Chapter 3
three
I found Baz still in the kitchen when I arrived back home, tumbling through the side door.
“Let me take that.” He scooped the wicker basket from me, lifting it with ease.
I tugged out of my cloak, hanging it on the hook, biding my time so I could try to get my breathing under control. My lips itched, my skin dry after the trek. I fought the urge to finger-comb my long locks, knowing I hardly appeared presentable.
With a mug on the kitchen table, and the hearth kindling and the soft scent of cloves, I found myself reminded of why Blackwell Manor was my safe place. Though Master Blackwell would’ve never dared come to the kitchen.
“There’s the dining room,” I told Baz. “Or the parlor. I can make a tray and bring it up.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
He sounded so sure of it that I didn’t put up a fuss when he unpacked the basket. I simply whirled around, placing the food items in their designated spot.
Baz had put on a fresh shirt. White, with his sleeves rolled up. His forearms were muscular, but my eyes kept going to the collar of his shirt. He’d left several buttons undone, and my fingers twitched, wishing to fix them.
Or perhaps to unbutton the rest.
I placed fresh water into the kettle, grateful for the heat of the hearth. A memory of Baz’s defined muscles made me dizzy. And how ridiculous was it to be all mixed up simply because I’d seen a man’s stomach?
I knew it to be rude if I asked Baz for his age, but he had no such qualms.
“How old are you?” he questioned, sitting back down at the table.
My heart dropped into my stomach when I realized my book from that morning remained on the table, open and face down, to save my place.
“T-twenty-six.” I cleared my throat and focused on finding jam for the scones.
“That’s only a year younger than me. And you’ve been alone here all this time?” He played with a tiny spoon, absently stirring his tea. I held up a jar of honey in offering. He shook his head no.
“Yes,” I answered.
“This is a rather large place to be taking care of it by yourself.”
Was I meant to hire someone else to help me?
“I’ve managed.” I offered him more tea.
“Thank you. Please sit down and join me.”
He sounded sincere, but part of me began to wonder if he was stupid. Or worse—pretending to be nice.
“Are you sure you don’t prefer going upstairs?” I asked.
“I’m bothering you.” He refilled his mug, steam rising. “You don’t like people in your kitchen.”
He didn’t give me time to try to deny this accusation. He informed me, “I won’t be taking my tea in the parlor. Or my meals in the dining room.”
My heart ticked as I listened attentively. It’d been a long time since I’d received orders, and I couldn’t get this wrong. I wouldn’t give him any reason to terminate my contract.
“I’ll dine here.” He poured tea into another cup that I hadn’t noticed. I realized a second later, it was meant for me. “You’ll find I’m not so fussy.”
I’m not sure what he meant by saying he wasn’t fussy. He’d arrived with fifteen bags, and he smiled in a way that only a man who’d only ever gotten what he wanted could.
“You’ll find that I can manage most things on my own,” he said, offering me a scone.
I reached for one, not knowing what else to do. He smiled again, his sapphire eyes practically twinkling.
Part of me knew he found me funny. Not in an amusing way. But more like what a strange thing I’ve found in my house. I was used to that, but under his direct eye contact, my skin warmed, and for just a moment, I wished I wasn’t such a strange thing. That I could smile back.
He’s your employer, not your friend!
My chin dipped as I continued to listen.
“I’m a terrible cook,” he said, and that tracked. He might act confident as he sat there next to me, drinking tea, but I doubted he knew how to work the stove. “Please have my meals prepared, and keep things tidy. I imagine I’ll have visitors. Tell me about the place.”
I inclined my head slightly, unsure of his question.
“I don’t like visitors,” he explained. “But I can’t imagine I’ll escape the odd visit from a businessman or a councilmember. So tell me, how awful can this place be?”
Memories skipped by. Blood on the grass, Gretel’s beautiful skin marred.
How could I tell my new employer it wasn’t Blackwell Manor that was awful, but rather the neighbors?
“Master Blackwell did not take visitors often either,” I said.
Boswell told me that when he was younger, if Master Blackwell had wished, he could’ve gained a seat on the Council. Had more of a say on town matters. But he hadn’t pursued it. Occasionally, important men came to the Manor, but the older he got, the more people left him alone.
I’d never thought of Master Blackwell as a lonely old man, but perhaps he was.
“Who should I watch out for?” Baz asked, twirling his spoon in his mug again. It clinked against the porcelain. He didn’t add anything to his tea, but he continued to fidget.
Clinemell.
Hair fell into my face. “I am but a servant.”
He frowned. “Yes, but you’re not an idiot.”
He appeared sincere. I couldn’t tell what game he was up to by being so nice.
“You’ve run Blackwell Manor all these months, by yourself,” he said. “I imagine you kept things in order for years before that. You are not stupid, Tangwystle. And I do not bite.”
My stomach tightened at his final words. If he meant them to be reassuring, then I’m not sure why his dark voice skimmed over me in the way it did.
I listened closely, slightly desperate to hear what else he would say.
“You will not offend me. As my housemistress, I’m going to be looking to you for advice at times.
” He lifted his mug to his lips, and I watched him take a drink.
His broad-shoulders were relaxed, and I found myself staring at the column of his neck.
He must’ve felt my stare because he swiftly looked over.
Stars above. He only drank some tea and spoke politely. Yet, I couldn’t look away.
Caution, a part of my head cried out. It would not do to look like a fool in front of an attractive gentleman.
An attractive gentleman who could very well turn out to be a beast.
I would not be the servant who flipped her hair over her shoulder in the hopes she’d find favor with her employer in bed.
Or worse, end up dragged to his bed.
No. Baz Coldwell might’ve seemed nice right then, but only time would tell. I decided I’d move my dresser in front of my bedroom door that night.
“Jam?” Baz asked. He scooped some onto the scone I took earlier. After a moment, I realized he was waiting to see if I’d actually eat it.
“Thank you,” I murmured, cramming it into my mouth. It had the opposite effect of trying to appear polite in front of him.
The corner of his lips twitched. “You. . . here.”
His thumb brushed against my mouth, and warmth spread in my chest. I should’ve been more embarrassed at how I’d smeared jam all over my face.
He wiped it away and, as if it were the most natural thing to do, his tongue licked his thumb. There had to be a napkin somewhere, but no. He licked away the sticky, sweet evidence and then smiled, back to business.
Baz leaned over his own scone, completely oblivious to my inner turmoil.
Other than Gretel’s body pressed against mine, I couldn’t think of a single instance of being touched.
Now is not the time to analyze your constantly touchless state, I sternly told myself. I compiled a list of things that needed to be done. Wash the floorboards and the windows. Make up the beds with fresh linen. Ensure the pantry was well stocked.
“You think a lot don’t you?” Baz asked, pulling me from my reverie.
“I’m sorry.” The words came automatically.
He slid my book toward me and replied, “I’m not.”