Mrs. Summers nodded primly and let the matter drop. It seemed only fair since the whole business with the cupboards had been for show. “Well, you seem to have everything quite in hand here. I shall let you return to your work.”
She took another glance at the stove before making her exit. There might not be smoke coming from it now, but that could change in a quarter hour’s time. Perhaps she’d send Christian down for a more informed opinion of the situation. The man was a dreadful cook, but he had managed to avoid burning down the house, and that accomplishment was not to be understated.
Christian didn’t hesitate outside the kitchen. Heartily sick of being anywhere near the kitchen, he meant to get the bothersome business of checking on Evie over and done with. He wouldn’t have agreed to it at all—surely the girl could manage a simple meal without injuring herself—but Mrs. Summers had insisted. And it was an easier thing to agree than to argue with such a formidable woman.
He found Evie occupied with chopping carrots and adding them to a fine pile of sliced potatoes. “Evening, Christian.”
“Evening, lass.” With less sensitivity than Mrs. Summers would have appreciated, he walked straight to the stove. “You’ve a fine flame started.”
“Oh, good.” She spared him a brief glance and smile. “I suppose I’ll need more wood soon, if I’m to c-cook an entire ham.”
“Plenty in the back. I’ll bring it in for you.”
“You needn’t—”
“I’ve nothing else to do at present,” he assured her. He couldn’t have the lass hauling wood, for pity’s sake.
“Oh, well, thank you.” She gave him another smile, and returned to her carrots.
As he moved to leave, Christian’s eyes fell on the ham. He frowned at it a moment, then at Evie’s back, then at the ham again. Women were forever underseasoning meat, he thought, and Evie looked to be no exception. There wasn’t a clove in sight, and Lord knew she’d skimp on the pepper. Bad enough they should cook his eggs without the proper amount of butter, but a man had a right to meat with a bit of flavor to it. With another glance to be certain Evie wasn’t looking, he made a quick trip to the larder for pepper, cloves…and a nice dusting of ground mustard wouldn’t go amiss either.
Twenty
Dear, sweet heaven, what had she done?
Swearing, Evie grabbed a pair of rags and retrieved the ham from the stove. It wasn’t done yet. It couldn’t possibly be. She’d only put it on an hour ago.
Why, then, did it smell so pungent? She set the ham on a platter and went to throw open the back door and all of the windows. The whole of the kitchen reeked quite badly of—she walked to the ham and bent down to sniff—of cloves, for starters.
Had she put too many in? She looked over the small black sticks poking out from the meat and thought it looked to be very near the same amount that one generally saw in a ham.
Was it the pepper she’d added, or the mustard?
Maybe it was just the meat. It had seemed rather grainy when she’d put the cloves in, but she’d assumed that was a normal variant of the ham.
Wary, she cut a small piece from the top, where the meat was thoroughly cooked, and sampled.
And promptly spat it out into a rag.
“Euhhhh.” She scrubbed at her tongue with her fingers, rinsed her mouth out with water, ate a large piece of bread, and otherwise tried everything she could think of to rid herself of the overwhelming bite of…of whatever horrible biting thing was on the ham. It took a considerable amount of doing, but eventually she was able to swallow again without fear of retching.
While her tongue continued to tingle and burn, she stood in the center of the kitchen with her hands on her hips and glowered at the atrocity that was dinner. “Well, damn.”
“Trouble?”
She didn’t bother wincing at the sound of McAlistair’s voice in the doorway, or pointing out that he had once again snuck up on her. Instead, she gestured angrily at the ham. “It’s ruined. I’ve ruined it.”
“The ham?” He moved to stand next to her. “Smells a bit strong, but I’m sure it’s fine.”
She blew out a long, annoyed breath and let her arms fall. “No, it’s not. It’s ghastly. Completely inedible.”
“You’re overreacting.”
There it was again, that infuriatingly gentle, placating tone.
“Do you think so? Really?” Eyes narrowed and determined, she sawed off a piece of meat, stabbed it with a fork, and held it out to him. “Why don’t you give it a try?”
One eyebrow winged up. “Another dare, Evie?”
“If you like.”
“And what if I should meet the challenge?”
“I promise to arrange for you a very tasteful funeral. No man can eat that and live.”
“I want you to admit that I was right, and you were overreacting.”
She shrugged. “Very well.”
“And I want you to inform Mrs. Summers of your suspicions.”