She'd not bothered to tell the Scot that Mari often cooked when she was at the house. Her friend had been away since the fire, visiting relatives near Assateague. The Indian woman was an excellent cook if you had a taste for Indian food. Her stews and seafood were delicious, not to mention the honey cakes she'd made for Ashley since she was a child.
Mari had offered to teach Ashley time and time again, but Ashley had no desire or time to learn. There was always too much to be done outside—a lame horse or a leaking sloop to be seen to. She wasn't much of a housekeeper, either, she had to admit. The house had been neglected since her grandfather's death. But their livelihood depended on the land, and the land took every minute of her time.
With a sigh, Ashley opened the tiny leather-bound book. Kelt would be better pleased when Mari returned. And she would have to find someone to replace Joan. The trouble was, she liked Joan. The wench was honest and had a good heart. To put her to work outside would cause even more problems, not to mention the shame Joan would feel at being demoted.
As minutes passed without the Scot returning, Ashley's curiosity got the better of her. She put the book back into her pocket and made her way silently down the hall to the kitchen. She could hear Kelt giving orders before she reached the doorway.
"Slice those apples thin. I want no seeds or peel in the fritters."
Joan's reply was muffled.
Cautiously Ashley pushed open the heavy door. To her surprise, Kelt stood by the kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, patting dough into neat little biscuits. He glanced up at her.
"It's taking a little longer than I thought. Sit and watch if ye like. Are those oysters shucked yet, Thomas?"
"Yes, sir." The old man winked in Ashley's direction. "They're fresh, just like you said, tonged just this morning."
"Leave a few in the shells to eat raw and cut up the others for stew." Kelt wrapped a piece of leather around his hand and pulled a three-legged spider from the hearth. Deftly he greased the bottom of the pan with lard and placed the flat little biscuits inside, then covered it with a heavy lid. Placing the frying pan back in the fireplace, he used an iron hook to pull hot coals over the lid.
In less than an hour's time, Kelt and Ashley were seated at the elegant table once more and a red-eyed Joan was dipping out bowls of steaming oyster stew. There was broiled filet of rockfish, applesauce with a sprinkling of precious cinnamon, and the tiny biscuits done to a golden brown. Boiled potatoes mashed with turnips completed the main course. For dessert, Thomas carried in a silver platter of apple fritters.
"Given time and the proper ingredients, I could have done better," Kelt boasted. "This is simple fare, but fit for a gentleman or a lady. Do ye agree, mistress?"
Ashley swallowed the last of her biscuit and nodded. "If you ever decide to seek another trade, you can work for me as cook. But a few weeks of sitting at your table and I'd weigh more than a cask of tobacco." She smiled at him. "There's more to you than meets the eye, Kelt Saxon."
Kelt raised his napkin to wipe at his lower lip. "Ye should smile more often; it becomes ye."
"And you." Ashley raised her wineglass in salute. "To a fine dinner and to the man who prepared it. My stomach thanks you, sir."
"For Christmas, I'll prepare a haggis. No Yuletide celebration is complete without it. Ye'll have to part with a sheep or two." His gray eyes narrowed. "Ye do celebrate Christmas here in Maryland, don't ye? There are no religious rules against it?"
"There is a great deal of merrymaking and a mighty lifting of cups," she assured him. "In fact, we have received an invitation to a Christmas dance at Canterbury. Martin Hopkins mentioned you by name. I'll not be going, but you are welcome to."
Kelt waved away Joan's offer to refill his wineglass with a slight motion of his long, well-formed fingers. They were exceedingly clean for a man of the soil, Ashley decided. Both of her hands would have fit neatly into one of his, but Kelt's hands were far from clumsy. She had never known an artist before, but she wondered if—Her reverie was cut short by Kelt's insistent question, repeated, she was certain by the amused expression on his face, more than once.
"I hope it is my cooking you're engrossed in," he said. "I wouldna want to bore ye at your own table, mistress."
The gray eyes twinkled at she struggled to remember what he had asked her. "I'm sorry," she hedged. "I was thinking of the tobacco shipment." She pushed back from the table and stood up. "I have enjoyed your meal and your company, but I will impose on you no more on your day off. Lord knows you have few of them. You are free to ride to Chestertown if it pleases you. I have accounts to do. If you'll excuse me."
"Aye, I'm certain you do. But you'll give me the favor of a reply to my last question, or tell me it's none of my business. I asked why ye would not be going to the Christmas gathering at Canterbury. Is there bad blood between ye and your neighbors?"
"Are you always so direct?" she asked. Her cheeks felt flushed, and she knew the heat had not come from the wine. His gaze was unnerving. "I get on well with my neighbors, if you must know. As to why I don't go to their parties, it is my own affair." Her voice softened. "They would welcome you. An eligible bachelor is a much sought after commodity."
"Even an overseer?"
"Martin Hopkins was once an indentured servant. He was transported to Annapolis as a horse thief thirty years ago. I doubt he would look down his nose at you or any other. You have a respectable occupation, and Martin has two unmarried daughters." She chuckled. "Believe me, you would be well received."
"Fair flowers, are these Hopkins lassies?" His voice was strangely choked. "As lovely as the acres their fond father will add to their marriage portion?"
"As to that, sir, you must make your own decision. But this much I will tell you. A poxed face often conceals a sweet and gentle nature, while beauty can cover much that is undesirable."
"Now I know ye speak truth, Mistress Morgan. 'Tis common knowledge that a sensuous mouth and come-hither eyes often hide an evil temper. Methinks I must see these lassies for myself. What better time and place than a Yuletide fete?" He stroked his neat beard. "But I would feel more comfortable if you would accompany me. You could point out the unattached ladies and tell me all their faults before I waste time in idle conversation with the wrong woman. As ye so wisely pointed out, my free time is limited." He grinned wickedly. "Remember, I am a stranger here. Would ye leave me to the mercy of scheming mothers?"
"You'd be naught but a lamb among wolves, I'm certain," Ashley replied more sharply than she intended. She knew her hired overseer was making fun of her and she wasn't sure she liked it. "Thank you again for the meal. If I don't see you at eventide, we'll meet over breakfast to discuss tomorrow's chores."
Kelt gave a courtly bow and stepped back to let Ashley pass. "You're sure you willna reconsider about the dance?" His shoulders quivered slightly with barely suppressed mirth. "For the sake of the season and good relations with your neighbors?" He paused. "Or, if you willna go, at least give me the name of the most eligible young maid."
Ashley stopped short in the doorway and turned to glare back at him. "That will be no problem. You would want to court Mistress Honor Horsey. She is the only heir of doting parents. She has all her teeth, and is sound of body and wind."
Kelt chuckled. "Why do I suspect the lass has a face like a toad?"
"If you believe that, sir, you are greatly mistaken," Ashley protested. "There may be few eligible maids in Chestertown, but I assure you she would be considered a beauty even in Virginia."
"A shrew, then?"
Ashley shook her head. "Of gentle voice and manner... if a bit shy."
"Beautiful and good, a paradox." Kelt folded his arms across his chest and pursed his lips in feigned puzzlement. "Hmmm," he mused. "Can the lass be simple?"
"Bright as a new penny," Ashley countered.
"Overly plump?"
"Nay." Ashley's eyes sparkled with mischief. "And neither is she an old maid."
"When did you say this dance i
s to be held? Will there be time to cry the banns before Christmas? If Mistress Horsey is as you say, you may well dance at our wedding."
"Gladly, Saxon. For then you would have so much of your father-in-law's land to tend to, you would have no time for mine. We could part friends."
"We can part whenever you like, if you'll but pay me for the full contract," he shot back.
"A cold day in hell," she answered sweetly. "Until morning, sir."
* * *
Kelt knew his head had barely hit the pillow when he heard someone call his name. He moaned and opened his eyes; it was pitch black. He yawned and fumbled for the pistol on the candlestand beside his bed. "What is it?" he answered sleepily. "Is something wrong?" Even in his semiconscious state, he knew that if he was being called from his bed, something must be amiss.
The doorknob turned with a soft click. "Scot? Are you awake?"
"I'm awake," he said thickly. "Ashley?" Kelt scrambled from the bed and grabbed for his breeches. The damp air was cold against his bare skin and he shivered. "What the—" He clamped his teeth over the final word. "Is something wrong?" he repeated. "Just a minute, I'll light a candle." He padded barefoot across the icy floor to stir the coals of the dying fire, then knelt to hold the candlewick to a flickering ember.
A pale circle of light illuminated the room. Ashley stood beside the door, fully dressed. "You sleep like the dead."
"Why in the name of Mary's son have ye roused me from my bed? It can't be long past the witching hour." He ran a hand through his thick, tousled hair. "Have the bondservants all run away? Is there another fire?" he demanded dubiously. The house was silent. Whatever had brought his mistress to his bedchamber at this hour, it didn't seem to involve the rest of the household. Kelt regarded her suspiciously. If she'd come to seduce him, she'd wasted time in dressing.
"Actually, it's closer to four." She took a few steps toward his easel. The partially completed canvas was hidden in shadows. "You were awake until nearly midnight. Were you painting? Can I see?"
"No." Kelt moved to cover Ashley's portrait with a linen sheet. "Are you tight with candles that you care how late I work?" he grumbled, turning his back to put on his shirt. "This is not decent. If ye wanted me, ye should have sent Thomas."
Ashley laughed. "I'm not one of your frail English ladies that a man's bare chest will send me into vapors, or ecstasy for that matter. It's foggy out."
Kelt inhaled sharply. If she had awakened him from a sound sleep to tell him it was foggy... His fingers itched to tighten around her throat. No jury would convict him of murder with such provocation, not even a Maryland jury. "Woman..." he threatened.
"It's foggy out, so it's a perfect morning for goose hunting. We can use a goose for the house and as many as we can shoot for the workers. I thought perhaps you'd like to come. We've shown you little but hard labor since you've come to Morgan's Fancy." She reached out nonchalantly to lift the corner of the cover over the painting.
"Don't touch it," he ordered. The near whisper did not soften the authority in the Scot's burr. He nodded, motioning to the open door. "I'll come wi' ye and gladly, if you'll but give me a few minutes to pull on my boots and wash the sleep from my eyes. I favor a good hunt as long as the game's not wasted. God knows enough geese have passed over this house in the last few weeks."
"We'll grab a cup of tea and some of your biscuits in the kitchen, but there'll be no time for a proper breakfast," Ashley warned. "And if you're not sharp, I'll leave without you." She hurried out of the room and down the dark stairway. There was no need for a light; she knew every inch of Morgan's Fancy.
Jai pushed his cold nose into her hand and she patted the dog's shaggy head. "Yes, you're coming," she promised. "Did you think I was going to swim after the dead geese myself?"
The kitchen was still and dark. Only a faint glow from the coals in the corner of the wide fireplace gave off any light. Ashley knelt and began to make up the fire, adding cedar chips and blowing gently to ignite them. There was no sound in the room but the crackling of the new fire and the dog's breathing. Deftly Ashley hung the iron kettle over the flames and stood up, brushing the ashes from the knees of her leather breeches.
Sooner or later, she'd see what it was that the Scot was painting. She wondered if he was any good. Most itinerant artists she'd heard about were nothing at all like Kelt Saxon. There was more of soldier than limner about him. He was an educated, sensitive man, someone she would have liked to have as a friend. Why then did he constantly infuriate her? He didn't even have to say anything—a look was enough to send her temper soaring! It would be better for her and for Morgan's Fancy if he were gone.
"Do ye make it a habit to rise on the worst of nights and hunt for your people?" Kelt's question came from the shadows by the door. He lifted a candlestick from the trestle table and brought it to the fire. "Ye constantly surprise me, Mistress Morgan." He rubbed at his arms briskly and yawned as Jai twisted about his ankles, pushing his massive head against the man to be petted.
"Jai," Ashley scolded. "Come here."
"Leave him." Kelt patted the shaggy, multicolored coat. "Good dog, good Jai." The animal's heavy tail thumped vigorously against the floorboards.
Traitor, Ashley thought. Even my own dog likes the rogue! "You must remember," she said, "my upbringing was unusual. For all intents and purposes, I was raised as a boy. Didn't your grandsire take you hunting?"
"As a matter of fact, he did. I shot my first stag when I was nine and he carried it back across his, saddle bow. Ye would have loved him. He had a beard halfway to his waist. It was as red as your own locks in his prime, but when I knew him, it was snow white. He wore a belted plaid, wi' his old legs bare summer and winter, and a great pagan brooch of beaten silver. There was a man! 'Til the day he died, few could best him in arm wrestling. He carried his bride off by force, riding fifty miles through English territory with her in his arms."
"A kidnapper? And you boast of him? She should have cut his throat with his own broadsword."
"And make my own father an orphan? Nay, my grandmother was not unwilling. She was already five months gone with his child. They were sweethearts, if enemies by birth." Kelt took two mugs from the Welsh dresser and carried them to the table. "It was a love match, one that lasted for half a century."
Ashley looked unconvinced. "I think you spin your tales as easily as you swallow food, Scot." She sprinkled a handful of loose tea into the china pot. "I'm never quite certain what is truth and what is feigned charm." It was happening again! Damn it! She was turning a pleasant morning's hunt into a sparring match. She forced a smile. "I hope you're a good shot. I'd like to bring back some birds this morning. With the fog, it should make for good hunting."
"Aye, I've found it to be so." He unwrapped the biscuits and popped one in his mouth. "Ye should have roused me a little earlier, so I would have had time to make us a decent meal. It will be raw out this morning, mark my words."
"At least it's not raining. My grandfather always took me duck hunting in the rain," Ashley said with a shudder. "And you'll appreciate the effort when you're sitting over a platter of roast goose with berry dressing."
"If Joan touches so much as a feather of one of my geese, I'll sell her indenture north to the Puritans."
Chapter 6
The sound of the horses' hooves hitting the trail was muffled by thick fog. Even the creak of saddle leather and the heavy breathing of the animals seemed distorted and far away. Mist swirled about the riders, making it impossible to see more than two arms' lengths ahead. The ghostly shape of a great horned owl fluttered before them, and Ashley's horse snorted in alarm and shied sideways, bumping into Kelt's mount.
"Whoa, whoa," Ashley soothed. She tightened the reins, pulling the nervous mare's head down, and patted the animal's neck. "Easy, girl. You're not afraid of a bird, are you?"
"It's a good thing ye listened to me and left that devil you usually ride in the barn. He'd have dumped you in the dirt," Kelt said.
&
nbsp; Ashley chuckled. "For once you're probably right." She glanced sideways at him. His features were lost in the fog and darkness, but the soft burr of his deep voice was reassuring. No need to tell him that the owl had startled her or that she was afraid of the dark.
If Mari was home, Ashley would have taken the Indian woman hunting with her. She wouldn't have come alone. In the daylight, she wasn't afraid to go anywhere or face anything. But with the coming of night, a child's fears of the unknown assailed her.
Her grandfather had despised cowardice; nothing dead or alive had frightened him. There was no way Ashley could admit to being scared of the dark. He had raised her as he would a son, and expected the same courage of her as he would of a man.
"Are ye sure ye know where you're going?" Kelt's query brought her back to the fog-shrouded lane. "I'd hate to get up at this time of the night and not get a shot at some geese."
"There's a blind along the river. We'll tie the horses a little way off the road and walk down to it. As soon as the sun comes up, you'll get your fill of shooting."
Ashley liked the excitement of the hunt, but not the killing. She hunted deer and small game, shot wolves and other creatures that preyed on the poultry yard and livestock. She killed for food and to protect what was hers, but she never got over the sense of loss... the pain of putting an end to something wild and free.
"I suppose ye be a fair shot, for a lass," Kelt said.
"You'll have to be the judge of that." She hoped she could shoot straighter than he could; he'd never let her hear the end of it if she couldn't. "No fair shooting on the water."
"I wouldna think of it."
"We'll take no more than we can carry home. Be sure you kill what you aim at. Mari says a crippled bird is an insult to the South Wind." Ashley glanced over at Kelt, waiting to hear his amused reaction.
"I knew it was an insult to someone to waste one of God's beasties, but I never knew which wind it was," he said solemnly.
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