And the smells—savory roasts, spicy sauces, fresh-baked bread, honey, pepper, mustard—made her mouth water.
A lad carrying a jug spied her, froze, and turned around to go back the way he’d come. He whispered something to one of the older cooks, who frowned until the lad pointed at her. Then the older cook straightened, and his frown deepened.
Mery, sensing she should hurry along, slipped out of sight behind a man who was furiously chopping onions. She proceeded along the long wooden table in the middle of the room, brushing past men peeling leeks, slicing parsnips, and tearing greens.
When she bumped into a man quartering turnips, he swung around with a scowl and a giant knife. His brows shot up when he saw her.
Eyeing his blade with mistrust, she mumbled an apology and continued on. But by now, everyone in the kitchens had noted her presence.
One by one, the workers ground to a halt. The spoons ceased stirring. The knives went quiet. The spits stopped turning. All eyes swiveled to her in alarm.
In the midst of the silence, the very man Mery was seeking backed into the room with a yell. “Easson, give the hare’s leg a jiggle! See if ’tis—” He stopped when he realized he was shouting. He halted, studying the room in consternation.
Mery gulped.
Here, in his element, the cook looked magnificent. He had the voice of authority and the confidence of a king.
Her gaze roved shamelessly over his body. He’d removed his doublet. His pale shirt was rolled up to the elbows, exposing his muscled forearms, and open at the top, which revealed the vee of his chest. A stained white apron was tied around his waist. The sheen of sweat glazed his brow and darkened strands of his hair. His eyes were deep and mysterious…and narrowed at her in disapproval.
The men looked at him, waiting to see what he would do.
“What the devil?” he said. “What are ye doin’ here?”
Their gaze returned to Mery, awaiting her reply.
She lifted her chin. She might feel out of place here. But she wasn’t about to let a room full of kitchen boys intimidate her. “Lookin’ for ye, if ye must know.”
“Me? Well, ye can’t just…” He glanced around the room and set his fists on his hips. “What are ye lads gawkin’ at? Don’t ye have work to do?”
The men resumed their tasks at once. He made his way toward her, whipping off his apron to wipe his hands on it before he grabbed her by the elbow.
He started to tug her away—rather roughly, she thought. It was only natural that she resist.
He tugged her again.
She tugged back.
“What are ye doin?” he muttered. “Ye need to get out o’ here.”
“Stop yankin’ on me.”
“I’m not…” He let out a sound of exasperation. “Fine,” he said, letting go of her. “Will ye come this way, my lady?” he asked, sketching a mockery of a bow before he slapped the apron over his shoulder.
She closed down her eyes in a simmering glare, but followed him up a narrow set of steps. They led to a small chamber that was considerably cooler than the roasting room.
When she spied the assortment of sweets lining the wooden shelf along one wall, Mery’s eyes went round. Her irritation was instantly forgotten. The air smelled divine, like honey, cream, almonds, and cinnamon.
“What is this place?” she asked in wonder.
“The confectionary.” He wadded his apron into a pile on the counter. “Now, look, lass, ye can’t be strollin’ into the kitchens—”
“The confectionary?” She stepped closer to the shelf, pointing to a row of jewel-like sweets. “What are those?”
“Those? Marchpane. Now, lass—”
“They look like stained glass,” she gushed.
“I suppose so. Listen to me. This is no place for a—”
“And these?” she asked, her attention caught by the perfect golden squares topped with bright yellow syrup and red currants.
“Tablet with quince preserves. Nay! Don’t touch them. They’re for the nobles.”
She withdrew her hand. She’d only wanted a closer look. He didn’t have to shout at her. “Is this…?”
“Blancmange.”
She loved blancmange. The almond cream didn’t appear to be quite set yet, which was just the way she liked it—soft and as smooth as silk.
“What about these?” she asked, dropping down to eye level to examine the fluffy white dollops that looked like drifts of snow.
He sighed. “Meringues.”
“Oh, my. How did ye make them?”
“If I tell ye, will ye leave me alone and go back to the hall?”
She straightened, frowning in disappointment. “Ye are a mean old troll.”
“Listen, I can’t have a lass sniffin’ around my kitchens.”
She would have gasped at his rude behavior, but her attention was drawn to an amazing sculpture at the end of the shelf. It was a beautiful replica of Stirling Castle all in white, decked with colored flags and painted with the carved crest of Queen Mary.
“Ooooh, what’s this?”
He testily crossed his arms. “I’m sure ye’ve seen a subtlety before.”
Of course she had. They put subtleties on the table to introduce every important banquet. “None this fabulous. It looks…delicious.” She tapped her fingers on the edge of the shelf, tempted to break off a piece of the sugar parapet.
“Don’t even think of it, lass,” he warned, as if he’d read her mind.
“Fie!” She gave him a disgruntled pout. “Mean and stingy.”
“I don’t think the queen would appreciate ye layin’ siege to her castle.”
He was probably right. But there were lots and lots of other sweets. Nobody would notice if one or two of them went missing. She tucked her lower lip under her teeth, wishing she could taste just one.
Half amused and half exasperated, the cook finally let out a rueful chuckle of surrender. “If I give ye a sweet, will ye go on your merry way then?”
She couldn’t help the gleam that came into her eyes. “Only one?”
He shook his head in self-mockery. “Fine. Two. But then ye have to go. The kitchens are no place for a woman.”
She raised a brow at that, and then perused the selection. It would be hard to choose just two. Finally, she pointed to a piece of the quince tablet.
He picked it up and placed it in her palm.
She popped it into her mouth, and closed her eyes in joy. “Mmmm.”
The texture of the rich, sugary square was like fine sand, yet it melted to a velvety finish in her mouth. The sweet syrup of the quince preserves balanced perfectly with the tart bite of the red currants. She licked her lips and smiled.
When she opened her eyes to slits again, he was staring at her mouth. What she glimpsed in his smoky gaze was enough to make her want to forego the second sweet and sample the cook instead.
Tristan felt a current of desire go through him as he watched the lass taste the quince tablet. It had been a long while since he’d seen anyone take such blatant sensuous pleasure in food.
But in the more sensible part of his brain, he knew he couldn’t afford to linger here, watching her lick quince juice off of her fingers, no matter how it made his pulse throb. Women didn’t belong in the kitchens. If Thomas saw her…
“Ye need to go,” he choked out. That wasn’t what his body was telling him. But he forced the words from his lips.
She glanced at him with a creased brow and an endearing pout. “But ye promised I could have two.”
There was no disguising the calculating glimmer in her eyes. But even knowing he was being manipulated, he couldn’t refuse her. “Aye, fine, but make haste.”
Her second selection was a meringue. She bit into it, and her eyes widened as it dissolved on her tongue.
Tristan couldn’t help but smile. Meringues of egg whites—whipped up to a weightless froth, sweetened, then stiffened over a low fire to hold their shape—resulted in a confection as light an
d insubstantial as air.
“’Tis like takin’ a bite of a cloud,” she cooed as her tongue slipped out to lick a sticky crumb from her lip.
The mischievous lass was as tempting as the sweets. He’d like to have licked that crumb from her lip himself.
Then he gave his head a shake. This was the eve of the most important event of his life. He truly had no time for distractions like Mery Graham.
“Go on with ye now,” he said.
“Why?” she replied, sucking the sweetness from her fingertip.
The gesture made a twinge go through his groin. “Why what?”
“Why do I have to go?”
Marry, he wished she didn’t. “I told ye. Women don’t belong in the kitchens.”
“But why?”
Leave it to the outspoken lass to ask him such a thing. She frowned at him as if he’d made the decree. But the kitchens had always been the domain of men. They were hot and smoky places, full of heavy iron cauldrons and massive joints of beef. What woman would want to venture there?
This one, apparently.
“Because they ask too many questions,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest again and eyeing her roving fingers. “And get your thievin’ paws away from the sweetmeats.”
She gasped, recoiling as if he’d swatted her hand.
He shook his head. “I swear, if I let ye stay here any longer, there’ll be nothin’ left for the queen.”
She cocked her chin and gave him a pretty pout. “Well, if they weren’t quite so temptin’, I wouldn’t…”
He heard footsteps on the stairs. His first ridiculous instinct was to protect the lass. He set her behind him, then whirled about with closed fists and a menacing scowl to face whoever was coming.
“MacKenzie!”
Bloody hell. It was the master cook.
“Aye?” he replied as Thomas entered the confectionary.
Thomas’s eyes didn’t miss a thing. “What the…what are ye doin’ in the confectionary?” he demanded. Then his scowl darkened. “And why is there a lass stickin’ her fingers in the blancmange?”
Tristan turned to glare at the lass, who looked as guilty as the devil.
She answered before he had a chance, raising her haughty chin. “I’m verifyin’ the quality o’ the sweets,” she declared. “After all, we’re not just any troupe o’ minstrels. I’ll have ye know we’ve performed all o’er Scotland, from Inverness to—”
“Lass!” Tristan interjected before her unwitting insults could turn the master cook’s face any redder. “We may as well tell him the truth.”
“The truth?” she asked.
“Aye.” He scrambled for an excuse that Thomas would accept. “The lass… Mery… She’s…” he said, flushing at the lie. “We’re lovers.”
“What?” Thomas said with an incredulous frown.
“What?” Mery said with an incredulous laugh. “That’s the most—”
Before she could call him a liar, further slight the master cook, get the entire troupe of minstrels banned from Stirling, and possibly lose Tristan his position in the kitchens, he did the only reasonable thing to salvage the awkward situation.
He hauled Mery Graham into his arms and kissed her.
Kissing wasn’t new for Mery. She’d been stealing kisses since she was twelve. So her first instinct wasn’t necessarily to fight him.
It wasn’t her second instinct either.
And the longer the kiss went on, the less she thought about fighting him at all.
Indeed, the sensation was quite pleasant. She could taste subtle, spicy ginger on his lips. She felt the masculine stubble that peppered his chin and heard his rasping breath against her cheek. Even the smoky smell of him was enticing.
She let her hands drift up along the line of his jaw. Slowly, she weaved her fingers into his thick hair. It was as soft and luxurious as she’d imagined. Tilting her head, she parted her lips, encouraging him to trespass there.
He seemed more than willing to oblige. He clasped the side of her neck with one powerful hand, pulling her firmly against him with the other. He surged forward with his demanding mouth. She felt, rather than heard, the soft, hungry growl deep in his throat.
She forgot all about their witness as she was swept up in the moment. Passion swirled around her like an ethereal harmony, carrying her along in its lofty embrace and conveying her heavenward.
Swiftly, before she could stem the tide, the kiss took on an intensity all its own. He dragged her even closer to him until her breasts were mashed against his chest. Like a starving beast, he devoured her.
Her knees grew weak, and a current of hot need shot through her body. Suddenly she wanted to do more than just kiss him.
“MacKenzie!”
MacKenzie abruptly broke off the kiss.
Mery staggered backward. She might have fallen had he not caught her shoulders. To her amazement, he looked as shocked as she was.
The intruder spoke. “Look, lad, I don’t begrudge ye a wee entremet between courses.” He raised his thick brows above his sweaty, round face as he gave her a quick perusal. “I’d even commend ye on your taste.” Then he shook his head. “But ye’re my right hand. Next time wait until supper is o’er.”
MacKenzie—she still didn’t know his first name—released her and lowered his hands. “’Twon’t happen again,” he grimly vowed.
Mery just as grimly vowed, if she had anything to say about it, it would happen again. The sharp-tongued rogue of a cook might ruffle her feathers a bit. But he also heated her blood in the loveliest way.
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MacAdam's Lass Page 27
