MacKenzie's Lass Page 3

  She took a bigger bite. The trout was so fresh, she could taste the clean, bracing flavor of the firth in it.

  One more bite, and the delicate spices of mace and clove swirled over her tongue.

  Just as she was about to take a fourth taste, the cook leaned down. “I can take that away if ye don’t like it.”

  “Nae,” she blurted, gripping her plate in panic before he could remove it.

  He flashed an irritating grin, clearly trying to provoke her. “So ye do like it.”

  She gave him a casual shrug, just to annoy him.

  “Ye’re a stubborn lass,” he whispered.

  She whispered back, “I willna be courteous to a man who insulted my voice.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’ll have ye know that voice earned me the role of a Nereid for the banquet.”

  It wasn’t quite true. Bastian Pagez hadn’t even heard her sing yet. He’d chosen her on appearance alone. But the cook didn’t have to know that.

  “A Nereid?” the cook murmured.

  She arched a smug brow. “And a Nereid is a great deal more respectable than a satyr.”

  Chapter 4

  Tristan scowled. He still didn’t know what a satyr was. Nobody in the kitchens seemed to know. He’d never heard of a Nereid either. But he wasn’t about to admit his ignorance to the saucy maid with the sparkly eyes.

  He bent to whisper against her hair, “Ye know, between ye and me, ’tis unwise to be on bad terms with the man cookin’ your food.”

  She gave a tiny, satisfying gasp, glancing suspiciously at the remains of her trout.

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t poisoned ye,” he said. “Yet.”

  He didn’t know why, but he found perverse pleasure in ruffling the sassy lass’s feathers just a wee bit.

  He moved on then to the other guests, who raved over the trout. From the corner of his eye, he watched the lass poke at her fish, sigh, and finally resign herself to finishing it. He also saw the satisfaction in her face as she licked the last morsel from her dainty fingers. And that did strange things to his insides.

  When the minstrels finished their dinner, he had the trifles brought out. As he predicted, none of the guests had ever seen such a concoction. Tristan considered the trifle one of the few brilliant English inventions. The layered sweet was so new and uncommon in Scotland, and there were so many variations of it, a cook could use almost any ingredients and dub it a trifle.

  The minstrels and the servants, for whom the extravagant sweet was a rare treat, began extolling its virtues. But though it was gratifying to hear their compliments, he found he was mostly interested in what the Highland lass thought of it.

  He watched her from across the table as she took a tentative taste. She rolled her eyes in ecstasy, licked her lips, and went for another bite.

  Why that pleased him, Tristan didn’t know. But his heart beat faster when he saw the genuine delight in her face.

  It wasn’t often he received praise. The nobles of Stirling had a spoiled palate and were accustomed to fine food. Dining on delicacies like orange syrup, rosewater, and sugared dates was nothing special for them.

  Preparing food for people who sincerely appreciated it was far more rewarding. And if Mery Graham started appreciating it any more sincerely, he thought as she closed her eyes and ran the tip of her delicate tongue around the edge of her exquisite lips…

  The breath left his lungs as he continued to observe her. A powerful surge went through his loins as he she savored every velvety bite. He didn’t realize he was scowling until she glanced up at him, her brow furrowed in puzzlement.

  Snatching up the nearest cup of ale, he downed it in one gulp, ignoring the protests of the maidservant to whom it belonged.

  It didn’t help.

  Perhaps he should have poured the ale down his trews.

  Lately, he’d been too busy to pay much heed to the neglected beast in his breeches. But now it seemed to be roaring in demand.

  Why the lass should affect him so, he couldn’t fathom. Aye, she was bonnie. But the court was full of bonnie lasses.

  Nae, there was something different about this one—her spirit, her wit, her temper, or maybe the way she’d stood up to him on the bridge—that fired his blood and made his senses go awry.

  She finished her trifle before everyone else. He passed behind her to collect her empty bowl.

  “So did ye enjoy your poison?” he teased.

  She smirked. “Ye wouldn’t dare poison the lass who’s to play a Nereid for the queen.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t, but a satyr might.”

  “Then ye’d best beware, satyr.” She nodded to the last tapestry on the wall, which depicted the killing of a trapped unicorn. “Ye can see what the royals do to unicorns.”

  Tristan narrowed his eyes at the tapestry. Maybe a satyr was similar to a unicorn.

  She clucked her tongue. “Why would they wish to kill such a beautiful beast?”

  “A unicorn?” he quipped, removing her bowl and giving her a sly wink. “They’re delicious.”

  Her jaw fell open, and she swatted him.

  Tristan was grinning like a fool all the way back to the kitchens. What fun the lass was. Though he casually bedded his share of willing women, he didn’t speak much with them. The few times he tried, his dark and biting remarks usually escaped their understanding.

  But Mery Graham had instantly seen the humor in his words. Her eyes had registered at first shock, and then amusement. And when she cuffed him, it felt as if she knocked his brains a bit askew.

  Here was a woman who gave as good as she got. In the world of courtly protocol, it was refreshing to address a lass who spoke her mind. If only all women were so forthright and outspoken, he might actually consider pursuing one.

  As he ducked back into the kitchens, he was in such good spirits that he didn’t even bark at Easson, who was now napping by the dying coals. Instead, he gave the fire a few jabs to keep it going for the next round of roasting and let the lad sleep.

  The rest of the day, while he supervised the stewing of hens, the simmering of pottages, and the blending of sauces, he couldn’t get Mery Graham out of his mind.

  He kept wondering what she would think of this sauce or that custard, whether she would prefer the apple or pear tarts. The delectable vision of Mery licking her lips as she dined on his dishes was never far from his thoughts.

  The master cook was busier than usual, which meant Tristan rarely stopped to take a breath. He knew Thomas was counting on him to work side-by-side with him, to make sure nothing slipped through the cracks. Not only did they have to orchestrate and serve a three-day event for scores of nobles, but they had to ensure the rest of the castle folk were fed. The royals might take precedence, but it was vital that no one in the household go hungry.

  It was late afternoon when Campbell passed through the kitchen corridor with a tray full of cups.

  “What’s that?” Tristan asked.

  “Ale, sir,” the lad replied.

  “Where are ye bound?” Tristan asked.

  “The great hall, sir.”

  Tristan furrowed his brows. He kept a close watch on the provisions. Nothing left the kitchens without the express permission of Thomas Chalmers or himself.

  “Who ordered them?”

  “Master Thomas. He said I was to take drink to the minstrels.”

  On impulse, Tristan tore off his apron and took the tray from Campbell. “I’ll take that. Meanwhile, see if ye can find a jar o’ quince preserves in the stores.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Tristan ascended from the kitchens, shaking his head, marveling at the lengths to which he’d apparently go to glimpse that minx of a minstrel once more.

  He heard them before he saw them. Angels. At least they sounded like angels. Harmonies as soft, sweet, and light as whipped cream snow filled the great hall, spilling into the passage.

  For a moment, he paused at the doorway, trying to decipher which voice was Mery’
s. It was impossible. The voices mingled so flawlessly that he couldn’t tell where one ended and another began. The playful notes floated and danced, skipped and turned, and then tumbled into a merry jumble.

  Toiling in the kitchens, he didn’t often get to listen to the entertainment. He’d heard performers at the spring fair. But they’d sounded nothing like this.

  The song was incredibly complex. The minstrels’ contrasting voices—bright, mellow, delicate, sharp—were like expertly measured spices that blended together to create a unique and tasty dish.

  Indeed, the music was so captivating that he couldn’t bear to interrupt the song. He closed his eyes, letting the beautiful echoes wash over him.

  He didn’t understand the lyrics. They sounded Italian. But the song seemed to be lighthearted in tone. It probably wasn’t about hunting unicorns.

  The music began to slow. The minstrels held out the final note, which echoed in the great hall. And then the magic of the moment was broken by the leader of the minstrels.

  “Elspeth, ye were a wee bit sharp on that high note again. And Brian, ye’re still rushin’ the line before the last verse. Try to stay with Chris.”

  Tristan quietly cleared his throat to announce his arrival.

  “At last!” one of the men exclaimed.

  “Just in the nick o’ time,” said another, winking, “before Harry could make us sing that infernal tune one more time.”

  Harry replied with a laugh. “Well, if ye’d sing it right the first time…”

  The eight of them rushed up to Tristan, snatching ales from the tray. He was startled to hear them belittling the music. To him, it had sounded heavenly.

  He felt the brush of skirts against his leg.

  “What have ye brought us?” asked a silky voice beside him.

  Unable to resist the jest, he murmured, “Unicorn piss.”

  She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, almost making him drop the tray. Then she took a cup of ale and proceeded to swig it down all at once.

  He raised a brow.

  She sniffed defensively. “Singin’ is thirsty work.”

  He gave her a half grin. “Want another?”

  She hesitated.

  “Go on,” he urged.

  She cast about furtively, then took another cup, muttering, “Harry will have my head if I’m in my cups for the next song.” She nonetheless took a healthy gulp.

  “What’s the next song?”

  She thought for a moment, then almost spit out her ale on a giggle. “’Tis a drinkin’ song.”

  He chuckled along. In that instant of shared laughter, he felt a strong and curious attraction to her.

  It was absurd. Tristan wasn’t a man ruled by his heart. Running the kitchens required thought and attention to detail. There was no room in his head or time in his busy day to pay heed to every bonnie lass that passed by.

  Besides, he’d only just met Mery Graham. All he knew about her was that she had a prickly nature, a fiery temper, and a penchant for ale. She was likely a widow or at least a woman of questionable morals to be traveling alone with minstrels. She also had soft green eyes, an adorable pout, and a body to drive a man mad. But there was something more about her—something wild and spirited—that heated his blood.

  “So how did ye happen to fall in with this company?” he asked, nodding to the minstrels.

  She arched a brow at him. “Well, I was out scarin’ fish one day…”

  He grimaced. He deserved that. Indeed, he was about to apologize for his rudeness when the leader of the minstrels clapped his hands to summon the singers.

  She downed the rest of her ale and placed the empty cup on his tray. He would have said more. But with a whirl of her scarlet skirts, she swept off, leaving behind only her flowery, feminine scent.

  Tristan lingered long enough to hear the beginning of the drinking song, which compared the virtues of wine and women.

  He watched Mery sing. Her face seemed to come to life. Her eyes lit up. Her dimples deepened. Her lips curved into a flirtatious smile.

  So captivated was he by her expressions and the merry play of the music, he almost forgot that he’d left a sorrel sauce simmering on the fire.

  Cursing his inattention, he withdrew from the hall and loped back to the kitchens. He arrived just in time to see a scowling Thomas stirring the abandoned sauce.

  Chapter 5

  No matter how hard Mery tried to focus on the rehearsal, she couldn’t stop thinking about that infernal cook. Zounds, she didn’t even know the man’s name. She certainly shouldn’t be attracted to him. In fact, she shouldn’t give him any thought whatsoever. He obviously had no ear for music. He had yet to apologize for insulting her. And he poked fun at her at every opportunity.

  True, he was rather witty. She had a soft spot for anyone who could make her laugh. He had a wry grin, dazzling blue eyes, and hair she’d love to run her fingers through. As for his wide shoulders and powerful arms…well, they made her heart flutter in the most odd…

  “Mery!” Harry barked.

  She jumped.

  “Ye missed your entrance,” he scolded.

  “Did I?”

  She had to stop thinking about him. This was going to be the most important performance of her life. She had to be at her best.

  They began the song again. This time, Mery focused intently on her part.

  After all, if the minstrels sang well enough, Queen Mary might ask them to return. She might even ask them to stay at Stirling, to be her court musicians. Mery’s future depended on delivering a brilliant performance. She had to think about every note. She couldn’t let a pair of twinkling eyes and a firm and manly backside distract her from…

  “Mery!”

  “What!” she snapped back.

  “The word is ‘sweeter,’ her lips are ‘sweeter’.”

  “I know the words!” She furrowed her brow. “Wait. What did I sing?”

  “‘Satyr’?”

  Anne the alto snickered.

  Mery bit her lip. “I won’t do it again.”

  Damn that cook! She would forget about him. She would.

  Her plan worked for the next two songs. But in the middle of Toutes les Nuitz, when they started singing about a woman missing her lover beside her in bed, the cook’s handsome face suddenly sprang to mind. And when she got to the phrase, au lieu de vostre bouche en soupirant je baise l’oreiller, in place of your mouth I kiss the pillow, she grew short of breath, wondering how his smug mouth would taste, and she ran out of air before the end of the line.

  She decided she had to finish the matter once and for all. She had to confront the cook. What she’d do, she didn’t know. She’d have to follow her instincts. But if she hoped to make this performance a success, she had to purge the fascinating, infuriating man from her thoughts.

  Her next opportunity came hours later, at dinner.

  A smaller meal was served to the minstrels and two dozen various household servants shortly after the main dinner for the nobles. Though Mery kept eyeing the entrance of the hall, the cook never came through it. Kitchen lads brought in the first course—roast capons with a sweet wine sauce, wee mutton pies, and a lovely custard with raisins.

  There was a brief respite between the first and second courses. It was then Mery made her move.

  She told Harry she needed to be excused for a moment. Then she slipped out. She crossed the small bridge that connected the great hall and the kitchens and crept onward, guided by the alluring scent of roasting meats.

  The passageway grew warmer and the plaster walls more smoke-blackened as she descended the stairs. She heard shouting farther down, accompanied by the banging of pots and the clatter of cutlery.

  All at once, a kitchen boy collided with her. His eyes went wide, and he nearly dropped his basket of bread. He mumbled an apology and quickly juggled the loaves back into the basket, then continued down the passageway, giving her a curious backward glance as he headed toward the great hall.

 
She rounded the corner where the smoke was thicker. It looked like a beehive. Workers were crowded into the tight quarters. Lads with steaming platters and sizzling spits hurried to and fro, yelling out orders and elbowing their way past each other.

  The lad closest to her gave a yelp and backed against the wall as if she were some demon who’d suddenly materialized before him. She frowned and picked up her skirts to sidle past him.

  For a moment, she forgot her purpose, fascinated by the activity going on around her. She’d never seen proper kitchens before.

  Burly cooks sweated over enormous cauldrons. Wee boys with ash-covered faces turned spits as long as lances. Red-faced men with beefy arms whipped up frothy sauces in bowls. Scrawny lads balancing eggs and bundles of herbs squeezed between them.

  Their movements seemed as carefully composed as a madrigal. Each worker followed his own path, which wove through the others, brilliantly intersecting without clashing and creating disharmony.

  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.