“You were an officer,” she returned. “I’ve never heard of an officer cooking his own meals.”
“I didn’t, but I learned how. I enjoyed spending time with my men, and that included those who cooked. I can’t prepare a six-course meal, mind you, but I can manage a few eggs.” He frowned at the stove. “This would be easier over a camp fire.”
“Easier than a stove?”
He shrugged and began loading wood. “It’s how I learned. I suppose the eggs are still with the hens?”
“Yes, I was going to collect them after I ate, but if you like—”
“I’ll get them,” he interrupted, and grabbing a nearby pail, went in search of his breakfast. He didn’t have to go far, as the hen house was located only a few feet from the manor. He ducked his head under the door and gently pushed the annoyed birds aside until he’d collected enough eggs for a meal. If it wasn’t enough for the other guests, they could bloody well get their own. Mirabelle didn’t need to be working as a damn kitchen maid.
He found her still at the table when he returned, absently picking at her food.
“I return victorious,” he declared, holding up the full pail.
The silliness of it made her smile, as he intended. “Did they put up much of a fight?”
“Nearly lost an eye,” he told her as he lit the stove.
“That would have been embarrassing for you—to have survived a wild boar attack, only to be felled by a chicken.”
“Heard that, did you?”
“Some of it, anyway. I hadn’t realized you’d such a talent for fabrication.”
“Hmm?” He poked at the fire and answered absently. “Ah, no. The boar was real enough. I don’t care for hunting overmuch, but it had to be removed after it attacked one of the local villagers. Do you suppose this fire is hot enough?”
She was glad to have his back to her just then, because she was certain she looked a fool gaping at him. He’d really fought a wild boar?
“Mirabelle?”
She snapped her mouth closed when he turned to look at her. “Er…it seems adequate to me.”
“Excellent.”
She returned her attention to her food, determined not to dwell on the image of Whit stalking the deep woods in search of a man-eating beast. He’d have looked a bit rugged, she imagined—disheveled, and determined. And in uniform.
Good Lord, she wasn’t certain if she were more frightened or intrigued by the idea. She strove for something else to think of. “Um…Speaking of hunting, the others will do so today.”
He paused in the act of breaking open an egg to stare at her. “They actually do that?”
“Oh, they put quite a lot of effort into pretending.”
“How does the baron go about it?”
“He takes the carriage.”
“He takes the carriage,” Whit repeated. “I cannot form a picture.”
“You’ll have very little trouble with that by the end of the day. Though you can’t let him know you’ve seen it. It’s a ridiculous system he has, but it’s something of a tradition at this point. He sends the others out before him, with one excuse or another, then he has the carriage brought round with all his hunting supplies and two footmen. He takes the carriage to a secluded spot down the road, and hunts from the comfort of the cushioned bench.”
He stared at her for a moment, his expression caught somewhere between bewildered and amused. “I can’t believe there’s some truth to that rumor. He can’t ever have gotten something that way.”
“He shot a rabbit once. Poor thing wandered past at the wrong time.” She made a face at the memory. “The footmen are sent out with guns of their own, and anything they kill he takes as his own.”
He shook his head and returned his focus to preparing a meal. “Do the others know?”
“If they do, they’re wise enough not to mention it.” She thought about that. “Which is the very same thing as saying no, I suppose.”
“And are they ever successful in their hunt?”
“Not regularly, although Mr. Cunningham brings something back from time to time.”
“The ill guest?” he asked, retrieving a fork to whip the eggs.
“Yes. Pity he’s not feeling well. I suspect you’d rather like him.” When he snorted derisively, she continued. “I’m in earnest, actually. He’s tremendously obnoxious, but he’s not an unkind man, and there’s a bit of wit about him—it’s crude, but it’s there.”
“You get on with him, then?”
“I do,” she responded, sounding a little surprised by the admission. “Well—mostly.”
Whit nodded and watched the eggs congeal nicely in the heating pan. “Perhaps I’ll have the chance to take his measure at dinner.”
“Before then, if he decides to go out with the other gentlemen.”
He shook his head. “I’ll not be accompanying the others.”