She laughed a little. “We had no cook. My father’s only income came from a handful of pupils he tutored. Until the stories became successful, we never had the money for servants.” She poured milk in the bowl, sifted in a measure of flour, and began to beat the mixture with a spoon. “No cook, no maid, no governess. It was always just me and Papa. I taught myself to make a fair number of things, but pancakes were a favorite.”
“So. You spent your childhood acting as your own cook, maid, and governess. Then you became the family provider at the age of thirteen.” His hands framed her waist. “I’m tempted to take that spoon from your hands and send it sailing out the nearest window. You should never make another pancake again.”
She smiled and kissed his cheek. “This is different. It’s my pleasure to make one for you.”
He slid his arms about her waist and hugged her as she added a sprinkle of salt and sugar to the bowl.
And she decided—right here in this kitchen—there was something else she’d like to share with him, too.
“Would you like to know how it continues? The true identity of the Shadow Knight?”
“Are you joking?” His arm cinched tight about her waist. “I would trade almost anything to know that. Anything but pancakes. Pancakes are not for up negotiation.”
“So Ulric was dangling from that parapet.” She found the butter in its crock. “And just beginning to pull himself up, when the Shadow Knight unsheathed his sword and severed one of his hands in a single blow.”
Ransom winced. “Good Lord. You do have a bloodthirsty imagination.”
“Now he’s dangling by only one hand. With the rain falling, the wind whipping about the parapets. He has not only the weight of his body but the weight of his armor. It’s too much. He’s starting to lose his grip. It’s over, and both Ulric and the Shadow Knight know it.”
She set the bowl of pancake batter aside, offering him her sugary fingers to lick.
She went on with her tale. “ ‘Tell me,’ Ulric says, as he slips from three fingers to two. ‘Before you send me to my death, tell me who you are.’ At last, the Shadow Knight lifts the visor of his helmet, revealing an all-too-familiar face, and says”—she lowered her voice, giving it an ominous cast—“ ‘Ulric. I am your brother.’ ”
He let her fingertip slide from his mouth. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes,” she replied. “It’s truly not that much of a twist. The motif runs through most chivalric literature. Knights-errant are always having to face down a nemesis who is revealed to be their father, brother, or a long-lost son.”
She put a pat of butter in the heated pan and followed it with a generous spoonful of batter.
“But I thought Ulric’s brother died in the Crusades,” Ransom said.
“Ulric thought so, too. He thought Godric died on the battlefield, but he survived. It took him years to make his way back to England, and with every step, he dreamed of vengeance on the brother who had left him for dead.”
He shook his head. “Next you’ll tell me Cressida’s truly their sister.”
“Cressida, their sister? Lord, no. What on earth would make you think of such a thing?”
“It would be a good surprise,” he said. “You have to admit.”
She made a sound of disgust as she flipped the pancake. “They can’t be siblings. They’ve kissed.”
“Not very deeply.”
“It’s still a kiss. They are not brother and sister.” She laughed. “What a suggestion.”
She slid the finished pancake on a waiting plate. Just then, the door to the kitchen creaked open, and Izzy looked up just in time to see a familiar figure, capped with a shimmering knot of blond hair.
“Izzy, there you are.”
Abigail.
Izzy bit her lip, uncertain what the vicar’s daughter would think of her now. Ransom’s declarations yesterday had left little room for ambiguity, and here they were in rumpled half dress, making early-morning pancakes in the kitchen. The fact that they were lovers must be obvious.
And just in case it wasn’t apparent enough, Ransom slid his arm about her shoulders, drawing her close.
“Abigail,” she said. “Good morning. I was just—I mean, we were . . .”