Chapter Eighteen
Jasmine followed Cassandra through her house, down dark, narrow steps, then through a door. Once inside, her eyes widened.
“What is all of this?” she asked.
Matthew stood grinning in the middle of the kitchen.
He wore his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow and an apron two sizes too small.
Behind him, the lit oven range filled the kitchen with the faint scent of oak smoke.
A wooden worktable held knives and cooking utensils.
Onions, tomatoes, peppers, and the seasonings required for the dish were lined up in glass bowls along with fresh chicken—quartered, cleaned, and ready to cook.
“You promised to teach me how to make pollo al chilindrón.” Matthew opened his arms. “Mi cocina es tu cocina.”
“It’s my kitchen,” Cassandra corrected, moving to stand next to Jasmine. “You only live here.”
“I live here more than you do,” he countered. “Tell me, sister, where does your chef keep the oil?”
“Far away from my nose.” She covered her face with her sleeve and gagged. “I’ll be upstairs. I cannot abide the smell of raw chicken.”
She kissed Jasmine on the cheek.
“Make good decisions,” she said sternly. Without another word, she left the kitchen, closing the door behind her and leaving the two of them in silence.
Jasmine smiled. “She is a terrible chaperone.”
But a true friend.
“I’ve already ruined you.” Matthew gave a non-apologetic half-shrug. “What’s the point?”
Alone with him for the first time in days, she cast her eyes downward and reddened from the back of her neck to the tips of her ears.
“Unless you don’t wish to be alone?” he asked quietly. “If you’d prefer, we can do something else—”
She held her hand up to stop him.
“I want to be alone with you. It’s nice not to have an audience for once and be just us. It’s only…” Her hands shook, and there she was, getting nervous again. “Before we start, I have something for you.”
“Oh?”
She fished her hand in her pocket, clasped a piece of cloth—and had the immediate impulse not to give it to him. She had talked herself into it all morning! Goodness, this was not a difficult thing! But perhaps she should wait. Oh, but she already announced that she would—
Matthew approached with a concerned furrow to his brows. “Jasmine, what is it?”
“I have a gift for you,” she blurted out. Cringing, she thrust the cloth into his hand. “Please don’t look at it right now.”
He did anyway.
Matthew held the linen handkerchief face up and rubbed his thumb over the uneven red M she had embroidered into the corner.
“A favor from a princess,” he whispered. He gave the brightest smile to the world’s ugliest handkerchief, and her heart did a backflip.
“It’s not very good,” she mumbled.
“What are you talking about? It’s beautiful. I’ll treasure it,” he promised, placing the handkerchief in his pocket. “I’ll carry it every day.”
She sighed. “I wanted to do both initials, but that’s as far as I got.”
“Because of Rothwell.” He scowled. “I’m taking care of that. My solicitors will draw up the papers today—he’ll be destitute by the end of the week. Blackmoor’s digging for information, and Honora is spreading the word.”
“Good.” The thought that the man who had hurt her was being punished gave her an odd sense of relief. Maybe he would think twice before doing the same to another woman. “Thank you for going through the trouble, I imagine it wasn’t easy.”
“Think nothing of it. I’ll do anything for you. I mean that. No one will harm you and get away with it.” He held his hands out. “Now show me what he did.”
She placed her hands in his and allowed him to remove her gloves. He rolled her sleeves, revealing yellowing skin on her left wrist, and scabbed-over knuckles on her right hand. He held her as gently as he had the handkerchief.
“Do they hurt?”
She shook her head. “Not today.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He kept his eyes on hers and raised her hands to his lips. Slowly, he kissed each knuckle and the inside of her wrist. Each tender touch of skin to skin seeped deep into her heart.
“Allow me to wash them.”
Hooking her fingertip with his, he led her to a water-filled basin.
“I can wash my own hands.” She protested, but followed him anyway. “I’m not that delicate.”
“I know.” He shot her a half-smile. “But I want to do it.”
Matthew dipped their hands into the cool water. His thumbs lingered over hers, massaging from the heel of her palm down to the pads of her fingertips.
“I’ve always wanted to do this,” he admitted. “I never thought I would have the chance.”
She shot him a dubious expression. “You’ve always wanted to wash my hands?”
He dried her hands with a towel and eased her close to him. He brought a damp fingertip to her chin and lifted her face until it was level with his.
“I’ve always wanted to bathe you,” he whispered across her lips. “But this will do for now.”
He lingered long enough for her to feel his breath, long enough for her to want to move forward. A whisper of a touch, and he released her, leaving her head spinning.
“We should get started,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, this dish has to simmer.”
“It does,” she said. “How did you know that?”
“I might have stolen away to your manor this morning to talk to your chef.” He gave her a sheepish grin.
“He was surprised to see me, but had the ingredients we needed, and gave me instructions. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve done some of the prep work.
” He looked her over. “But first, you’re missing something. ”
He plucked an apron from a hook on the wall, then twirled his finger. Obediently, she turned. He placed the apron over her head, then tied it behind her waist.
“Look at you.” He flicked her strings. “Your mother would be horrified.”
“I know.” She gave a dreamy sigh. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
He laughed.
“All right, chef. Let’s cook.” He gestured to the table. “Put me to work. What should I do?”
“That depends.” She raised a brow. “Can you be trusted with weapons?”
“I believe I can manage.”
She handed him a knife, a board, and placed a handful of onions and peppers in front of him.
“Slice these. I want them to be about this size.” Demonstrating, she quickly sliced half an onion into strips. “Your turn.”
“I will lose a finger if I do it like that.”
“Not if you take your time.”
Slower than she had, Matthew cut through the onion. The knife fell hard under his hand and grated across the board. Jasmine clucked and fixed his posture. “No. Like this.”
Her hand covered his and guided his movements, rocking with him. Then she stepped aside. On his own, he repeated the motion, slicing the other half of the onion into uneven strips.
“Better.” She gave an approving hum. “Keep going. I’ll get started on the chicken.”
She added salt and pepper to the chicken, then poured oil from a stoneware container into a preheated skillet on the range. While waiting for it to reach the proper temperature, she helped slice the rest of the peppers.
When she placed the chicken into the pan, the oil sizzled and popped. The enticing smell of roasting meat rose in the air as she seared all sides. Matthew watched silently over her shoulder. While she cooked, she explained why she was doing things in the order she was.
“You can’t cook the chicken and the vegetables together at first, even though they all simmer in the same pot.” She removed the chicken and placed it on a small plate before adding the vegetables to the pan. “It’s all about timing.”
He nodded to each new piece of information. “You know a lot about this. Who taught you how to cook?”
“Abuela. My grandmother is the best cook in the world. Basque women like strong flavors. She’s ruined me for English food.”
“Why this dish?”
“It’s my grandfather’s favorite. Abuela makes it for him once a week. She says the key to a happy marriage is a well-fed husband.” She laughed. “If he’s busy chewing, he can’t complain.”
“Sounds about right. I know I’ll eat anything you cook for me with a smile on my face. Especially if it smells as delicious as this.” He leaned over her and inhaled deeply. “Tell me more about your grandparents. What are they like?”
“They’re sturdy people, and deeply in love.
They met while working the vineyards in Zarautz.
When they first married, they had nothing.
You wouldn’t believe it now, but the house my mother grew up in didn’t have floors.
” She looked down at her leather slippers on the stone ground.
“But Abuelo worked hard, honed his skills, and he made a wine that earned the attention of a visiting marquess. Papa invested in him right away.”
“Is that how your parents met?”
She nodded. She stirred the vegetables in the pan, then added the chicken back in with the tomatoes and seasonings.
“Yes. The way Papa tells the story, by the time he left Abuelo’s, it was already sunset.
He took a walk on the beach and saw Mama barefoot in the water.
He fell in love instantly and offered for her the next morning.
” She stirred absently, watching the tomatoes dissolve.
“Now my mother lives in a mansion, and my grandparents own the vineyards they used to labor in. Peculiar, isn’t it?
How one chance meeting can change your life? ”
“Your mother must have had some beautiful ankles,” he teased, bumping her shoulder with his.
The corner of her lip lifted. “Must’ve.”
“Both sound like good love stories.” He paused, and his expression gentled. “Is that what you were waiting for? Love at first sight?”
She furrowed her brows. “I’m not certain anymore.”
Growing up hearing those stories, she had hoped for a love she didn’t need to question. A moment where the stars would align, and she would see someone and know they were the one. She looked at Matthew and tried to think of her first memory of him.
But she couldn’t recall.