She sighed.
Looking at what she had, she could make a meat pie. There was enough butter for puff pastry dough, and she’d use the boiled pork—she’d mince it and fry it with some onions and garlic and make mashed turnips with some potatoes… Oh there weren’t any potatoes…or carrots for that matter. There were beans and peas, and she’d use them another time. But some mashed turnips with butter and salt would do nicely.
She had no idea how she knew that, but she knew. She got to work making the dough with some whole wheat flour, water, and butter. She minced the pork. There weren’t any pans for frying and no stove, anyway, so she’d have to settle for using the meat and vegetables boiled. She found some dry parsley and cumin but no salt.
Somehow her hands knew what to do. And something inside of her told her how much flour, butter, and water to use, and how to knead the dough, how much meat she’d need for the pie, and how to form it. How to chop the onion and the wild garlic.
More than that, she enjoyed the process. She loved every part of it, even peeling and the hard work of kneading. She knew instinctively how the food would taste and also how to make it better. And she loved it.
She made four pies to use all of the meat available. She was sure there would be enough eaters for that many pies, and even if something was left, it would be better to have things cooked considering the lack of refrigeration.
Refrigeration…that big, clunky metal thing she’d seen in that kitchen in her mind.
She shook her head, willing the memories to fade away. She looked at the oven dubiously. How would she light it? Her hands itched to reach out for a round handle and turn it to 375 degrees Fahrenheit to preheat.
She needed someone to help her light the oven. While the pies baked, she’d make the mashed turnips. With the eggs, they’d be great tomorrow for breakfast.
Coffee…
She hadn’t had coffee for what felt like ages. She missed the pungent, rich, roasted taste.
Could that be a hallucination, too? Could she have really imagined all those vivid details, the tastes, the smells? Something told her they were way too real to be just in her head. But wouldn’t a crazy person think exactly that?
Was she really going insane?
No point of thinking of it now. The best thing she could do was to act. She released a long breath, stood up, and went outside. She found a teenage boy who was carrying firewood to the great hall and asked him to light the oven for her. Once he’d done so, she put the pies in there and closed the door. Then she set to peeling the boiled turnips and mashing them with butter. Then she added spices for flavor.
Soon, the pies were ready, and she took them out, inhaling the savory aroma.
The mouthwatering smell that came from the kitchen made Ian stop, turn around, and enter. “Lass, if ye’re going to cook something as good as this smell every day, I’m going to need to keep ye captive here.”
She turned, her face lit up. She was so breathtakingly beautiful, her cheeks flushed from the heat and work, strands of blond hair framing her face, her eyes shining. It was the first time he’d seen her as happy as she was now.
“This kitchen has never smelled better,” he said, and what he meant was, the cook had never looked better.
Fool. What was he doing, thinking of her like that? He’d just told himself he couldn’t have feelings for the lass. He couldn’t have feelings for anyone. He needed to concentrate on the estate. Clearly, his father, bless his soul, hadn’t been managing it at all.
From talking to Crazy Mary and the few servants who still worked here, things were bad. And not just in the house, with the tenants, too. Of course, they didn’t know the details, but those were the rumors. Both Dundail and its lord had been in decay for some time.
Uncared for.
And Ian didn’t think he cared, either. He would do what he could, of course, but the last thing he wanted was to chase after the tenants and the tacksmen and collect rent.
He wanted peace. To be left alone.
His eyes fell on the four round, golden pastries which were probably the source of the divine smell.
“Are those meat pies?” he asked.
“Yes.” She smiled. “You were right, I think I am a cook, Ian—although we’ll need to judge that once we try the pies.”
His stomach growled, and he realized how hungry he was.
“Let me be the judge then,” he said, took the knife and then cut a piece.
It steamed, but Ian bit into it. He swore from the burning in his mouth and on his tongue but continued chewing. It melted in his mouth, the taste a divine combination of meat and soft-crunchy pastry. It was savory and a little sweet at the same time, rich in flavor and a little pungent from the garlic and onion.
“Oh, Jesu and Mary, this is delicious,” he mumbled through a full mouth. “Ye are a cook, Katie. And what a cook…”
Her face changed.
“Katie?” she said.
Ian coughed, realizing he’d called her a nickname he had no right to call her. Something a husband would call a wife or a brother his sister—something intimate and loving, and not for a lord and his servant.
Something he wasn’t looking for.
“Forgive me, lass,” he said, shoving another piece of pie into his mouth. “I meant Kate.”
But the nickname hung in the air between them, like a soft cloud.
“That’s okay. I like it,” she said.
She came closer and stood right next to him, leaning her hip against the table. The scent of
