Behind the Courtesan - By Bronwyn Stuart Page 0,39

did. She had to hold those thoughts at bay until she was alone. Sophia concentrated instead on the words as he spoke them.

“So, the pie is already made, all I have to do is bake the biscuits and something sweet to top it off.”

“No,” Sophia said.

“All right, they don’t need sweets anyway. Pie and biscuits it is.”

He tried to lighten the mood and distract her but she wouldn’t let him. “No. You will not bake anything.” She stepped out of his embrace and toward the door of the office. “You will not step one foot into that kitchen.”

“You sound like Matthew,” he huffed. His genial mood disappeared with a whoosh of breath. “The inn has to open. I cannot afford to miss even one meal.”

“And you won’t. But you can’t make it.”

Understanding dawned but was quickly followed by a familiar glower. “Whatever idea you have in that head of yours, you can think again. This is my inn and I make the decisions.”

“It is your inn, but unless the doctor says you can turn cartwheels in the yard outside, you are going to bed to rest.”

He spluttered. He choked. Then he coughed.

“No cartwheels then?” Sophia glowered back even though Blake’s eyes were now filled with more pain than anger. “I didn’t think so.”

The door opened and Matthew entered, followed closely by the doctor. She ignored her brother for the moment and narrowed her eyes at the other man. “How long must Blake stay in bed?”

The red-headed physician looked from her to Blake and then back to her. “One week.”

“Be damned!” Blake surged to his feet.

Sophia stepped back as the blanket fell from his lap and averted her eyes even though he wore smalls. “I’ll get started in the kitchen,” she said and slipped from the room. As hard as she tried, she could not completely ignore the pained cry from Blake, the curses from Matthew or the laughter from the good doctor.

Her own brief smile fading, Sophia entered the kitchen. Could she really do this? Sure she’d helped a little, so she knew the layout of the kitchen and where everything was, but could she really serve a dinner at an inn? And should she? If word were to get out, her reputation would be... What? It certainly couldn’t hurt her as a courtesan.

So why didn’t she move? Her legs were heavy as though weighted down by rocks and her fingertips tingled as her breaths became shorter, faster.

One, two, three.

Would the townsfolk eat a meal prepared entirely by her own hands?

She nodded her head, rolled her sleeves to her elbows and stepped toward the stove where the fire had gone cold. She would do it because Blake would become her friend again. She would do it because she was a resourceful, independent woman who needed acceptance from no one. And she would do it to prove to herself that she could. That she had come far from the frightened, battered and scarred fourteen-year-old who’d left this place and not glanced back. If the villagers didn’t like it, they would go hungry or go home.

Chapter Eleven

For the moment the rain had stopped and birds sang happily from the bare branches of the trees at the back of the tavern, but Sophia didn’t take any of it in. She stood staring at her hands, her dirty nails and cracked skin, a splinter in the third finger on her left hand. She may have come far from the terrified fourteen-year-old, but in that minute, after putting bread in the oven and before collecting more firewood, she felt much, much further from a courtesan.

Is this what she missed out on by running? Is this what Blake meant when he’d said she could have had it all? She didn’t have time for deep contemplation but Sophie couldn’t seem to shake her melancholy thoughts. She had a meal to prepare and then she had to get back to the tap to help Matthew and Dominic with serving. She wanted to curl into a little ball and cry, not run a tavern. Emotion overwhelmed her and her fists clenched.

“’ere now, it can’t all be that bad.” The voice shook her from her daydream and she whirled to find a man watching her. He wasn’t very close, but he wasn’t as far away as she would have liked either.

“I...I got a splinter. It hurt a little is all.” She longed to curse for good measure.

“Did you want me to take a look at it fer ya?” He stepped