Chapter 17
MacEwen lifted the lid on the pot and took a good sniff. “Mmm. Stew’s always better the second day, my mam used to say. Smells good, wee Jenny.”
Jenny shrugged and looked away. “That’s Mr. Fox’s cooking.”
The girl’s earlier cheekiness had gone to indifference. He laughed. A good game, this was. “And where’s yours?”
“I’m only boiling up peas and some turnips, and cooking some bacon.”
“I’m sure they’ll be as lovely as you.”
Her lush lips formed a prim line. “And lucky it will be if they don’t turn to mash. I’m no cook, MacEwen.”
“Your mam didn’t teach you?” He watched for her reaction. He’d heard her story. He was shamelessly goading her, and wasn’t all fair in love?
She plopped her hands on her hips, right about where he’d like to put his own, and looked at him full on. “And you know I haven’t a proper mam, not past the birthing of me. So, don’t play the muttonhead with me, Fergus MacEwen.”
He chuckled. His mam—or the cook that his mam usually employed—could teach this girl all she needed to know about boiling, roasting, and stewing, and he could teach her other things.
“Now go and see if the peas are ready, while I set the dishes out.”
“Aye, miss.” He saluted. “I will.”
“It smells good in here.” Fox had entered noiselessly, bottle of brandy in hand. “Shall I ring the dinner bell for Lady Perpetua?”
Half-empty bottle, he noted. Fox had been tippling already.
“No, sir. She’s taken a tray in her room.”
A grimace flashed across Fox’s face. He pulled out a chair. On edge, was Fox, and rightly so. The lady must have pushed him with even more determination during their private talk. There was no mistaking her intent. She was comely enough for a Long Meg, and ’twas clear the two had a hankering for each other. But a man could see by the state of that bottle, Fox had held to his honor.
Or perhaps he was just wary of the father. Shaldon had a long memory and a long reach, and didn’t this present duty attest to that.
He and his cousin had balked at working with a portrait artist, but after what had happened in Holland, his respect for Fox had risen considerably. Clearly, he’d been at this game for some time, maybe longer than himself. Aye, and there was some story here between Fox and Shaldon that Kincaid had hinted at.
“Is she feeling unwell?” Fox asked.
“She didn’t say.” Jenny’s voice was so carefully neutral, he knew she was lying. Fox looked up. He knew it also.
For sure they’d had a row. Fox had found her out and about riding astride?damn dangerous for the girl. If Shaldon’s enemies got their grubby hands on his only daughter, that leverage would complicate their mission here.
Tomorrow, Fox would send him off with a message to Shaldon to come get his daughter, and then she and Jenny would leave. He’d have to steal all his kisses tonight, providing he could turn the girl’s mood from whatever was bothering her.
Jenny set out the food. He snagged a piece of turnip.
“Ah, Jenny, it looks lovely.” He pushed a glass over and Fox poured some drink.
The gin tubs sat stopped up nicely on a wooden counter, bait to bring the free traders to heel.
There were two settings only at the table. “Not eating with us, fair Jenny?” he asked.
She cast him a troubled look. “I’ve nibbled all through the cooking.”
He swept a gaze over her. “Don’t want you to wither away to nothing.”
She turned away, so he couldn’t even see if her cheeks had gone pink. Fox spooned his food numbly. All in all, his dining companions were far too somber.
“Have I ever told you, Fox, that some of the MacEwens went off to America?”
