The Duke Is Mine

Page 68

Olivia broke off her tirade.
The dough hit the wall and slid down, landing on the unevenly bricked floor.
“Feed the putain!” Madame barked. They all stared. “Now!”
“I am not a putain,” Olivia shouted, deciding that she had to make as much noise as Madame if she wanted to be noticed. “I was merely waiting for the return of my fiancé. And I don’t want anything to eat.”
“You may not be a putain, but you’re a fool with an English accent,” Madame said with another swig. “What the devil is an Englishwoman doing at Père Blanchard’s hut? Are you a spy, then?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Good. Because there’s nothing here to spy on but a groggified captain and a bunch of French boys whose balls are too small to hold up their breeches.” She waved her hand at the young men turning the spits.
“I am no spy,” Olivia stated. “I demand to be released. My fiancé will be wondering where I am.”
“The putain!” Madame bellowed, turning her head and glaring at a boy at the side of the kitchen. Then she looked back at Olivia. “Spy or not, what are you doing here? Because we don’t get many female smugglers over here, not that you look the type anyway.”
The boy got to his feet, trotted over to the side of the kitchen, and plucked the top off a large earthenware container. It was oozing, bubbling . . . the source of the vinegary sharp smell of growing yeast. He poured it into a shallow bowl on the far end of the table. Presumably that was the putain.
“I am in this country on an errand of mercy,” Olivia said, keeping her head high. “I am betrothed to a duke, and I demand to know on what authority this miscreant captured me and brought me here. And I want my hands freed!”
“Sakes alive, a virgin,” Madame said with a twist in her smile. “Isn’t this my lucky day?”
Olivia spun to face Bessette. He turned out to be a burly man with a large head and ears that stuck out like pink flower petals. “You!” she said furiously. “Monsieur Bessette, you must undo these ropes from my hands at once!” Then she turned her back to him and waggled her fingers in his direction.
To her satisfaction and relief, she felt him fumbling at the twine.
“The mushroom,” Madame commanded. The boy poured a thin stream of foul-smelling, cloudy black liquid onto the bubbling yeast and began mixing it.
“Treat her gently!” Madame barked, apparently referring to the yeast, not to Olivia.
When Olivia’s hands were free, she shook them for a moment, trying to restore their circulation, then folded her arms over her chest and turned back to Madame. “Am I to suppose that you make a habit of kidnapping women at your whim?”
“Not unless they are worth some money.”
“How much money do you want?” Olivia demanded.
“For what?”
“I assume I am to pay for my freedom.”
“Your French is too good for a mere English maiden,” Madame stated, narrowing her eyes and ignoring Olivia’s comment. “You’re a spy.”
“You said it yourself: there’s nothing here to spy on.”
“True. Then . . . you’re spying on me.”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Believe me, Madame, no one I know would have the faintest interest in you and your kitchen, though it would serve nicely in an exhibit of primitive cooking amongst savages.”
“Not so!” Madame said, slapping her hand down on the floury board so that a cloud rose in the air. “All the great bakers of Paris and London want my recipe for bread. And you—you have come here, straight to the place where I am, because you know of my great talent.”
“I know nothing about bread,” Olivia stated.
“Then you are the savage! The great Napoleon himself said my bread was blessed by the gods. And I share the secrets of my putain with no one. No one!” Her voice rose to a shriek.
Olivia stood her ground. Although it might seem rather paradoxical, she was feeling quite calm now. Marauding gangs of lustful soldiers were terrifying, but battles with a lunatic cook were a routine part of running a large household. “If you think anyone would try to steal the recipe for that disgusting concoction, you are quite mistaken.”
“She is a spy,” Madame announced. “A cookery spy. And a terrible liar, which is true of all the English.”
“I am not,” Olivia snapped.
Madame ticked off the presumed lies. “A virgin? I don’t think so.”
Olivia opened her mouth and shut it.
“Betrothed to a duke? Also unlikely. You’re well enough, but you’re no beauty. Betrothed to a draper rather than a duke, I’d guess.” She turned and hauled on a bell cord hanging at the wall. “She’ll have to go into the catacombs until Le Capitaine wakes up. How much did he drink last night?”
One of the boys turning a spit looked up. “Two bottles, Madame.”
She snorted. “He’ll not wake before evening, then.” She pulled out a ring of keys. “Put her in the far end, Petit.”
Olivia gave the boy a look.
“She’s a lady,” he protested. “Ladies don’t belong in the cells.”
“She’s damned lucky they’ve put the Guillotine to rest,” Madame replied, finishing her wine. “They used to do it properly in Paris. People made a living, just whacking the heads of aristos like I might a bean row. Bessette, go along with them.”
“I demand to speak to whoever is in charge of this establishment!” Olivia said furiously.
“I am,” Madame stated.
“You! You’re a servant, not the commander of a garrison.”
“Wine!” Madame bellowed. One of the boys trotted over and poured her more red wine. “It’s me whenever Le Capitaine is drunk or asleep, which gives him about one hour to my twenty-three.”
Olivia eyed her red wine.
“Strengthens my blood,” Madame said, grinning. She reached into a sack of flour and sprinkled some on the table. “Give me a bit of that putain. I’m starting over.”
Bessette grabbed Olivia’s arm, holding it hard. “It’s in the back with you. Do I have to tie you up again?”
Olivia shook her head, glaring into his pale blue eyes. “My fiancé will likely kill you when he finds how you have treated me.”
Bessette grinned, showing blackened teeth. “Won’t be the first who tried. I hope you don’t mind if I keep your cloak. I can sell this for ten sous.”
“There’s no need to wrench her arm,” the young soldier said, stepping forward.
Madame didn’t look up from the flour she was delicately sifting over a small pile of frothing yeast. “English putain, don’t think you can seduce the poor lad into giving you the key to your chamber. The only way out is through my kitchen, and I don’t leave my bread. Ever.”
Twenty-nine
Lost Treasure
Quin had woken Togs and Paisley from a sound slumber, knowing already that they had no idea what had happened to Olivia. There was no point in tearing into the exhausted Englishmen; how could they be blamed for sleeping through her disappearance, after all they’d been through? Now they milled about like sleepwalkers.