If You Give a Smuggler a Secret & If You Give a Rake a Reason

3. Chapter Three

Drat.

DratThe kitchen was empty.

A teakettle hung from a metal arm beside the hearth, steam still puffing from the spout. In front, and keeping warm, a platter of rice scones perched in the middle of the bench. Corn mush fried and crackled in an iron skillet, the aroma permeating the air. Keelan’s mouth watered and her stomach rumbled, driving all other immediate issues from her mind.

An hour and a half was a long time to wait for breakfast.

Sneaking a furtive glance around, she liberated a hot, flakey scone. Too hungry to bother with butter or jam, she took a bite and closed her eyes as it almost melted on her tongue.

“Well, it’s ‘bout time ya come visit me, Miss Keelan,” Ruth said, as she emerged from the pantry.

Keelan jumped, and the scone flew from her grasp. It bobbled in between her hands until she regained possession. “Ruth, you gave me a start!” She grinned at the short, plump cook and gestured guiltily at the pastry, crumbling against her chest. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m famished.”

The slave gave her an odd look, but recovered rapidly. “Goodness gracious, dis here’s your home. You can git somethin’ to eat anytime.”

Her home. Even after several months, she still felt like an intruder. This culture was just so different.

homedifferentThe kitchen door opened and Slaney whisked inside. Kicking it shut behind her, she settled a garden basket on the table. “Wouldn’t hurt ter put some meat on her bones. The lass will flutter away like a milkweed thistle in the breeze one day and we’ll never see her again.” The basketful of herbs wafted through the room in direct combat with the frying mush.

“All she need is a few more months of my cookin’ and she’ll fill right out,” Ruth said with a chuckle.

Slaney gave Keelan a stern glare. “What she needs to do is get herself up to the main house and dress for breakfast,” she chided, pulling a handful of herbs from her basket.

“Oh, Miss Keelan,” Ruth stared at her wound. “How did you cut yo’ hand?”

Keelan and Slaney exchanged glances. The household slaves likely gossiped as much as any other servants. It wasn’t as if she could obscure the fact she was wearing boy’s attire.

“I mishandled a dagger. Daniel is instructing me how to defend myself in case those who murdered most of my father’s family in England follow us here.”

The slave paused, then shook her head. “I was sorry to hear ‘bout dat, Miss Keelan. But dey didn’t kill ‘em all did dey?”

Was it only a matter of time before they achieved that goal? “No, so far my father’s elder brother has eluded them, although they been made several attempts.”

Slaney inspected Keelan’s hand. The woman tsked as she examined the cut, then pulled out a wooden box from the cupboard. She selected two small bottles and a clove of garlic.

“Let me see, lass.” She held out a hand expectantly. Keelan eyed the bottle before she did as she was told. Slaney was a skilled healer, but there always seemed to be additional pain involved when it came to treating cuts and ailments. Slaney poured a few drops on the laceration.

Her suspicions were valid. Keelan sucked in her breath at the sting. “Ouch! What is that?” She snatched her hand away and shook it. “That burns like the devil!”

Slaney grabbed her hand. “Such language from a gentle lady. Yer mum, God rest her soul, would be horrified at the way ye go on. Now sit ye still. ’Tis vinegar. That or whiskey must be applied to properly cleanse a wound.” Her mouth flattened. “Ye should know that, as often as I’ve mended ye.”

Duly chastised, Keelan sat and put another chunk of the stolen scone in her mouth while Slaney splashed more vinegar on the cut. The sting made her eyes water, but she didn’t dare let out a peep.

Next, the maid reached for the garlic, pulled off a clove, sliced it in half, and rubbed it on the cut, eliciting another wince from Keelan. Why did everything have to sting?

sting“This will prevent infection,” Slaney said. Lastly, she splashed the marigold tincture over the injury and bound it in a narrow, damp, linen cloth.

“Keep it covered,” she said. “’Twill guard against the pus.”

“Thank you.” Even though Slaney put her through mild torture with every cut and bruise, the woman meant well.

Keelan pointed to the last bit of scone. “Ruth, I would love to learn how you make these.” She popped the rest into her mouth and munched happily. It was something her mother might have sold in her shop, partnered with jellies, jams and sweet biscuits.

The cook’s soft, brown face broke into a pleased smile. “Come in the mornin’ ‘fore sunrise, an’ I’ll show ya in no time.” She shifted and pulled a plate from the shelf. “Now sit yo’ self down, child. I can’t stand to see ya starve to death right here in the kitchen house.”

To Keelan’s dismay and delight, Ruth served her fried corn mush doused in cane syrup, a cup of tea, and another scone slathered with fresh butter and dripping with sweet, amber honey.

Mentally calculating the time it would take Daniel and the two other men to reach the stable, remove their tack, settle their horses, Keelan estimated that she had a couple of precious minutes. There would be no time to change first. She shoveled a large forkful of mush into her mouth, trying to conjure the appropriate words to persuade the men to keep her clandestine activities to themselves.

Slaney glanced out the window. “Daniel and our visitors are near. I’d best get along and tell Mr. Grey his guests have arrived.” She shot Keelan a sharp glare. “And you mistress, should go before you’re caught in those...clothes.”

She probably would have said ‘rags’. The maid had been privy to Daniel’s training for the past several months, and often huffed at the impropriety, prompting him to just as often remind her that many things were accepted in American society that weren’t at home.

Keelan’s fork clattered on her plate and she practically flew out of the door. If Uncle Jared saw her before she had a chance to speak with Hart...