Page 22 of The Winter Husband
“Oh.” Her voice softened a fraction. “I’m sorry about that. Though she didn’t have any trouble feeding you, clearly.”
“Our cook is the one who fed me.” His size wasn’t easy to ignore, but it made his blood surge to think she’d taken note. “Her egg-yolk cake was so thick that an hour after you ate it, it lay like a rock in your stomach.”
Why the hell was he telling her that?
“Sounds better than anything I ate at the orphanage.” She turned her face toward the fire. “They didn’t teach us to cook there either.”
“I’m no baron.” A fleck of burnt cornmeal stuck between his back teeth. “I don’t expect anything fancy.”
“Then what do you expect?”
He looked at her straight. Her cheeks were flushed from steam, and one fallen lock clung to her shoulder.
His mind went blank.
“Lucas.” She straightened her shoulders. “Cecile couldn’t possibly teach me, in one night, everything I need to know about living here. So you need to tell me what my duties will be, other than keeping the fires going.”
Duties. Right. “Cooking is the main thing. Cornmeal in the morning. In the afternoon, any kind of stew is fine.”
“A stew.”
“Meat, cut up. Tossed in a pot. Add turnips, if you want.”
“I walked into your smokehouse this morning. I don’t know what half those things are, hanging from the rafters.”
“Venison, mostly. I bought two hams in Quebec but haven’t unwrapped them yet. There’s some moose, too.”
“What in heaven’s name is moose?”
He leaned back a fraction. He’d probably asked the same questions during his first winter here, but he sure as hell didn’t remember being so green.
“A moose is like a big deer. They hide in marshes. You don’t want to come upon one if you aren’t hunting them. They can be mean.”
“I’ll keep out of marshes. So how does one cook moose?”
“Stew.”
She dropped her head into her hand. He wasn’t quite sure why. He felt like a juggler missing midair knives. As wind moaned around the cabin, he considered what kind of details about cooking could he give her other than what he’d already said. “Back in the fort, we sometimes dug a hole and kicked the still-glowing coals of a fire inside, then we’d bury a pot with the cut meat. By the end of day, we’d dig it up, and it’d be the best stew you’ve ever had.”
She blinked. “You want me to bury a pot in the ground?”
“No. That’s just when camping.”
“Are we camping?”
“Forget I mentioned it.” He may as well be talking in Mohawk to an Abenaki chief. “There’s no need to camp. I’ve got plenty of meat.”
If he did decide to hunt, he would have to take her with him. From the way she’d piled the fire, she’d burn through half the stack of wood in the week he’d be gone, and then he’d return to find her frozen.
“What else am I to do all day, Captain Girard?” She looked ready to launch off her chair. “Other than cooking, that is.”
He glanced around the room, broom-swept and free of clutter. “Keep the place clean, I suppose.”
“Then leave your muddy boots by the door the next time you come in.”
He didn’t have to glance over his shoulder to know mud and twigs trailed across the floor from door to chair. “You’ll have to wash linens, too, when they need it.”
“In a frozen river?”
