Perfect Timing (22 page)

He spent only a few minutes at his stallion’s stall gate, then dutifully collected Ceara’s satchel from his arena office before heading back to the house. As he walked, he tried to plan a meal—something high-fat, which felt totally foreign to him, not because he hadn’t been raised with grease on his chin, but because he’d switched over to a healthful way of eating years ago and had been faithful to the plan ever since.

When he stepped into the kitchen, he nearly had heart failure. Ceara, smart woman that she was, had figured out which appliances were ovens. But instead of simply turning the damned things on, she’d collected firewood and kindling from the living room basket, removed the lower rack, laid a fire inside, and was about to flap her hand to ignite it into a blaze.

“Stop!” Quincy yelled, tossing aside the satchel. “What the frigging hell are you doing?”

Looking adorable in riding boots, a gathered navy blue skirt, a loose red peasant blouse, and a lightweight black wool shawl she’d knotted over her breasts, she sprang erect, whirled, and fixed him with a startled look. “’Tis me duty as yer wife to prepare the evening meal.”

Quincy knew that in days gone by women had cooked over an open fire, and ovens had been heated by a firebox. With a glance, he determined that Ceara had meant to do the same, building a fire in one oven so she might bake in the other. He couldn’t fault her for thinking she needed flame to create heat. It was just more than a little unsettling to realize how close she’d come to creating a disaster. He envisioned his home burned to cinders, with Ceara’s remains in the smoking ashes. “I know, I know,” he said in a low, soothing tone, not entirely sure whom he was trying to comfort, her or himself. “But my ovens are different from the ones you’re used to, honey. Most people don’t use wood to cook anymore.”

Her brow pleated in a puzzled frown. “How do ye cook then?”

Quincy tossed his hat toward the coat tree, missed his mark, which he rarely did, and blamed it on emotional strain. “Well, with those particular ovens, we use electricity to create the heat, and since they’re Miele MasterChef ovens, you have to learn how to use the programming functions. There’s a huge learning curve for anyone, which means there’ll be an especially big curve for you, but I’ll show you how.” He hoped. When he’d first gotten the high-end appliances, he’d had to read the operation manuals several times before he could use any of them.

She stood back as he removed all the wood and kindling. He thanked God and all the saints that he’d returned to the house before she lit the fire. Wiring might have shorted out, and she could have been shocked. That wasn’t to mention the smoke, and he hadn’t yet taught her how to turn on the exhaust fans. On the counter, he saw a package of chicken thighs and a large bowl of peeled spuds. At least she’d found something to cook, even if she had no clue how to go about it. Lesson one, coming up.

Quincy dispensed with the wood and returned to find his bride blinking back tears. “Hey,” he said softly, grasping her shoulders. “What’s this?” He caught a silvery droplet as it slipped down her cheek. “It’s no big deal that you don’t know how to use the ovens. They’re not straightforward like most, and even I was baffled by them at first.”

She lifted a swimming blue gaze to his. Quincy felt a punch to his heart, as if a strong man had just buried a fist in his chest. As recently as yesterday, he’d fought and dragged his feet, trying every lowdown trick he could think of to avoid marrying this girl. And yes, in his book she was only a girl, well over the age of being jailbait, but still endearingly naive and innocent by modern-day standards. Now he wanted only to gather her close, dry her tears, and promise that he’d lasso the moon for her on the next clear night.

“I canna be a proper wife if I canna cook yer meals,” she squeaked. “Me mum trained me up to lay out a fine spread.” Her throat worked, and more tears gathered in her eyes, which somehow had a way of making Quincy ache from his solar plexus to his bootheels. “Now I canna please ye in bed, I canna be trusted with yer ovens, I canna take a bath without near drowning, and—” She broke off and gulped, which made her voice even squeakier. “I canna wash yer clothes.”

“You pleased me very much in bed, and maybe, over time, you’ll do so again.”

She flapped her wrist. “’Tis only one of me duties, that. And if I fail at all else, what manner of wife shall I be?”

Quincy didn’t hesitate; he caught her up in his arms and twirled her around the kitchen. When he set her back on her feet, he leaned down to kiss the tip of her small nose and said, “Memorize these three words:
housekeeper
,
takeout
, and
Laundromat
.”

She blinked and sent shimmery tears cascading down her cheeks. “I fail to understand. Does takeout mean I go outside? And what in the name of all that’s holy is a Laundromat?”

Quincy led her to the informal kitchen table, dropped onto a chair, and tugged her down on his lap. When she stiffened, he gently guided her head to his shoulder. “Let me tell you a little story, okay? It’s about a man and woman, and they both work at jobs outside the home. I can be a horse rancher, just as I am, but—hmm, let me see. Well, until you go to college, let’s say you’re like that gal at the greasy spoon this morning, taking orders at a diner.”

She sniffed and wiped her tears away on his shirt. “Will I chew a cud?”

For a moment, Quincy couldn’t think what she meant, and then he remembered how the waitress had continuously popped a wad of bubble gum. He resisted the urge to laugh. “No, honey, you’d be far too ladylike to ever do that. But you would work all day at the greasy spoon, and at night, we’d both come home at about the same time, too tired to spit, let alone cook dinner or wash our clothes.”

Quincy went on to draw a picture of two tired married people who’d gone by to pick up the laundry, all clean and freshly pressed, grabbed a few items for quick meals at the market, and gotten home so exhausted that instead of cooking, they called out for pizza.

“So, you see,” he finished, “in this day and age, a good wife doesn’t necessarily need to know how to cook or do laundry, so you can just take your time learning about all these new things, and not worry about it. We can order in Chinese, Italian, or fast food. Eventually you’ll learn how to use the appliances and be able to put a fine meal on the table; I promise. Until then, you just need to be patient and let me teach you the ropes.”

She relaxed in his arms, and so far as he could tell, no more tears were dampening his shirt. He waited for her to say something. When she finally did, he vowed to clean up his mouth.

“What the frigging hell is pizza?”

Chapter Nine

Q
uincy’s inner alarm clock normally went off shortly before dawn, but when he opened his eyes the next morning, daylight glowed through the windows on either side of the fireplace. For a moment, he was startled into a half-erect position. Then he collapsed back onto the bed, grimacing like a man in pain as he remembered last night. No wonder he’d overslept. After giving Ceara a cooking lesson, which had been more a tour of the kitchen, showing her how to operate all the digitally programmed appliances, they’d fixed dinner together and after eating had retired upstairs, with him staring at the ceiling until the wee hours, wishing he could make love to her.

Now wide-awake, he rolled onto his side to reach for her, not to initiate sex but simply to hug her close. He stiffened when he saw only rumpled covers. Where was she? Ceara, on the loose in his house?
Holy hell.
When he thought of all the ways she might hurt herself, his heart sped to a hammer beat. Technicolor visions of her setting the oven on fire shot across his mental TV screen. Jerking on his jeans—again without putting on boxers first—he ran for the landing, zipping his pants as he went. At the top of the stairs, the awful stench of burned popcorn blasted him in the face.
Shit
. She’d used the microwave, the only piece of equipment that Ceara had learned to make work by the end of her lesson last night.

He bolted down the steps, stubbed his bare toe on the last riser, and raced into the kitchen with a hobble in his gait. To his relief, Ceara sat at the kitchen table looking as happy as a chipmunk in a nut factory, her cheek bulging as she chomped on her cremated snack. The opposite cheek dimpled when she saw him. He noted that in addition to popcorn, she’d peeled and divided an orange to eat as well.

She swallowed and said, “Good morningtide to ye!” Dipping a hand back into the charred bag, she added, “I quite like popcorn. Thank ye fer getting it. I awakened with a snarl in me gut, and this is simple to make.”

Toe still throbbing, Quincy leaned a shoulder against the wood-framed archway. “Ceara, burned food is really bad for you.”

“Burned, is it?” She glanced at the blackened kernels in her palm. “’Tis bad for me?”

“Yes, it’s full of carcinogens.”

She stuffed more popcorn in her mouth, smiling as she chewed. “Then ’tis me opinion that carcinogens are
delicious
.”

Quincy sighed and limped over to sit across from her. “Next time, set the microwave for a shorter cooking time.”

“God’s teeth, nay, I like it this way.”

An ache of pressure took up residence in Quincy’s temples. He cupped a hand over his yawn, thinking that he needed a long, hot shower to wake himself up. Only how could he leave Ceara alone? He briefly entertained the notion of inviting her to join him, but he doubted she would accept. She wore the flannel nightgown Rainie had chosen for her yesterday, plus the oversize terry robe and a pair of his wool boot socks, which she must have filched from his drawer. The ends dangled past her toes, and the heel cups hit well above her ankles. The only skin showing was that of her face and hands. Not the getup of a woman interested in even the preliminaries.
Blast.

“If I leave you alone down here to go up and take a shower, will you promise me you’ll stay out of trouble?”

Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’ll na be making a fire in yer oven, if that is yer worry. After I eat the orange, I may burn meself some more popcorn, however. Me stomach feels as empty as a beggar’s pocket.”

Quincy decided he’d better fix her something to eat before taking a shower. Otherwise, God only knew what—or how—she might try to cook. Ceara trailed behind him to the refrigerator, poking her head in under his arm to watch as he pulled a package of bulk sausage from the meat keeper. “I see no ice. What makes it stay cold?” she asked as she took the pork so he could collect some eggs. “The—what is it that ye call it? A fridge, yes? ’Tis amazing.”

Still groggy, Quincy tried to prod his memory bank into producing a coherent explanation of how refrigeration systems worked. “There’s a network of little tubes filled with a special kind of gas that creates cold air. You want cheese on your toast? I can put it under the broiler and melt it to a turn.”

Her eyes lit up. “Mm, cheese is one of me favorite things, and I love toast. But how do ye make it in the oven without any fire?”

Quincy had avoided showing her the more complicated settings of the oven last night, so now he explained about the broiler coils in the top of the oven, and how a current of electricity turned them red-hot to brown foods on the rack. He felt as if he had a curious six-year-old glued to his elbow as he cooked. Ceara asked dozens of questions about the Miele MasterChef oven functions, and he wasn’t used to talking to anyone except Beethoven until he’d finished his morning coffee. Ah, well, he’d probably fire off questions, too, if he’d been born and raised in the fifteen hundreds. She found it incredibly curious that the bread came in a sack. She wanted to know where the market got the sausage. And where did coffee beans come from? And the chicken he’d fixed last night—did he raise poultry as her family did in Ireland? Where did the cheesemaker live and what type of cows did she raise? Why did the fridge growl and then grow silent?

Quincy almost spilled the eggs he was whisking for a scramble when she frowned and asked her next question: “What is a tampon?”

He could feel his cheeks getting warm. “It’s a . . . well, a
thing
that women use when they have their periods.” He angled a worried look at her. “Are you having yours? I can run into town and get you some pads. I mean, uh, I don’t think tampons would be comfortable for you to wear just yet.”

“Ah.” She nodded as if she understood. “What is a period? ’Tis a piece of time, but I think ’tis na what ye’re meaning.”

Quincy couldn’t help it. He started to laugh. When she looked offended, he turned off the gas burner on the Viking cooktop and drew her into his arms for a quick hug. “I’m not laughing at
you
; really I’m not. It’s just . . .” He considered for a moment. He wanted to say the whole situation was nuts, but that didn’t seem right. It wasn’t her fault that the world she’d landed in was all so foreign to her. “A period. Now, there’s a question. It’s when a woman has her cycle.”

“Yesterday ye told me the noisome two-wheeled conveyance that passed us on the road was a cycle.”

“Um, no. That was a motorcycle. It’s not the same thing. I mean . . . uh . . . well, you know. Women bleed every month? That’s your cycle.”

By the time Quincy had gotten his wife fed and stationed her on the sofa in the family room to watch
Love Story
on a Netflix DVD, his brains felt as scrambled as the eggs. He smiled and shook his head as he ascended the stairs to grab a shower. Life with Ceara was going to be a challenge.

Nearly an hour later, when he reentered the family room, he found her sobbing as if her heart might break. He hurried across the room to sit beside her. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

“Yer box,” she said, gesturing at the flat-screen television. “’Tis a terrible thing.” She wiped her cheeks and shook her head. “That poor woman is going to die of a blood sickness just like Loni had, but the man canna save her.”

Quincy wished he’d selected a chick flick that wasn’t so sad. “It’s just a movie, not real life,” he tried. “It’s not real. Those people are pretending.”