Page 19

Syrie awoke with the rising sun. Little enough surprise considering how early she’d gone to bed.

Just thinking about the events of the prior evening brought a little ripple of anger dancing through her mind, but, in line with last night’s epiphany about the wasted energy of her temper, she refused to let her anger have its reign. She was done with those days.

Besides, unless Patrick was still camped in front of her door, it didn’t really matter. She would deal with him and his ridiculous behavior later.

She dressed quickly and held her breath as she tried the door, but she needn’t have bothered. The door swung open easily and she stepped into the quiet, empty hallway.

Good. Perhaps he’d realized what an ass he’d been. There was a good chance that his actions had been as clouded by the bottle of wine they’d shared as had hers.

One thing she’d admit though, at least to herself, while the wine had done nothing for her attitude or judgment, she had slept really well. It all boded nicely for a long, lazy, much-anticipated day off.

There was still the whole issue of what had happened when Gino had arrived and she hadn’t come down to go with him. But that was something she’d just have to deal with after she was able to find out how that whole scenario had played out. For now, she was determined to enjoy her day off.

With a smile blooming on her face, she headed downstairs, hoping for a lovely cup of tea to start her morning. Instead, she found Ellen, looking much too frazzled for this early hour in the morning, standing in the middle of the kitchen, fully made up, with dress shoes clutched in her arms.

“What’s wrong?” Syrie asked, ushering Ellen to take a seat as she spoke.

“It’s Robert’s mother,” Ellen answered. “He called late last night to share the wonderful news that she was coming up from Denver and that we’re to meet her for breakfast to discuss the wedding. Honestly, Syrie, that woman is so perfect, she absolutely terrifies me.”

There was no question from Ellen’s tone of voice that she considered this visit anything but wonderful.

“Nonsense,” Syrie huffed. “There’s no reason at all to let her intimidate you. You’re every bit as good as she is.”

Ellen’s snort of disbelief did little to back up Syrie’s claim.

“She’s always judging me, Syrie. She totally hates my background and my family. And the fact that I want to keep my home as a boarding house is completely unacceptable to her. I feel like she’s always watching, just waiting for me to screw up so she can convince Robert how completely unsuitable I am for him.”

“Again, utter nonsense,” Syrie consoled, sitting down across the table from her friend. “Robert adores you. You know that, right?”

“I suppose he does,” Ellen said quietly. “I mean, he’s not an expressively romantic man by any means. But he says he loves me and he puts up with everything I ask of him, even when he doesn’t agree with what I do. So, yes, I am confident in his feelings for me.”

Not exactly the ringing endorsement Syrie had hoped to hear from her friend.

“We both know that you’re the best thing that has ever happened to Robert. You’re in love with him, and that alone matters more than anything his mother says or does.” Syrie waited for a response, and when none came, she prodded further. “You are in love with him, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah.” Ellen chewed at her bottom lip, the worried frown still in place. “I mean, yes, I’m good with Robert. I’m looking forward to my life with him. Sometimes, I just wish…”

When Ellen didn’t finish voicing her thought, Syrie reached for her hand. “You just wish what? Either you love him or you don’t. It’s really pretty simple.”

Ellen shook her head. “No, it’s really not simple at all. At least not for me. Yes, I think what I feel for Robert is love. But what do I know about love? My parents barely tolerated each other. How I was ever conceived is beyond me. That’s why Danny and I spent so much time here with my grandmother. And what Robert and I have, though completely comfortable and satisfactory, certainly isn’t what I see passing between Rosella and Clint. It’s not that no-questions, no-doubts kind of love. I just wish I knew for a fact that I’m making the right decision for both of us in marrying him.”

Silence settled over the two of them, with Syrie not knowing what to say to console her friend. Of all the things beyond her own realm of experience, knowing what real love felt like was pretty high on the list.

“You know that if there’s anything I can ever do to help,” Syrie began, but Ellen shook her head and got to her feet, her usual smile back in place.

“I’m just being stupid because Helena Shaw gives me the hives,” Ellen said, as if she could easily dismiss everything that had come before. “But if you really want to help, it would be lovely if you could get a head start on tonight’s dinner. Rosella and Clint will be joining us, but she left with him before sunrise. They went up the canyon to get some of that fruit jam he loves that they only sell in a little shop up there, so I can’t ask her. I have everything pretty much ready to go, except that I’d planned to bake Robert’s favorite cake. The recipe is out on the counter. If you could do that for me, I’d be grateful.”

Bake a cake? Her? Syrie swallowed hard at the idea. Everything in the kitchen other than boiling water for tea baffled her. She didn’t even think it was a part of her memory loss, but something else entirely. Something like her never having cooked in a kitchen in her entire life. But for Ellen? For Ellen, she’d give it a try.

“Don’t you worry about it,” Syrie said, forcing a smile to her lips.

She would do the worrying for both of them.

“Okay. In that case, I think that’s everything.” Ellen paused, looking around the kitchen as if the surroundings might remind her of something else. “Don’t forget the tricky faucet and—”

Anything else she might have thought to say was halted by the sound of a car’s horn honking outside.

“There he is now.” Ellen started for the door, stopped and laughed, turning back to the table to retrieve her shoes. “Guess I’d better put these on. That’s all I’d need, to show up barefoot at some fancy breakfast with Mrs. Shaw. She’d never forget that!”

Syrie sat at the table until she heard the front door slam shut and then headed for the stove and the kettle. Thank goodness the water was still hot. After agreeing to do something so far out of her comfort area, she needed that morning tea more than ever.

While her tea steeped, she read through the recipe Ellen had left out. Seemed straightforward enough. After all, every woman she knew cooked, so how hard could it really be? She was intelligent and hardworking. If they could do it, so could she.

A spoonful of Mrs. Whitman’s honey into the cup and Syrie took her first sip. Perfection! Now she was ready to face anything.

First things first. It was all really just a matter of being organized and following directions, right?

Syrie began gathering all the items called for in the recipe, feeling more confident with each item she set on the counter. By the time she’d measured all dry ingredients into one bowl, she was feeling like an old pro. Then came the wet ingredients.

“Separate eggs,” she read aloud. “Add milk and using electric mixer, whip…”

Electric mixer? One large cabinet in Ellen’s kitchen was filled with any number of electrical appliances, any one of which could be the one Ellen had meant. How was she ever supposed to—

No. She was too far into this process to allow herself to panic. If everyone else could do this, so could she. She’d simply go through the pieces of equipment and figure out which one it might be. As she began pulling appliances out of the cupboard, she came across one she remembered seeing Ellen use to mix a frozen lemonade drink she’d made one afternoon when Danny had stopped by. This had to be the one she’d meant. Even though Danny, as she recalled, had referred to it as a blender, Ellen had said she was whipping up some drinks . The recipe clearly said the next step was to whip the mixture. This had to be the right thing. Besides, what could it matter? Blend, mix, whip…if Ellen had used this machine to whip up their drinks, surely it could whip the eggs and milk.

Carefully, she broke the eggs and dumped them into the glass pitcher, followed by the milk. This baking thing was so much easier than she had imagined it would be. The recipe indicated that after she’d whipped these together, she should add half the dry ingredients. That made little sense. Why not add half of the dry ingredients now? They could all mix together while she figured out what to do with the other half.

Confidently, she dumped half the dry ingredients into the mixture, plugged the machine into the outlet and leaned over the opening to watch what happened as she flipped the little ON switch.

When the first blast of milk, egg and flour flung itself into her face, she screamed, but only once as the continuing bombardment splattered strings of the thick, wet goo into her open mouth. As she staggered backward from the unrelenting attack, her bare foot slipped in a patch of the gooey mess and she grabbed for the counter in an attempt to prevent her fall. Instead, her fingers latched around the bowl of remaining dry ingredients sending them up into the air as she fell, leaving them to shower down on her as she lay sprawled on the floor, like a helpless bug claimed victim by a kitchen snow storm.

Just when she’d thought the whole scenario couldn’t possibly get any worse, Patrick appeared, racing through the door wearing nothing but his jeans and an expression that said he was ready to murder someone. An expression that quickly changed to one of shocked surprise as he, too, encountered one of those little goo patches and lost his balance, landing almost on top of her. His face was only inches from hers when another flying glop of the mixture slammed into his forehead and oozed down over one eye.

She revised her earlier opinion. The kitchen snowstorm had claimed two victims: one helpless bug and one very big, very angry bug-squasher.

* * *

Patrick lay in the big, soft bed, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth as he remembered how furious Syrie had been last night. She was the one woman he’d ever met who could do furious with style and beauty. Fury suited his red-haired Elf well. As did every other expression he’d ever seen her wear.

Wear. The word brought to mind the skimpy bits of cloth the woman had thought to wear outside the house last night. And those skimpy bits of cloth brought to mind how she’d looked in them.

If he’d thought her beautiful in the midst of a temper, he’d not counted on just how beautiful she could be. All that lovely, creamy skin exposed.

He felt himself harden uncomfortably against the metal closure of the pants he’d not taken off before falling into bed sometime before sunrise this morning.

He wanted Syrie, in every way it was possible for a man to want a woman. He wanted her as his own for all time. And, likely as not, in his effort to keep her safe last night, he’d ruined any chance he’d ever had of having her.

With a sigh, he scrubbed his hands over his face and sat up, swinging his feet to rest on the polished wooden floor. He’d just risen to look for a shirt when he heard the scream.

Syrie!

Without thought, he was out the door and through the hall. He took the stairs in one leap, landing in a crouch ready for battle. When he saw nothing, he followed an ungodly buzzing noise straight to the kitchen, ready to rip out the throat of whoever threatened his woman.

In one glance, he took in everything in the room. Everything except the slippery patch in front of him that robbed him of his footing and sent him pitching through the air toward the spot where Syrie lay, covered in blotches of some monstrous concoction of white and yellow. Twisting, to avoid his full weight landing on her, he managed to slide to a stop just over her, his face only inches from hers.

“At least now I understand why so many cooks wear aprons,” she muttered, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

He quickly ran his hands over her face, wiping away the thick goo before continuing down her arms, searching for any injury.

“Are you unharmed?” he asked, fearing what she might answer after that awful scream.

“My body isn’t hurt, if that’s what you’re asking.” She opened her eyes and grinned ruefully. “But my ego? That’s bruised all to hell and back.”

His heart rate slowed to normal as he studied first her and then the disheveled state of the kitchen. Clearly there was no one around responsible for Syrie’s dilemma. No assassin sent by the Fae. No all-powerful being set on keeping her in this time by any means necessary.

“What happened in here?” he asked, turning his attention back to her.

“I was trying to bake a cake as Ellen had asked me to do.” She wiped a hand over her face, leaving a trail of batter in the wake of her action. “I was so sure I could do it. She left me a recipe and everything.”

“Bake?” Patrick snorted his disbelief. “Yer barely able to boil oats without burning them beyond recognition. How’d you ever expect to master baking? And on yer own, at that.”

Other than one quick glare, Syrie ignored him, seemingly more intent on assessing the damage around her.

“Ellen’s going to kill me. She’s so picky about the state of her kitchen and I’ve turned it into a complete disaster area.”

“Then we’ll clean it,” he said.

She turned her gaze back on him and, as if realizing their position for the first time, she placed her hands on his chest and pushed, though not with any real effort. Her hands dropped away almost as soon as she touched his bare skin, and she began to wiggle beneath him in an attempt to move away. “Get off me! How am I supposed to clean up anything if you’re lying on top of me?”

Though her wiggling beneath him did nothing to encourage him to move away, he pushed up to his knees, one straddling either side of her. From this angle, the view of Syrie was priceless.

She lay on her back still, batter muck clinging in clumps to her hair and clothing and more of it smeared across her face. The urge to kiss her senseless had never gripped him more strongly.

“What?” she demanded, her eyes flashing a warning. “What are you grinning about?”

“Nothing,” he said, forcing himself to stand and reach down to help her up.

He doubted she’d understand that his grin was a mixture of so many emotions he couldn’t begin to explain. Relief in finding her safe, humor in the way she looked, happiness at being so close to her. If the world were bent to his own desires, he’d have taken her here and now on the messy kitchen floor.

But the world, as it frequently reminded him, did not bend to his will any more than Syrie herself did. At least she was speaking to him this morning.

“What a mess,” she muttered, hands on her hips. “I’m not even sure where to start.”

Clearly it was time for a man to take over and get things organized. Make some soapy water and add in a little elbow grease. Simple as that. A woman’s work in the kitchen was highly overrated.

“You start here,” he answered, striding to the sink and flipping the handle to full blast as he pushed the faucet toward one side of the double sink.

“No!” Syrie shouted.

But it was too late.

The faucet fell forward, clattering to rest in the sink as a stream of water shot straight up into the air. Patrick had never seen its like and, in the moments it took him to recover from his surprise, he stumbled backward in an attempt to avoid the torrent raining down on him.

As he moved away, Syrie rushed forward, cupping her hands over the gushing water in a vain attempt to stop it. The sight of her there, struggling against the water, spurred him forward. He pushed her away and, after a second or two, thought to turn the handle to stop the flow. He then replaced the faucet in the hole the water had surged from before turning to survey the latest round of onslaught in the kitchen.

Syrie stood a few feet away, her expression of shock giving way to distress. Little wonder. Her hair, still matted with batter, now hung around her in thick, wet clumps. Crisscross trails covered her face where the spray of water had formed little rivulets in the flour mixture that had clung to her.

With no hope of controlling himself, Patrick began to laugh. Only a chuckle at first, to be sure, but swiftly evolving into a heartfelt, gut-twisting laugh brought on by the ridiculousness of their situation.

Anger darkened Syrie’s eyes, but only for an instant before she, too, began to laugh.

He moved toward her, supporting her as she sank to sit on the floor, surrounded by water and floating chunks of the mysterious flour mixture. A moment later, he sat next to her, while she leaned against him, her laughter gradually dwindling until it was little more than a series of hiccups and gasps.

“My only…only consolation is that when Ellen kills me, she’s…she’s going to kill you too,” she said between hiccups.

It was then he realized that somewhere in the time they’d sat there on the floor next to one another, while his laughter had simply died off, her laughter had turned to tears.

“Doona fash yerself so, mo siobhrag,” he said, laying an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close.

“I’ve made such a mess of everything,” she whimpered, snuggling her face into his chest.

While he would give anything asked of him simply to keep her like this, cuddled in his arms, he couldn’t. Not even this pleasure beyond pleasure was worth seeing her so upset.

“Come now, Syrie. Yer made of sterner stuff than this.” He pulled her arms from around him and stood. “On yer feet, lass. With but a bit of applied effort, we’ll have this room back to rights in no time.”

With a sigh, she stood up, wiping her face with her hands, but to little good effect. “You’re right. Sitting there sniveling like a child isn’t going to get anything done. I’ll go get towels.”

By the time she returned, Patrick had found a bucket under the sink and carefully filled it with soap and warm water. The dratted faucet wasn’t going to catch him unawares a second time.

They worked quietly and efficiently until, at last, all that was left to do was the dishes she’d dirtied in her original baking attempt.

“Not bad, huh?” she asked, the hint of a smile in her eyes. “Guess we make a halfway decent team when we aren’t fighting.”

“Indeed we do,” he replied, reaching over to take a cleaning cloth from her hands. “I’ll finish up here. You head upstairs and slip yerself into a well-earned bath, aye? Will do wonders for yer spirit.”

“You’re sure? You don’t mind?” she asked, her eyes darting longingly toward the door.

“I’m sure. Go on, then. Away with you now.”

He watched her leave, licking his lips. In her wet shirt and trousers, she looked good enough to eat.

And thinking of eating…

He wiped his hands on the last sort of clean towel and picked up the recipe Syrie had shown him earlier. If he remembered correctly, Mrs. Whitman next door was quite the baker. And, considering all the work he’d done for her in moving around her damned bees and honey jars, he suspected he just might be able to convince her to help him out with the one remaining item on Syrie’s to-do list.