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‘Ugh.’ Jess looked around her, taking in the vast range built to cook for an army, the huge beams overhead, the massive wooden table and the ancient flagstones on the floor. This kitchen was the size of a normal house. It was fantastic. But right now it was horrid.
Still Raoul seemed bemused. He was thinking of tragedy, Jess thought, whereas right now was the time for thinking of right now. ‘You want to open a few windows and doors, Your Highness?’ she prodded, moving toward the frying-pan with a handful of dishcloths and a martial look. ‘I’ll get rid of this.’
Raoul stared at her for a moment as if he didn’t understand—and then crossed to the sink. ‘Shove it in here,’ he told her.
She raised her brows in incredulity. He really was distracted. ‘You’re proposing we pour cold water on red-hot cast iron?’
‘Well…’
She grinned. ‘What do you do in real life, Your Highness? Don’t tell me. You’re an engineer?’
‘I’m a doctor,’ he told her and she paused.
‘A doctor. A people doctor?’
‘That’s right.’ He frowned, almost as if he was hauling himself back to the here and now. ‘Why did you think I might be an engineer?’
That was easy. ‘On account of your practicality,’ she told him, grinning. ‘My cousin’s an engineer and he has a four-inch-diameter scar on his shoulder because of just the practicality you’re proposing.’
Raoul’s brows snapped down in confusion. ‘Pardon?’
‘Patrick’s brilliant,’ she told him, folding her dishcloths into a pad. She was trying not to stare at the way his eyebrows worked when he was confused. It was sort of…sort of very attractive. ‘One late night when he was still at university, Patrick got hungry—so he did what any brilliant engineer would do, faced with a can of baked beans and hunger. He heated them on his college-room gas heater. Without opening them. When he finally applied the can opener, the can hit his shoulder and darn near passed straight through.’ Her smile was easier now, less forced. ‘And here you are, proposing to stick a red-hot cast-iron pan into cold water. You figure.’ She twisted her cloth around the pan and lifted. Doctor or not, prince or not, there was work to be done. ‘Open the door,’ she ordered. ‘Now.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He gave her a bemused look and opened the door.
The cool air of early evening washed in—and smoke rushed out. Jess carried her pan with care straight past Raoul. He stared at her for a minute as if he couldn’t work her out.
‘Spuds,’ she told him, talking back over her shoulder.
‘Spuds?’
‘You might guess,’ she said kindly. ‘The little black balls with the disgusting smell.’
He caught himself—he even managed a smile—and he followed. With spuds.
After the smoke-filled kitchen, outside was lovely. A warm sea breeze was drifting across the kitchen garden, and the setting sun was leaving a lingering halo of colour over the distant mountains.
Jess paused on the bottom step and Raoul stopped beside her. Holding his pan.
Hesitating.
This was dumb, Jess thought. It was as if there was some sort of constraining force between them. Something she didn’t understand.
Move on, Jess, she told herself firmly. She set her pan down on the stone step and Raoul followed suit. A bunch of hens who looked as if they’d been about to head for the henhouse diverted and gathered round the pots.
Raoul looked at the hens—and then looked back at the pots with indecision.
‘These guys will attack these if we leave them here,’ he said.
‘I guess that’s fine,’ Jess told him. ‘Chooks generally clean off everything edible.’
‘Chooks?
‘Australian for hens.’ She put on her broadest Australian drawl. ‘Chook, chook, chook… It’s a much better descriptor than hen, d’ya reckon?’
‘Maybe,’ he said faintly, sounding stunned. ‘Um, the…chooks…aren’t going to do so much cleaning as you’d notice. There’s not a lot there that’s edible.’
‘No.’ She smiled down at the chickens and said, ‘Sorry, guys. I’ll give you some toast in a minute to make up for it.’
‘We should put them to soak,’ Raoul said doubtfully and she sighed and put her hands on her hips.
‘Typical male. Of course we should put them to soak. When they’re cool. But…did you say Marcel was taking control of this castle in five days?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Then I suggest we leave them to soak for, ooh, I’d say about five days,’ she said, and she grinned.
He stared at her in something akin to amazement—and then the smile returned.
It was like the sun coming out. It was a killer smile. It made Jess stare up at him and feel something inside twist.
She did not want something inside her to twist.
There was a tentative cluck and a chicken stepped forward toward the pan. It was enough to divert her. Especially as she badly needed to be diverted.
‘Don’t do it, chook,’ she told the bird. ‘It’s really hot.’ She turned to Raoul. ‘You say you’re a doctor. Have you ever treated chook burns?’
‘Um…no.’
‘Chooks are pretty dumb,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘And…you’re saying that as of Monday these pans are legally in Marcel’s control?’
‘For the next eighteen years,’ he said. ‘Until Edouard turns twenty-one.’
‘Hmm. And it’s my guess he won’t be into counting pots and pans. There’s nothing for it, then.’ Her smile widened. ‘Let’s do it.’
She wiped her hands on her skirt in the gesture of a woman preparing for hard work. ‘Stand back, all. In the interest of chook health there’s nothing else to do.’ She walked across to a hose attached to the tap by the back door.
Raoul watched her as if she was something that had appeared on a magic carpet.
‘Stand back,’ she told him again. ‘And whoosh those chooks away.’
‘Whoosh?’ he asked faintly and her grin deepened.
‘Like you did to Marcel,’ she told him. ‘Only don’t whoosh quite so hard.’
There was that smile again. Faint. Just.
She really liked it. They grinned at each other like fools. Then he whooshed the chooks.
She turned on the hose.
It was a very satisfying moment. The jet of cold water, seemingly coming straight from the distant snow-capped mountains, hit the pan with a really satisfactory hiss. The pan erupted in a cloud of steam—and then there was a solid crack as the cast-iron pan split clean in two.
‘Whoops,’ Jess said and tried to look contrite. Not very successfully.
Raoul was still looking at her as if she might sprout antennae. ‘Whoops?’
‘You want to do the spud pan?’ she demanded, proffering the hose, and he appeared to collect himself.
‘Absolutely,’ he told her. He took the hose from her grasp—and pointed.
Crack.
Another pot less for Edouard to inherit.
‘How truly satisfying,’ Jess said and rubbed her hands on her skirt again—job well done. ‘You reckon we could find some more pans to heat up?’
‘You’re not a designer. You’re a demolition expert,’ he said on a note of discovery.
‘Yep.’ She gazed round, considering. ‘This is fun. What else can we do here? If Marcel is going to own all this then maybe we could do some real damage.’
‘Not fair,’ Raoul said, though there was a note at the back of his voice that said he wouldn’t mind swinging an axe.
‘OK.’ She let her demolition work go with reluctance and moved on. ‘If we can’t demolish, let’s eat. But what?’ she demanded, returning to the kitchen with purpose. She gazed down at the plates of salad. Delicate. Mouthwatering. Small. ‘This won’t cut it. I’m hungry.’
‘I thought you were an invalid.’
‘Invalids need feeding,’ she told him. ‘Besides, I’m better. As of now. I’m leaving in the morning.’ Then as the lightness faded from his face she regrouped. ‘But first, food. Bread. Now. Search.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She turned her back on him—his look of bemusement was starting to disconcert her—and hauled open the huge refrigerator. That was enough to deflect her thoughts from the man behind her. Or almost. This wasn’t a fridge, it was a delicatessen. ‘There are six types of cheese in here!’ she exclaimed. ‘Wow!’
‘You’re in Alp’Azuri,’ he said, still obviously bemused. ‘Cheese-making is our speciality.’
‘Then the menu is toasted cheese sandwiches,’ she declared. ‘Followed—I trust—by toast and marmalade. Have you found the marmalade yet?’
‘No, I—’
‘Then search faster,’ she told him with exaggerated patience. ‘What sort of prince are you, after all?’
‘I have no idea,’ he said faintly. ‘I have no idea at all.’
It was a really strange meal. They made slabs of cheese sandwiches. They fried them until they were crispy gold, and then they sat at the vast kitchen table and ate them in companionable silence. Raoul continued to be bemused and Jess left him to it. This man had his problems. All she could do was feed him and keep her questions to herself.
Henri appeared just as they finished their second round of sandwiches. He’d come to search for something for Louise to eat. Raoul poured him a glass of wine and then he and Jess combined forces to cook him a mound of sandwiches. They then sent Henri off with another bottle of wine and the toasted sandwiches for Louise and himself to eat in the privacy of her apartments.
‘I can’t eat with her,’ Henri told them but Raoul shook his head. Firmly.
‘You’re the only one she’ll eat with, Henri. You know that. Though whether she’ll eat door-stop sandwiches…’
‘I suspect she’ll love them,’ Henri said, looking down at his inelegant pile with a faint smile. ‘Ever since we came back here she’s been served nothing but five-star cuisine and it gets tiring. I’ll tell her that her son made them for her, shall I?’
‘She’ll never believe you,’ Raoul told him. ‘But if it’ll make her eat them…’
‘Certainly tell her that her son made them,’ Jess said promptly. ‘And tell her that Prince Raoul is also turning out to be a whiz in the washing-up department. There’s a cast-iron pot outside, cracked from side to side, with his name on it.’
‘Hey, Jess cracked one, too,’ Raoul said and they actually giggled in unison—and Henri looked at the pair of them as if they’d taken leave of their senses. But like Raoul, he seemed to have too much on his mind to comment. He left them with his sandwiches and his wine and a bemused smile.
Bemusement seemed to be the order of the day.
‘Now for toast and marmalade for us,’ Jess said as he left and Raoul looked at her in astonishment.
‘I thought you were joking. Where are you putting this?’
‘I’m making up for lost time,’ she said and then gave a rueful smile. ‘Like your mother, I’ve been off my food for a bit. Maybe I’ll be off my food again tomorrow but for tonight there’s toast and marmalade and I refuse to worry.’
He gave her a strange look but asked no questions. They made and ate toast and marmalade. Jess made a couple of extra slices and went out to feed some to the hens, who were standing mournfully around the remains of the pots. They accepted her offering with gratitude and then clucked off to the henhouse.
Raoul watched her all the time, as if stunned.
Did she have two heads? she wondered. She was starting to be really self-conscious here.
What next? she asked herself. What next, besides ignoring the strange looks Raoul was giving her?
With the hens safely locked up for the night, she returned inside and crossed to the sink.
‘The servants will cope with the mess in the morning,’ Raoul told her but she was already running the water.
‘You might be a prince but I’m not. No servant’s going to clean up my mess.’
‘But…’
‘And you’ve been saying that you’re not really a prince,’ she told him. She lifted a tea towel and tossed it at him. ‘Prove it.’
So she washed and he wiped, once more in silence, and then she drew breath and decided the night had to end.
‘Thank you,’ she told him. ‘This was a great…time out.’
‘Time out from what, Jess?’ he asked softly, laying down his tea towel and turning to give her his undivided attention.
She caught herself.
‘I mean, time out for you,’ she tried. ‘Time out from worrying.’
‘You were just as in need of time out as I was,’ he told her. Then, at her look of confusion, he took her hands in his, lifting them to stare down at her fingers. ‘You’re what, thirty?’
‘Hey! No!’ Not quite.
