“How long will it take?” Helen asked.
“Oh, most of the day. I could try to cook it faster, but then I would have to monitor the jam more closely, and stir it more frequently. With all that sugar it's likely to stick to the bottom. As it is, I will have to have one of the maids stir it while I'm gone. I shall come back every hour or so to check on its progress.”
“I see.”
“My brother-in-law once suggested I put rocks on the lid. He said it would cook even faster.”
“I see,” Helen said automatically, and then she added, “No, actually I don't see.”
“It keeps the steam inside, which increases the pressure. That, in turn, allows the jam to cook at a hotter temperature.”
“Your brother-in-law must be quite scientific.”
“Yes, he is quite.” Ellie set the lid on the pot and added, “It is of no matter, anyway. I'm in no rush. I only have to make sure the maids stir it frequently.”
“That sounds easy enough,” Helen said.
“Oh, it is. Completely foolproof.” Ellie held her hand a few inches above the stovetop one last time to check that the heat was not too high, and then they left the kitchen.
Ellie pinned a watch onto her sleeve so that she would remember to check on the jam at appropriate intervals. It cooked slowly but evenly and, in Ellie's opinion, tasted delicious. The pot was thick and didn't get too hot over the low heat, so Ellie was able to grip the handles as she stirred, which was an added convenience.
Since her preparations did not require her undivided attention, she decided to turn some of her energies over to the smelly mess in the orangery. It irked her to no end that she hadn't yet been able to deduce how the saboteur was killing off all of her favorite plants. All that she had been able to figure out was that the smell was not coming from the plants themselves.
The plants were quite dead, that much was irrefutable. But the smell was coming from discreetly placed piles of kitchen garbage that Ellie suspected had been intercepted on their way to a pigpen. Mixed in with the garbage was a suspicious brown substance that could only have been obtained from the ground of the stables.
Whoever wanted to cause her trouble must be very devoted to the cause. Ellie couldn't imagine hating anyone enough to gather horse droppings and rotten food on a daily basis. However, she did love her little indoor garden enough to don a pair of working gloves and haul the smelly mess outside. She located a few sacks and a shovel, resolved not to breathe through her nose for the next hour or so, and dug in.
After five minutes, however, it became apparent that her skirts were getting in her way, so she found some twine and sat down on a stone bench to tie them up.
“A charming sight.”
Ellie looked up to see her husband entering the orangery. “Good morning, Charles.”
“I have often wished you would lift your skirts for me,” he said with a lopsided grin. “Who is the lucky recipient of so charming a gesture?”
She forgot her dignity and stuck out her tongue at him. “‘What’ would be a more appropriate word.”
Charles followed her gaze to the stinking pile tucked away behind an orange tree. He stepped forward, sniffed the air, and recoiled. “God in heaven, Ellie,” he said with a gag and a cough. “What have you done to the plants?”
“It wasn't me,” she ground out. “Do you really think I'm stupid enough to think that a rotting sheep's head would help an orange tree to thrive?”
“A what?” He walked back over to the tree to get a closer look.
“I've already cleared it away,” she said, pointing to her sack.
“Good God, Ellie, you shouldn't have to do this.”
“No,” she agreed, “I shouldn't. Someone here at Wycombe Abbey clearly does not appreciate my presence. But if you will pardon my pun, I am going to get to the bottom of this mess if it kills me. I won't tolerate this situation any longer.”
Charles let out a deep breath and watched as she plunged her shovel into the mess.
“Here,” she said, “you can hold the bag open. Although you might want to use some work gloves.”
He blinked, unable to believe that she was cleaning this up on her own. “Ellie, I can ask the servants to do this.”
“No, you can't,” she said, quickly and with more emotion than he would have expected. “They shouldn't have to do this. I'm not going to ask them to.”
“Ellie, that is precisely why we have servants. I pay them very generous wages to keep Wycombe Abbey clean. This is simply a…smellier mess than usual.”
She looked up at him with suspiciously bright eyes. “They are going to think I did this. I don't want that.”
Charles realized that her pride was at stake. Since he knew a thing or two about pride himself, he didn't press her. Instead he said, “Very well. I must insist, however, that you let me wield the shovel. What kind of husband would I be if I sat here and watched while you do all of the hard labor?”
“Absolutely not. You've an injured arm.”
“It's not that bad.”
She let out a snort. “Perhaps you forget that I am the one who stitched you up last night. I know precisely how bad it is.”
“Eleanor, give me the shovel.”
“Never.”
He crossed his arms and regarded her with a level gaze. God, she was stubborn. “Ellie,” he said, “the shovel, if you please.”
“No.”
He shrugged. “All right. You win. I won't shovel.”
“I knew you would see it my—yikes!”
“My arm,” Charles said as he yanked her against him, “is working quite well, actually.”
The shovel fell to the ground as Ellie twisted her neck to look at him. “Charles?” she asked hesitantly.
He smiled wolfishly. “I thought I might kiss you.”
“Here?” she croaked.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“But it smells.”
“I can ignore it if you can.”
“But why?”
“Kiss you?”
She nodded.
“I thought it might get you to stop talking about that ridiculous shovel.” Before she could say anything more, he swooped his head down and settled his mouth firmly on hers. She didn't relax right away; he didn't expect her to. But it was so damned fun to hold that overly-determined, wiggling little woman in his arms. She was like a tiny lion, fierce and protective, and Charles found that he wanted all of that emotion directed toward him. Somehow her insistence that he rest while she did the hard labor didn't make him feel like less of a man. It just made him feel loved.
Loved? Was that what he wanted? He'd thought he wanted a marriage like his parents'. He would lead his own life, his wife would lead hers, and they would both be content. Except that he was drawn to his new bride in a way he'd never anticipated, never even dreamed possible. And he wasn't content. He wanted her, wanted her desperately, and she was always just out of his reach.
Charles lifted his head an inch and looked down at her. Her eyes were unfocused, her lips were soft and parted, and he didn't know why he had never noticed this before, but she had to be the most beautiful woman in the entire world, and she was right there in his arms, and…
…and he had to kiss her again. Now. His mouth devoured hers with a new and startling urgency, and he drank in her essence. She tasted like warm berries, sweet and tangy and pure Ellie. His hands bunched the fabric of her skirts, pulling it up until he could reach underneath and grasp the firm skin of her thigh.
She gasped and clutched his shoulders, which only served to make him even hotter, and he slid his hand up until he reached the spot where her stockings ended. He stroked his finger along her bare skin, glorying in the way she shivered at his touch.
“Oh, Charles,” she moaned, and that was enough to set him on fire. Just the sound of his name on her lips.
“Ellie,” he said, his voice so hoarse he barely recognized it, “we have to go upstairs. Now.”
She didn't r
eact for a moment, just sagged against him, and then she blinked and said, “I can't.”
“Don't say that,” he said, dragging her toward the door. “Say anything but that.”
“No, I have to stir the jam.”
That stopped him in his tracks. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“I have to…” She paused and wet her lips. “Don't look at me like that.”
“Like what?” he drawled, his good humor slowly returning.
She planted her hands on her hips and leveled a stern look in his direction. “Like you want to gobble me up.”
“But I do.”
“Charles!”
He shrugged. “My mother told me never to lie.”
She looked as if she were about to stamp her foot. “I really must leave.”
“Wonderful. I'll accompany you upstairs.”
“I have to go to the kitchen,” she said pointedly.
He sighed. “Not the kitchen.”
Her mouth clamped itself into a straight, angry line before she ground out, “I'm making jam to give to the tenants as a holiday gift. I told you about it yesterday.”
“Very well, then. The kitchen. And then the bedroom.”
“But I…” Ellie let her words trail off as she realized that she didn't want to fight him any longer. She wanted his hands on her, she wanted to listen to his soft words of seduction. She wanted to feel like she was the most desirable woman in the world, which was exactly how she felt every time he looked at her with that smoldering, heavy-lidded gaze of his.
Her mind made up, she smiled shyly and said, “All right.”
Charles obviously hadn't expected her agreement, because he blurted out, “You will?”
She nodded, not quite meeting his eyes.
“Brilliant!” He looked like an excited young boy, which seemed a little strange to Ellie, considering that she was about to let herself be seduced by him.
“But I have to go to the kitchen first,” she reminded him.
“The kitchen. Right. The kitchen.” He shot her a sideways glance as he pulled her into the hall. “It takes a bit of the spontaneity away, don't you think?”
“Charles,” she said in a warning tone.
“Very well.” He switched direction and started dragging her toward the kitchen, moving even faster than he had when he'd been dragging her toward the bedroom.
“Trying to make up for lost time in advance?” she joked.
He pulled her around a corner, pinned her against a wall, and joined his mouth to hers for a brief, proprietary kiss. “You have three minutes in the kitchen,” he said. “Three. That is all.”
Ellie giggled and nodded, willing to allow him this dictatorial streak because it made her feel all warm inside. He released her again, and they made their way downstairs, Ellie practically having to run to keep up with him.
The kitchen was beginning to bustle with activity as Monsieur Belmont and his staff began their preparations for the day's meals. Mrs. Stubbs was off in a corner, trying to ignore the Frenchman as she supervised the three maids who were cleaning up after breakfast.
“That's my jam on the stove right over there,” Ellie said to Charles, pointing to the large pot. “Mixed berry. Helen and I prepared it together, and—”
“Three minutes, Eleanor.”
“Right. I just need to stir it, and then—”
“Just stir it,” he said.
She walked halfway to the stove and then said, “Oh! I really should wash my hands first. I was wearing work gloves in the orangery, of course, but the mess was so foul.”
Charles sighed impatiently. Really, the chit could have been done and gone by now. “Wash your hands, stir, and be done with it. There's a bucket right over on that table.”
She smiled, dunked her hands into the water, and then let out a little shriek.
“What now?”
“It's freezing. Monsieur Belmont must have had ice brought up. Perhaps we will have an iced fruit for dessert this evening.”
“Ellie, the jam…”
She reached out for the pot, scowling as the servants edged away from her. Clearly, they still didn't trust her in the kitchen. “Here, I'm just going to move it to this table over here, where it can cool and—”
Charles would never be quite certain what happened next. He had been watching Monsieur Belmont expertly chop an aubergine when he heard Ellie let out a cry of pain. When he looked up, the large pot of jam was falling to the ground. As he watched in helpless horror, the pot hit the ground and the lid bounced off. Purple jam flew through the air, splattering the stove, splattering the floor, and splattering Ellie.
She howled like an injured animal and collapsed upon herself, sobbing in agony. Charles felt his heart stop and he ran to her side, his boots sliding through the hot, sugary jam as he raced across the kitchen.
“Get it off me,” she whimpered. “Get it off me.”
Charles looked at her and saw that the boiling jam was stuck to her skin. Good God, her skin was still being burned as he stood there watching. It appeared to be exclusively on her hands and wrists. Without taking time to think, he grabbed the bucket of cold water she'd used earlier and plunged her hands into it.
She jerked against him and tried to yank her hands out. “No,” she cried out. “It's too cold.”
“Darling, I know it's cold,” he said softly, hoping she couldn't hear the way his voice was shaking. “I have my hands in the water, too.”
“It hurts. Oh, it hurts.”
Charles swallowed and looked around the kitchen. Surely someone would know what to do, how to make her pain go away. It killed him to hear her whimpers, to feel the way her body shuddered. “Shhh, Ellie,” he said in his most soothing voice. “Look, the jam is washing away. See?”
She looked down at her hands in the water, and Charles immediately wished he hadn't asked her to. Her skin was a bright and angry red where the jam had washed off.
“Get me more ice,” he barked at no one in particular. “The water is growing too warm.”
Mrs. Stubbs stepped forward even as three maids scurried to the icehouse. “My lord, I'm not certain that you have chosen the best course of action.”
“The jam was still boiling hot. I had to cool it down.”
“But she's shaking.”
He turned to Ellie. “Does it hurt as much?”
She shook her head. “I can hardly feel anything.”
Charles bit his lower lip. He wasn't at all certain as to the best way to treat a burn. “Very well. Perhaps we should get you bandaged.”
He allowed her to lift her hands from the bucket, but it was only ten seconds before she was whimpering in pain again. He plunged her hands back into the water just as the maids returned with ice. “Something about the cold water eases her pain,” he told Mrs. Stubbs.
“She can't stay there forever.”
“I know. Just another minute. I want to be sure.”
“Would you like me to prepare a special burn pomatum for her?”
Charles nodded and returned his attention to Ellie. He held her tightly and placed his lips on her ear, whispering, “Stay close to me, darling. Let me pull the pain out of you.”
She nodded.
“Take a deep breath,” he instructed. As she did so, he looked back up to Mrs. Stubbs and said, “Get someone to clean this up. I don't want to see it. Throw it all away.”
“No!” Ellie burst out. “Not my jam!”
“Ellie, it's just jam.”
She turned her face to his, her eyes clearer than they'd been since she'd been burned. “I've been working all day on it.”
Charles breathed an internal sigh of relief. If she could focus on the damned jam, maybe she could pull her mind away from the pain.
“What is going on here?” came an awful screech.
He looked up to see his aunt Cordelia. Good God, this was all they needed. “Someone get her out of here,” he muttered.
“Has she been burned? Ha
s someone been burned? For years, I have been warning all of you about the fire.”
“Will someone remove her from the kitchen?” he said more loudly.
“The fire will consume us all.” Cordelia began waving her arms wildly in the air. “All of us!”
“Now!” Charles roared, and this time two footmen appeared to escort his aunt from the room. “Good God,” he muttered. “The woman is completely unhinged.”
“She's harmless,” Ellie said shakily. “You told me so yourself.”
“You stay quiet and conserve your energy,” he said, his voice rough with fear.
Mrs. Stubbs stepped forward with a small bowl in her hands. “Here is the pomatum, my lord. We need to apply it to the burns and then wrap her hands in a bandage.”
Charles looked at the sticky mixture dubiously. “What is in that?”
“One beaten egg and two spoonfuls of sweet oil, my lord.”
“And you're certain this will work?”
“It is what my mother always used, my lord.”
“Very well.” Charles sat back and watched as the housekeeper gently applied the mixture to Ellie's splotchy skin, then wrapped her hands in strips of thin linen. Ellie held her neck and shoulders stiffly, and he could tell she was trying not to cry out from the pain.
God, it broke his heart to watch her like this.
A small commotion arose in the doorway, and he turned to see Judith, closely followed by Claire and Helen. “We heard noise,” Helen said, breathy from having run through the house. “Aunt Cordelia was screaming.”
“Aunt Cordelia is always screaming,” Judith said. Then her eyes fell on Ellie and she asked, “What happened?”
“She burned her hands,” Charles replied.
“How?” Claire asked, her voice oddly scratchy.
“The jam,” he answered. “She—” He turned to Ellie, hoping that she might forget about some of the pain if he included her in the conversation. “How the hell did this happen?”
“The pot,” she gasped. “It was so silly of me. I should have noticed it wasn't where I left it.”