Page 30 of The Rogue’s Runaway Bride (Rogue of Her Own #3)

F ollowing a quiet evening and a restless night filled with dreams of a seductive swashbuckler—no doubt inspired by Ellie’s talk of her own swaggering seducer—Belle awakened to two rather startling realizations.

First, the pirate in her hazy fantasies had been the same tempting buccaneer who’d strolled into her waking daydream.

While his face had been hidden by shadows, the mysterious raider’s dark hair, broad shoulders, and husky voice bore an undeniable resemblance to the man who’d once shattered her heart. How very maddening .

And secondly, as she stirred from sleep, she became aware that the soft, rhythmic snoring drifting to her ears was not a product of her dreams.

She was not alone.

Sitting up in bed, she glanced about the room.

Good heavens. Spying a lump beneath the bedcovers at the bottom of the bed, she chuckled to herself as she quickly identified the culprit.

Cleo. Curled beneath the quilt, the cat continued to snore in what seemed to be feline bliss. Had she slept there all night?

Shaking herself out of the remnants of a light, drowsy fog, Belle slid from under the covers. Selecting a practical cotton dress in a vibrant shade of teal, she prepared for the day ahead, then went to assist Mrs. Gilroy.

The housekeeper was already up and about when Belle made it to the kitchen.

Bustling about with pans and pots as she prepared the morning meal, Mrs. Gilroy appeared not to hear Belle as she approached.

Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, Belle watched with a growing sense of curiosity as the older woman moved about with steps she might actually have described as spry. How very curious.

Appearing to sense Belle’s presence, Mrs. Gilroy startled, then spun abruptly to face her.

“Oh, I’m so glad to see ye, lass,” she said, looking as if she’d nearly dropped the empty pot in her hand.

“Will ye be a dear and fetch my cane? I left it in the pantry and could not summon the energy to go back for it.”

“Of course.” Moments later, she returned with the walking stick in hand. Mrs. Gilroy flashed a quick smile, then made a slight wince as she leaned on it, favoring her left leg. “This dratted knee of mine.”

Was it a trick of Belle’s memory, or had Mrs. Gilroy’s bad knee been on her right side the day before? She decided against giving voice to the question. With all that had taken place, she didn’t doubt she might’ve mixed things up. Still, her curiosity nagged at her, if only a bit.

“If ye’d like to be of help, I’ll ask ye to prepare these for tonight’s stew,” Mrs. Gilroy said, handing Belle a bunch of carrots.

“I’d be happy to,” Belle said. Taking the vegetables to the chopping board, she searched her mind, trying to remember how her family’s cook had approached the task.

As a child, she’d watched Ginny slice and dice and peel vegetables with ease.

But it had been such a long time since Belle had paid any mind to what went on in the kitchen.

Surely it could not be so much of a challenge. She pulled in a breath, as if that might invigorate her confidence, and set about the task.

Belle had chopped only one carrot—slicing it into thick chunks that truly did appear a bit too large for a respectable stew—when Mrs. Gilroy placed a gentle hand on her sleeve.

“Did ye forget to peel them, lass?” Mrs. Gilroy’s brow furrowed. “Or do they not do that in America?”

Belle shook her head. Now that she mentioned it, she clearly remembered watching Ginny skillfully prepare the carrots she’d used in her recipes. “Drat, I did neglect that step, didn’t I?” Peeler in hand, she reached for one of the chunks on the cutting board. “I’ll fix it.”

Mrs. Gilroy stilled her hand. “Lass, the way ye’re holding that thing... well, ye’re likely to slice yer finger. We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

Again, Belle shook her head. “Truth be told, I don’t have much experience using a knife.”

The older woman hiked her brows. “ Much , dear?”

“Well, I do know how to use one to cut a cake,” she said with a little shrug.

“Why don’t ye come over here and help with breakfast while I prepare the carrots? We’ll have ye do something that doesn’t require ye to use a blade.”

“That might be a bit more productive,” Belle agreed. After all, cooking breakfast couldn’t be that challenging now, could it?

Mrs. Gilroy motioned to a basket of eggs on the counter. “Mr. Mason has already departed for his office, so we’ll only need a scramble for the three of us. The pan is already warm.”

Belle stared at the basket. “You would like them... scrambled.”

“Carrie’s partial to them that way. But if ye’d rather fry them, I’ll have no complaint.”

“Then scrambled it is.” Summoning a ration of optimism, Belle selected an egg and cracked it against the mixing bowl, just as she remembered Ginny doing.

The liquid white of the eggs dribbled over her fingers as a few clumps of shell fell into the bowl.

With a few shakes of the fractured shell, she dumped the rest of the egg into the bowl.

But fragments of shell floated in the mix.

Not a problem, she told herself. She’d simply fish them out before she scrambled the yolks.

She wiped the residue off her fingers and tried it again.

With one vigorous rap against the porcelain rim, the shell cracked. Once again, gooey liquid dripped over her fingers, but she managed to add the egg to the contents of the bowl. If only the tiny bits of shell didn’t cling.

Mrs. Gilroy scooted closer, peering around Belle’s shoulder. “I’m thinkin’ those eggs will have a bit more crunch than usual.”

“Nothing to worry over. I’ll strain out the bits of shell,” Belle said, forcing a cheerful tone.

“Will ye, now?” Mrs. Gilroy quipped before she went back to chopping vegetables.

Refusing to accept defeat, Belle picked up another egg. A large, fine egg, if ever she’d seen one. Crack. This time, she placed more yolk and white in the bowl than shells. That was progress, wasn’t it?

Mrs. Gilroy returned to her side. Her forehead creased, and the expression in her eyes softened. “Would ye like me to show ye something I’ve learned over the years?”

“That might be a good idea.”

“I thought as much,” Mrs. Gilroy said with a knowing nod. “Ye do not have much experience in the kitchen, do ye, lass?”

“Once, our family cook allowed me to stir the batter for my birthday cake.” Belle couldn’t help but smile at the expression on Mrs. Gilroy’s face. “Does that count?”

Mrs. Gilroy’s brow furrowed. “How old were ye at the time?”

“Seven, as I recall.”

The older woman gave another sage nod. “Well, I must say, that is a relief.”

“In what way, Mrs. Gilroy?”

“Ye’re not hopeless,” she said, not bothering to coat her words with sugar. “Ye’ve simply never been taught.”

“I’d say that’s a fair assessment.”

A brief smile lit her features. “It’s about time we change that.”

*

I do believe I’m getting the hang of domesticity.

Belle strolled through the sitting room, selected an anthology of poetry from the well-stocked bookshelves, and plopped down upon the chaise. Her day had been busy and productive, and now, a bit of rest was in order.

Under Mrs. Gilroy’s tutelage, she’d managed to scramble the eggs for their breakfast and had diced a vegetable without so much as a nick of the blade against her finger. She’d even learned how to prepare the stew Mrs. Gilroy planned for dinner.

“Yer mum would be proud of ye,” the housekeeper had observed.

“Oh, my, that would not be the case,” Belle had replied with a half-hearted laugh. “Mother would be utterly horrified if she knew I had lifted so much as a finger in the kitchen.”

“She never taught ye to cook, not even a bit?”

“I’d wager Mama has never so much as boiled water.”

“Well, she might change her tune if she could taste the eggs ye made this morning. The seasoning was just right.”

Belle smiled at the thought of it. Mrs. Gilroy was not one to toss out kind words she did not mean. A sense of accomplishment washed over Belle. She’d done it. She’d actually prepared a meal—at least, part of it. Now that was quite something.

Propping her feet up on a footstool, she opened the book. She’d settled Carrie in for a nap less than a quarter hour earlier, so she should have time to simply relax in the quiet chamber.

Taking in the gentle cadence of the verses, she turned from one page to another.

After a brief time had passed with only the steady swoosh of the clock pendulum for company, she began to feel a bit drowsy.

Each tick of the second hand lulled her into a peaceful state, until she drifted into that realm that was not quite asleep and not quite awake.

Crash.

The sound of metal colliding with the floor tore Belle from her pleasant rest. She bolted upright on the chaise, meeting Cleo’s unblinking, golden-eyed gaze.

The cat had scampered up onto a high shelf, positioning herself with enviable feline skill between a porcelain vase and a stack of books.

The vase sat untouched, without so much as a quiver of movement.

The same could not be said for the silver candy dish that had landed on the floor beside the marble-top table it had occupied. The small, shallow bowl seemed to shiver with the force of its landing upon the polished wood planks.

Belle’s attention darted to the culprit. Heathy. He stared up at Cleo, his playful demeanor undeterred by the look of sheer disdain in the cat’s eyes.

She retrieved the silver dish and put it back in place. The bowl appeared to be no worse for wear. Thank heaven Heathy had not plowed into the sideboard, with its abundance of fine crystal that might’ve shattered into a thousand pieces.

She shot Heathy a glance she intended to appear cross, but he was utterly oblivious. Happily wagging his tail, he continued to gaze up at Cleo, as if he might manage to coax the cat down to play.