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He coughed uncomfortably and was saved from answering when Tarley hustled into the kitchen with a tray of dirty dishes.
“Godsdamned oafs,” she snapped.
“Handsy patrons?” Mrs. Barnwell asked.
“I need another three bowls of the fowl. Is there bread?” She dropped the empty bowls into the soaking barrel, then leaned against the workstation where Lachlan sat. “Stars. My feet hurt. Handsy is an understatement. If only everything was as it should be, then these awful strangers could go back into the bowels of hell from whence they came.”
Glad for Tarley’s interruption because she was talking instead of running from him, he realized seeing her was becoming both a boon and a curse. She looked as she ever did in her white blouse and skirt the shade of a fall plum, a muslin apron tied around her trim waist. Her shirt was rolled to her elbows, and he could see that her wrists—one tied with a decorative red ribbon—were delicate but sturdy. An interesting contrast. Wisps of her brown hair escaped her braid, and her cheeks were bright with exertion.
It was hot in the kitchen, Lachlan decided, feeling the stuffiness and needing air. “Do I need to go and kick them out?” he asked and stepped back from the countertop.
Tarley leaned past him to collect something he wasn’t paying attention to, and he caught her lemony scent. “These are your cut vegetables?” she asked, studying his pile. The carrots were a haphazard mess of various sizes, as were the other roots and stalks. “Have you never chopped vegetables before?”
Lachlan tried to ignore her scent, somehow stronger now, suppressing the urge to lean closer and inhale. His mind drifted back to their last kiss, her hand around his cock, and his groin surged. What the fuck was wrong with him?
“Don’t worry about my work,” he said, his tone acerbic as he worked to get himself under control. This woman was making him brutish.
Mrs. Barnwell chuckled as she set three bowls and slices of bread rolled in cloth on the tray.
Tarley studied him as if she had a question she needed answered, but he couldn’t guess at it. He had a question himself, involving kissing, touching, and sex. Her blatant regard was the first she’d taken the time to look at him, but then she shrugged, looked away, and fixed her tray to balance it.
Tarley one. Lachlan zero.
“Be careful out there,” Mrs. Barnwell warned. “Get Horance to boot any offenders.”
“That handsy?” Lachlan asked but already knew and hated the idea of someone putting their hands on Tarley. Hated the idea of her having to put up with that. Hated the idea that someone was defiling his future queen.
“Yes ma’am,” Tarley said.
“Those customers can’t seem to keep their hands to themselves,” Mrs. Barnwell said, pointing her spoon at him. “Should have been here the other day. One of the patrons grabbed a handful of Miss Tarley here.”
“Mrs. Barnwell–” Tarley said, hoisting her tray. “Ollie doesn’t care about that.”
“Sure I do,” he said, but Tarley had already disappeared into the noisy dining room. He turned to Mrs. Barnwell. “Does that happen a lot?”
“Sad to report that Mrs. Credence, Miss Tarley, and Miss Genevieve share at least one story each day. They are lovely women—not old like these old bones—and there are more than enough miscreants who seem to believe that a pretty girl deserves that kind of treatment. It’s a shame. Law doesn’t help.”
“You aren’t old, Mrs. Barnwell.”
She laughed. “You’re trying to get out of chopping, young man. Mr. Barnwell says I’m too set in my ways, but that’s neither here nor there to the story. What sent Miss Tarley into the woods was a big oaf who manhandled her, and she hit him with a stein–”
“She hit him?” He’d heard Tarley’s short version of events but enjoyed Mrs. Barnwell’s recollection. He could picture Tarley defending herself and found himself smiling.
“Got him so good, he fell off his chair, I heard. Had it not been for another patron’s intervention—I can’t remember the details—she might have been roughed up pretty good. Good thing Credence sent Tarley into the woods. She saved you.”
Lachlan wasn’t relieved to hear Tarley could have been hurt by a customer, and glanced at the entrance to the dining room, repressing the urge to go out and watch over her. And Miss Credence too, of course. “What happened after?”
“Oaf went to the priest. Now mind you, our priest, Acolyte Primrose, isn’t as fanatical as some, but he had to respond. Hired a pack of hunters. Gross misuse of church funds, if you ask me.”
Lachlan could work out the rest. “Perhaps another man working in the dining room would help? You know?”
“I’ll mention it to Credence. It’s clear that kitchen work isn’t your thing.” She snickered and turned away from him.
When the lunch run finished, and Lachlan had washed most of the dirty dishes, Tarley joined to help scour the pots and pans. Lachlan helped her carry what he could out to the water pump. They each rubbed the pots with a rag and scoops of grit, then rinsed them until they were clear. They didn’t talk, which felt strange to Lachlan since their ease in the woods. He missed that. Their stories. The laughter. Sleeping curled around her every night. He wished he could find a way to broach this divide that had appeared between them.
“Are you angry with me?” he finally asked. “Because I think you’re avoiding me.”
“Avoiding you.” She hummed a sound but didn’t comment.
