Caution to the Wind (5 page)

Amanda opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the cook spoke up again.

“Here I was, sir, cookin’ your breakfast, and this boy comes in here and dumps his bucket of dirty water on it.” He pouted and wrung his apron between fleshy hands.

The captain reached around Amanda and yanked a towel off a hook on the wall. He wrapped it around his hand and pulled the hot pan off the stove. Frowning, he looked at the charred, wet remains of his breakfast. The blackened eggs had disintegrated and floated on the surface of the greasy water like a pair of charcoal dumplings.

“And I was so looking forward to breakfast,” the captain said, staring at the unidentifiable remains.

Amanda’s stomach churned. Even if his ship hadn’t been in any real danger, he would not have emerged unscathed if he had eaten those eggs.

The captain leveled his gaze at her. “So what are you going to do about my breakfast, boy?”

What did he expect her to say?

Her heart threatening to break free of its prison, she suggested the only thing she could think of. “Make it for you?”

The captain stilled for a moment, then gave her a look that made her knees tremble. Had her suggestion given her away?

“You can cook?”

His question did much to explain away the speculative look on his face, and Amanda’s heart slowed its frantic pace.

“Well, a little bit, sir.” Her voice cracked on the last note.

He folded his arms over his chest, and she shifted her stance from one foot to the other under the heavy weight of his gaze. Silence filled the small room, and he seemed to be waiting for an explanation. Amanda improvised again.

“You see,” she licked her dry lips and did her best to control her wavering voice, “my mother wanted a daughter, but she never got one. I guess she figured I would do, so she taught me how to cook.”

Amanda held her breath. Her hastily contrived cover story rivaled anything Neil could fabricate. Best of all, part of it was true. She could cook. It was fairer to say, she
loved
to cook, especially for people who loved to eat. Despite his lean build, the unholy gleam in the captain’s eyes suggested he fell into that category.

“Well then,” the captain slapped his fist into the palm of his other hand, “from now on you have a new job.”

“But Cap’n!” Cookie’s extra chin wobbled in protest.

Captain Stoakes held up his hand, “Let me finish. Adam, you are to be Cookie’s assistant. It’s his kitchen and you do what he tells you. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Amanda answered.

He flashed her a smile and liquid warmth seeped all the way to her toes.

“Splendid! If you want to stay on my good side, you’ll have my breakfast in my quarters in the next twenty minutes!” He turned on his heal and strode out the door.

Amanda placed the palm of her hand against her chest and blew a shuddering breath between pursed lips. Then, she turned to face her next challenge.

“Name’s Ama…Adam Blakely.” She held out her hand.

The pudgy cook returned her gaze with watery eyes but ignored her hand. “Cookie is what they call me,” he muttered, his fleshy bottom lip protruding below his thin top one.

“Cookie?” she repeated, trying to sound as though his rebuff didn’t sting.

Amanda dropped her hand. She barely knew the man for heaven’s sake. What difference did it make if he didn’t like her?

“Real name’s McCoughnehey.” His whiskered chin quivered. “Bull named me Cookie.”

Amanda felt sorry for the man. He held a position that didn’t suit him. The crew had given him a nickname, obviously in jest. He had been made to look the fool in front of his captain. Even though Amanda knew she was not to blame, she could see how Cookie might not see it the same way.

To make matters worse, the captain had given the job of cook to her. Even though technically only the cook’s
assistant
, his parting orders for breakfast suggested he expected her to do the actual cooking. When she told him she had some slight ability, she swore his stomach growled. She studied Cookie’s rounded shoulders, slumped over his empty stove. It just wouldn’t do to start off on the wrong foot by taking over his kitchen.

Cookie pushed away from the stove and waddled over to a side table shoved into the corner of the room. He gathered up a fresh batch of eggs in his meaty fists.

“Actually, Cookie, I’m really not that good at cooking.” Amanda hoped he wouldn’t squeeze the delicate brown shells too tightly. “But, if you’ll show me what to do, I’ll try my best.”

“Suit yourself.” His eyes met hers for the briefest of moments before he turned and scooped a ladleful of lard into the freshly scraped, cast iron pan. “Think you can crack an egg?”

“It’s been awhile. Maybe you could show me?” She joined him at the stove.

Cookie nodded and gave her a half-smile. He clutched a small brown egg in his wide palm, gave it a sharp rap on the edge of the stove, and held it over the pan. Bits of shell hung suspended in the thick ooze dripping through his fingers to the lard sizzling below.

“You’ve gotta be real delicate about this. First you stick your thumbs in the crack, then pull the two halves apart.” He demonstrated the technique.

Amanda pinched her lips between her teeth to suppress a grin when Cookie’s two thumbs, the size of sausages, crushed the small egg, and half the shell fell to the pan along with a viscous mix of yellow goo.

Cookie stared down at the pan and uttered another unintelligible oath.

Amanda helped Cookie fish the pieces of unbroken shell out of the hot grease, her slender fingers doing a much more efficient job.

“That looks difficult. Mind if I try?” she asked when they had retrieved the last of the fragments.

“Hmph.” Cookie stepped aside and crossed his arms over his chest, resting them on the considerable girth about his waist.

Amanda picked up one of the eggs, pretending she hadn’t done so a thousand times before. Holding the egg against the edge of the stove, she cast him a questioning glance. When Cookie nodded, she gave the egg a gentle tap. Then she held her egg over the pan and, with just the slightest pressure of her thumbs, pulled the two edges apart. The egg dropped to the pan and formed a perfect pool of clear liquid with an island of yellow floating, edges intact, at the center.

“Huh,” Cookie said, peering into the pan.

Amanda shrugged and held up her hands. “Mama always said cracking eggs is easier if you have little hands.” It was a small lie, but since Cookie’s feelings were at stake, it seemed justified.

Cookie studied Amanda’s open palms as though he had never seen hands like hers.

Amanda picked up another egg, cracked it, and dropped it in the pan to fry beside her other perfect egg and Cookie’s swirling blend of white and yellow. Then she took up a perch on a stool next to the stove to stand guard over the pan and ensure this new batch of eggs didn’t meet the same fate as the last.

Bare feet hooked about the legs of her stool, she watched Cookie prepare the beans for the captain’s coffee. Eventually, his eyes stopped shifting in her direction. Perhaps it signaled a good time to strike up a conversation and get to know her workmate a bit better.

“Have you been with the captain long, Cookie?”

Cookie spun the handle of the coffee grinder. “Only a couple o’ voyages.”

The pungent aroma of freshly ground coffee filled the galley, chasing away the remaining smell of burnt eggs.

“Where are you from?”

“Ireland.” He turned the handle faster.

Amanda pursed her lips. She could have guessed that much, but she had hoped he would say more.

Cookie opened the grinder and scooped dark, fragrant granules into a linen pouch, hung it in the coffeepot, and set the pot on the stove. Amanda had to grip the edge of her stool when he opened the oven door and stoked the coals until they sprung to life again.

“Have you always been a cook?” she asked, restraining herself from pointing out that more heat would only make it easier to burn the captain’s breakfast.

Cookie looked up, his face as twisted as the apron he held in his hands. “Look, I know I ain’t the best cook, but I try.” He strangled the apron in front of him and looked over his shoulder. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “If I let you cook, you gotta promise me you won’t tell the cap’n you’re the one doin’ it. Will ya promise?”

“Of course, Cookie,” she promised, her voice quiet as though they shared a secret.

Surely the man’s lack of cooking skills weren’t exactly a mystery.

“I got nowhere else to go.” Cookie sniffed and swiped the back of his meaty fist across his eye. “If I leave the cap’n’s employ, I’ll wind up rottin’ in a debtor’s prison. It’s only ’cause the cap’n thinks I can cook that he keeps me.”

Amanda choked and then coughed to cover it up. If Cookie had served the captain for any length of time, there was no possible way the captain harbored any illusions. Still, the cook seemed so frightened she refrained from pointing out the obvious.

She laid a hand on Cookie’s broad forearm. “Between the two of us, I’m certain we will muddle through.”

Cookie stared down at her hand. Then he glanced up at Amanda. “Thank you,” he said, his grin making apples of his chubby cheeks.

He leaned forward, and for a fleeting moment, Amanda thought he might enfold her small body in those beefy arms of his, but he pulled back at the last moment. When he turned to slice a loaf of bread for the captain’s toast, Amanda shrugged. She returned her attention to the stove, wondering which of her carefully chosen words had so effectively mollified the emotional Irishman.

She flipped the eggs in the pan and removed them a moment later, sliding them onto the waiting plate. Afterwards, she stood guard over the stove from her post on the stool while Cookie finished making the captain’s toast. She rolled a couple of sausages around in the pan, ensuring they browned evenly and didn’t stick to the bottom.

When Cookie suggested she “let it boil,” she snuck the coffeepot off the stove anyway and retrieved the slices of bread he had slapped on the stove and then forgotten.

Finally, the captain’s breakfast complete, Amanda helped Cookie arrange everything on a tray.

“Wait a moment, Cookie,” Amanda said before he could head out the door, tray in hand. She grabbed a sprig of rosemary from a strand tacked to the wall and arranged it on the plate.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“It’s what my mother would have done.” Amanda shrugged.

Cookie grunted and disappeared down the hall. Silently, Amanda vowed to maintain a tighter rein over her more feminine instincts. If she weren’t careful, she’d give her secret away, and then the captain would have her off the ship for sure.

She let out a sigh and leaned against the wall, tired yet pleased with herself. She had cooked a breakfast she suspected the captain would enjoy, she had allowed Cookie to maintain his self-respect, and she had been assigned a duty she had far more talent for than cleaning guns or scrubbing decks. Not that she minded hard work, but cooking for the captain promised to be much more satisfying.

The captain’s smile flashed in her memory, and a small voice told her it was more than just her love of cooking that made her look forward to this duty. She shushed the voice before it could say more.

Amanda hoped the captain would appreciate her efforts. They were just eggs after all, but she thought they had turned out quite well. At least two out of the three had. The one Cookie cracked resembled a scrambled egg, but it would still be edible.

Cookie returned through the galley door and interrupted her thoughts, “Cap’n wants to see ya.”

“Did he say why?”

Had he not liked his breakfast?

“Cap’n’s not goin’ to tell me.” Cookie cocked his head and grinned. “And I ain’t gonna ask.”

Amanda made her way to the captain’s quarters at the rear of the ship. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on his door. When he bade her enter, she pushed the door open and peeked in.

“Come in, Adam. I’m not going to eat you.” The captain waved Amanda forward and then returned his attention to the piece of parchment in front of him.

The captain scratched out some notes, his head bent over his work, his quill dancing across the page.

Amanda clasped her hands behind her back and braced her bare feet apart. She shifted her weight to adjust to the constant rolling of the ship. She took no issue with being made to wait. It gave her a moment to study the Sea Wolf in his lair.

The captain’s quarters appeared smaller than she expected, but then this was a small ship. Even the captain would have to make do with the space available. She noted with interest that he had a hammock instead of one of the stationary boxes filled with bedding she had heard other captains preferred. Who could blame him? She shuddered and averted her eyes from his bed. Sleeping in a box would be too much like sleeping in a coffin.

His cleaned plate and cup lay stacked in the corner of the table that served as his desk. Large enough to seat three or four guests, it left little clearance between the table’s edges and the planked walls of his quarters.

She supposed the captain didn’t entertain much. After all, they were at sea. It’s not like ship’s captains called on each other for tea. Amanda stifled a giggle.

Several trunks, stacked one on top of the other, took up most of the rest of his room, along with a mishmash of scattered charts, papers, and books. The room could be described as clean, but certainly not tidy.

She glanced at the breakfast tray balanced on a stack of books. His empty plate showed streaks of yellow from where he had used his toast to mop up nearly every remaining bit of fried egg.

He was such a formidable man, aloof, stern, commanding. Everything she might imagine a ship’s captain should be. Yet his actions were different from his reputation and the façade he wore at all but the most unguarded of times. Why, for instance, would a man who so obviously enjoyed eating keep a cook who couldn’t even fry an egg? Did he understand more about Cookie’s situation than the cook realized? Perhaps he wasn’t quite the wolf he pretended to be.