Sandra Hill (19 page)

Madrene was in the kitchen learning how to cook while the men were in the solar talking about some big secret mission, as men were wont to do. Every time she entered the room, they went silent.
Men! Blowhards, all of them.

One at a time, each of the men came into the kitchen, where she was watching the red spaghetti sauce cooking on the stove. Every one of them tasted the sauce and added some new spice or grated cheese. They came to get a beer … which was similar to mead. She was drinking a glass herself.

They all commented on her new attire. Tight
braies
, called jeans. A sleeveless, hip-length
shert
, which tapered in at the waist, called a blouse. It had odd fasteners on the front called butt-ons, and was made of a light blue fabric. When he purchased it, Ian had said it matched her eyes, which pleased her; he did not toss many compliments in her direction. No doubt he wanted something from her.

Omar, who prided himself on his cooking skills, had spent some time with her in the beginning of the evening, teaching her how to use the kitchen implements. The stove. The can opener. The toaster. The microwave oven. Of course, he had to then
explain to her what a can was, or why one would want to brown a slice of bread. He’d also had to explain all the different foods to her, since she could not read the labels. Tomato sauce. More spices than she ever thought existed. Rice. Pop-Tarts. Spa-get-he … which was what they were making tonight.

In addition, he showed her the laundry room and demonstrated the two magic mash-sheens there. No wonder Ian had been embarrassed over his undergarments hanging outside. Apparently, people here hid their washing and drying efforts.

She saw Omar studying her at various times when he did not realize she was aware of his scrutiny. He also alternated his conversation between Arabic and Saxon English, as if trying to trick her up with some mistake.

“So, you live with your little girl?” she asked. “Five years old, did you say?”

“Uh-huh,” Omar replied while he stirred the mary-nary sauce with a wooden spoon and added some Eastern spice. Every once in a while, he tested it by dipping out a little on the spoon. He made her do the same, though she had no idea how to determine when it was done. He took out a shiny paper with the image of a little girl on it. The red-haired child did not much resemble Omar. “Darla is going to start school in September. Early enrollment in kindergarten.” Pride was evident in his voice.

That got her attention. “Girls go to school in this country?”

“Absolutely. It’s required of both boys and girls.”

“That is wonderful. I have always wanted to learn to read and write, as my brothers did. My father, unlike many, would have allowed it, I think, but there
was no time. Running a vast estate, whether it be a farmstead or royal household, left no time for anything not strictly a necessity.”

“A vast estate, huh? Tell me what kind of things you did.”

Omar was a very interesting man. He had been a teacher at a large university before becoming a seal. He had regaled her with astonishing stories of his brave ancestors on his father’s side. They had been red men, known as Indians.

Because he had shared some of his life story with her, she felt comfortable doing the same for him. “I will tell you of Norstead, the royal estate, because that is where I was at the last … not at the farmstead.”

“Royal?”

“My father’s family held a jarldom. We are related to the king’s family, though not in line of succession, thank the gods. What a snake pit of greed and intrigue that is! I had been married to Karl Ivarsson for a few years, but he put me aside and—”

“Do you mean divorce?”

She shrugged. “I guess that is your word for it.”

“I’m divorced,” Omar said.

“Really? Did you put your wife aside?”

He laughed. “Nah. It was a mutual decision.”

“But the child stays with you? How odd!”

“Colleen is a magazine writer. She travels all around the world in her job with
Vanity Fair
. It was more expedient to leave Darla with me.” He went over to the kitchen table and showed her a sheaf of thin papers, bound together. “This is
Vanity Fair
magazine, he noted.

“You travel, too,” she pointed out.

“Yes, I do.”

Obviously, the mother did not choose to take on the responsibility of her own baby. For shame! “And what happens when you are gone?”

“My mother helps out.”

“I would give anything to have a child. Girl or boy, no matter. But it is not to be.” She sighed.

“You were telling me about your duties at … Norstead.”

She regaled him for a long time with a description of her duties from dawn till nightfall, some of which changed with the seasons.

He was looking at her with amazement when she was done. “I could almost believe you.”

Madrene took insult at his words, but did not tell him so. He must have suspected how he had offended, though, because he put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Give us time to get to know you. We’ll come around. Or you will.” He grinned at that last.

“Hah! You will see.”

They smiled at each other, just as Ian came in to put a big loaf of bread in the oven to warm and to put on a large pot of water to boil for the spaghetti. “You never smile at me like that,” he griped. “Guess it’s true that nice guys finish last.”

“Who is the nice guy?” she asked.

Ian stomped out.

Omar just grinned at her.

Geek came next … a young man with freckles on his face that made him look much younger than his years. He added a pungent section of garlic to the pot. “You can never have too much garlic,” he said with a wink. Then he came over to the table where she was sitting. “What’re you reading?”

“I am just looking at the pages. I do not know how to read.”

“No kidding? I thought everyone knew how to read. In all parts of the world, I mean.”

“Some do in my country, but not many women.”

He nodded as if he understood, muttering something about women’s liberation needing to reach every corner of the world.

She eyed him closely for a second, then asked, “Would you teach me to read and write?”

He gave her a steady gaze, surprised at her request.

“I could pay you,” she added quickly.

A smile twitched at his lips. “Yeah, I heard.”

She could only imagine what kind of story the troll had told his teammates.

“I’ve never been a teacher,” Geek said then, “but I can try.”

“Another thing. Ian tells me that you know everything about everything, and—”

“He was being sarcastic.”

“Hmmmm. I do not think so. In any case, I need to find a way home to Norstead. Would you be able to help me?”

“You mean, a map.”

“Yea, a map would be good.”

“Probably. Next time I come I’ll bring my laptop and we can check it out on the Internet. Or else we can use Ian’s computer.”

Madrene did not understand all his words, but it appeared that this young man had agreed to help her find her way home, in addition to teaching her to read and write. “Thank you, thank you.” She got up and hugged him.

Ian walked in to get a beer, saw the hug and
walked back out. She thought she heard him say a well-known, one-word Saxon expletive.

Geek arched his eyebrows at her in a knowing manner.

Sly, the tall black man, regaled her with stories of his homeland, Man-hat-and, also called the Big Apple, which was odd since he’d told her, upon questioning, that there were no apple trees there. She could hardly fathom his claim that there was a building more than a hundred stories high; a story was one level of a building, floor to ceiling. No doubt he was teasing her, as all the seals were wont to do.

She was laughing at his description of the way people traveled there on underground vehicles when Ian came in again. He looked at her, frowned, then banged some utensils at the stove as he added the thin sticks of spaghetti to the water. “Don’t let me interrupt anything,” he said. The words should have been polite, but they came out like a criticism.

“Why would he criticize us for laughing together?” Madrene asked Sly after Ian stomped out of the room again.

“He’s jealous,” he said.

“Impossible,” she replied. “He does not care about me.”

Sly winked at her and left.

Cage, the mischievous one, came next. He didn’t even bother to taste the sauce. Instead, he turned up his nose and said, “If it ain’t gumbo, it ain’t worth fixin’.” He put a little black box on the table in front of her. “You ever heard Cajun music, sugar?”

She shook her head slowly from side to side.

“You’re in for a treat.” He pressed a red thing on the black box, and loud, raucous music came forth.

She jumped out of her seat and backed away. “What is it? Is there a person in there playing an instrument?”

“Oh, chère,” he said with a grin, “you have so much to learn. That, darlin’, is Cajun music, the best in the world.”

“Well, it certainly is loud.”

“That’s a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one.” He told her a fascinating story about his people—the Acadians, who were driven out of France and then Canada. Finally, many of them settled in Lewis-i-anna. Apparently, there were swamps in this region which abounded with fierce animals called ally-gate-ors. But the strong Cajun people survived there, eating the animals the city dwellers disdained, turning them into spicy dishes. And they were a happy people, as evidenced by their lively music. “Plus,” Cage added at the last, “Cajun men are known to be great lovers.”

At first she did not realize that he was teasing her. When understanding came, she told him, “ ’Tis the same thing men of my country claim. Methinks men have an overblown opinion of their prowess in the bedsport. Except for my father, of course. He bred thirteen children on different women and could lay claim to being particularly virile. Is that not outrageous?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “Of course it is. And believe you me, I told him so on many an occasion. Some people say that I am a shrew, but I prefer to say I am a strong-minded woman. What say you?”

Cage blinked at her several times, as if she’d stunned him with her words. He was not the first man to do so. Then he smiled at her. “All I can say,
Maddie, is that you are a very interesting woman.”

“I will take that as a compliment.”
Even though it probably was not meant as such.

“Would you like to dance?” Cage held his arms open for her.

“I cannot imagine dancing to that music.”

“I’ll show you. C’mon, baby. A strong-minded woman wouldn’t be afraid of a little dance.”

She narrowed her eyes at him for throwing her words back at her, but she stepped into his embrace, which was too intimate for mere acquaintances in her opinion. But the rogue never gave her a chance to protest, and he twirled and stomped her about the kitchen to an exercise called the “Cajun two-step.” Every time she stepped on his toes with her new sandals, he kept telling her, “Feel the beat, Maddie. Just feel the beat.”

“I would like to beat someone, for sure,” Ian said, flicking off the radio and glaring at Cage. “In case you’ve forgotten, dimwit, we are having a serious meeting in the living room.” Then he turned and walked away.

Cage followed him, but not before saying, “It would seem that there is more than one shrew in this house.”

She was flipping through the magazine again when Luke came in—she preferred that name to his nicking name, Slick. Actually, he was standing in the doorway, leaning lazily on the frame, watching her. For how long, she could not say. This man was different from the other seals. Oh, he was handsome, with his dark hair and eyes so dark a blue they almost appeared black. And his long, lean body was as muscled as all the rest. He did not talk much,
though, and there was a danger in his quietness. Like she used to see in her Uncle Jorund.

“I understand you have some valuable jewels,” he said finally, after prolonged silent scrutiny.

She nodded.

“If you ever need to sell them, contact me. I can put you in touch with … people.”

She nodded again.

“Avenil, leave my wife alone,” Ian said, coming up on Luke.

“Wife?” Luke inquired in a disbelieving voice. Then he, like the others, walked away.

“I am not your wife,” she called after Ian.

“You’re not my mother, either, Mrs. MacLean,” he called back.

What does that mean?

After the meal, which was messy … at least for her … the men went back into the solar to finish their meeting, except for Pretty Boy. He noticed the magazine was opened to a page where there was a beautiful woman with scarlet lips and fingernails, posing with her hands upraised, combing through a wild mass of wavy red hair.

“She’s beautiful,” Madrene observed.

“You could be just as beautiful, with a little cosmetic help.”

“I bought some nail paint today at the shopping mart. Is that what she is wearing?”

He nodded.

“Mine is not so red. It is a color that Ian called pink. Do you know how I go about putting it on?”

He flashed her a wicked smile. “Babe, this is your lucky day. I have three sisters who made me help them sometimes when I was a kid and not big
enough to refuse. Besides, any male worth his testosterone has tried painting a pretty woman’s nails after watching that sexy scene in
Bull Durham
.”

Madrene went to the sleeping chamber and got the nail paint. When she returned to the kitchen, Pretty Boy had moved her chair closer to his. “Plant your sweet ass here, honey.”

Once he was done, her nails looked beautiful, in her opinion, even though hers were short and a bit ragged, unlike the long-nailed woman in the magazine. She kept holding her hands out to admire them.

“How about a pedicure, too?” At her frown of confusion, he explained, “Your toenails?”

She giggled at the prospect of such an exercise in vanity. Madrene could not remember herself giggling in a long, long time … or engaging in such a frivolous activity.

So it was that when Ian came back to the kitchen this time, she was sitting with her legs extended and her bare feet in Pretty Boy’s lap. And he was studiously painting her toenails.