will be richer by one-hundred Spanish gold doubloons should you win in a game of chess.”