Page 67 of A Problem Princess

“You think someone will find us?”

He looked up from the fire only long enough to glance in her direction. “I think Madame Noir can’t be completely trusted.”

When a small flame snaked up from the kindling, he blew on it until the fire grew. It caught hold of the dry logs waiting on the rack within moments. He sat back on his heels, pleased with his work.

She watched curiously as he tended the fire with careful stirs of the iron poker and more pieces of wood from the basket beside the hearth. In her entire life, a fire had always burned in whatever room she’d inhabited yet she’d never started one on her own. That was something she planned on changing.

“I don’t think there’s any food in the cottage,” he commented, “or I’d cook us some dinner.”

So was that. She didn’t even know how to make tea, for heaven’s sake, and her self-recrimination gnawed at her. Shouldn’t a person at least be able to feed and warm themselves, rather than expecting servants to always do it? She didn’t even know how to purchase a ticket for the coach that brought them here.

She was a fish out of water, utterly helpless on her own. How silly she was to think she could ever be a normal woman! Not even for one day.

“That is,” he teased as he rose to his full height and brushed his hands together, “unless I can find an old leather boot in one of the cabinets, although the boiled beef at the last inn was most likely less tender.”

An idea struck her, and she reached into her travel bag. “Here!” She pulled out the food bundle he’d purchased for her at Chelmsford, still wrapped in its brown paper and string. She’d not had the appetite to eat it earlier. Now her heart raced that she might be able to put it—and herself—to some good use after all. “Show me how to cook it? I want to learn.”

For a moment, he said nothing and stared at the package in her hand, and she feared he might laugh.

Instead, he took it from her. “It’s a traveler’s lunch,” he explained. “It’s meant to be eaten on the road.” When she looked at him blankly, he explained, “There’s nothing in it that needs to be cooked.”

“Oh.” Disappointment filled that single word.

Seeing her dejected reaction, he added, “But there might be something in it that would taste better warmed up. Let’s look, all right?” Despite the late hour—and undoubtedly that he wanted nothing more than to fall into the nearest bed and sleep until noon—he carried the small bundle to the narrow plank table and unwrapped it. “Bread, an apple, some cheese…ah, chicken! We can heat that up and make a picnic of the rest.”

“Show me how?”

He nodded at the hearth. “Grab that pan there.”

Grateful that he was teaching her, she hurried to the fireplace and lifted the small frying pan from its hook. “This one?”

“Now put the chicken pieces in it and place it over the fire. We don’t need to cook it, just warm it. It will only take a few minutes.” He tossed her a hand towel. “Use that to hold the pan.”

She did as instructed, then knelt beside the fire and watched the chicken intently. After a few moments, she frowned. “Is this all we do? We just wait like this?”

“Yes. Let the fire do the work.” As if he knew she wanted—no,needed—to do this on her own, he remained where he was, leaned back against the table, and crossed his ankles. “In a few minutes, take that small fork hanging from the mantel and turn the pieces over.”

She waited for five minutes, counting off each second in her head, then did as instructed: took the fork and attempted to turn the pieces.

“For God’s sake, don’t burn yourself,” he warned as he watched her. “I already have enough explanations to make to the palace. I don’t want to have to explain a singed princess on top of it.”

With a small laugh, she carefully turned over the chicken. Its savory scent floated up to her along with a soft sizzling, and the pieces glistened in the firelight.

“Is it warm?” he called out after a little while longer.

“I—I think so.”

“Then bring the pan here—carefully.”

She set it on the table beside him, her eyes never straying from the chicken as it continued to sizzle. “Now what?”

He shrugged, not moving from his spot to help her.Good.“Set the table. Use those plates in the Welsh dresser over there.” He nodded toward a cabinet in the corner. “There should be a knife and napkins in the drawer. Bring those, too.”

Excitement bubbled inside her as she hurried to the dresser and took down two plates from the shelf, then searched through the drawer and snatched up what she needed. She carefully placed the plates on the table in front of the two chairs, along with the napkins.

She waved the sharp knife in the air. “Now what?”

“Give me that.” He took the knife from her hand. When she opened her mouth to protest, he explained, “The man always carves.”