Page 13 of The Chef and the Countess

Drew downed the last of his scotch. “And I will not refuse excellent food when offered. Thank you.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. As you said, we assist each other. Consider the food sufficient payment.” Drew stood and reached for his doctor’s bag. “I know many places that will take in Celia Gillingham, charity homes, and the like. They can assist her in getting back on her feet. Say the word, and I will make inquiries.”

Liam already felt responsible for her. It didn’t sit right with him to fob her off to some charity. Or maybe he should, since he’d had a physical reaction to touching her when assisting her to sit upright. “I’ll mention it to her. Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ve lamb stew, fresh Irish soda bread, and seed cake. We have to fatten you up, Doctor.”

Drew smiled as he followed Liam down the hall. Liam glanced at the closed door to Celia’s room. Was she resting comfortably? Was she warm enough? Did she have enough to eat?

Bloody hell. He was right. She was affecting him already.

* * *

Celia opened her eyes and stared at the wall clock. It was past ten in the morning. She had slept more than nine hours. Groaning softly, she struggled to sit upright. Once she did, Celia had a good look at the room. A window! She hadn’t noticed that last night. Grabbing the bedpost, she forced herself to stand. Now fully awake, she could hear the noises from downstairs--muted voices mixed with kitchen sounds like pans and dishes being rattled about.

Celia inhaled, not that she could smell much with her stuffy nose. The unmistakable and enticing odor of onions and beef filled her senses. With careful steps, she made her way toward the window. Celia pulled aside the heavy draperies. The window was bowed with the sill large enough to sit on. Celia did precisely that, pulling her flannel nightgown over her legs and wrapping her arms around her bent knees. The street below was alive with activity, with people wearing fur-lined coats stopping to examine the costermonger’s carts. The streets were filled with carriages, hansom cabs, horse-drawn omnibuses, and the odd automobile.

After spending the past six years in the barren wilds of Northern England, watching passersby and transportation vehicles was a pleasant change of scenery. She sat for the longest time, watching a woman in a brown wool coat and matching hat buy bread from one vendor and potatoes and carrots from another. The lady slipped her purchases into a wicker basket she carried. Then, the lady ducked into a drapery shop.

It would be easy to bemoan her fate. Instead, a smile crept across Celia’s face. Not everything was hopeless. It could be worse. She could have perished during the journey to London or been tossed into the street instead of being brought here. Liam Hallahan could have kicked her to the cobbles as well.

The restaurant owner was sheltering her, and Celia would be eternally grateful. A chill tore through her, and she sneezed. She must locate the water closet and return to bed. So, she headed to the table and drank a glass of water.

Shivering, Celia opened the door and peered into the hall. No one was about. Where was the water closet located? Right. Next door. Celia held onto the wall and hurried as fast as she could. After she finished, she stepped into the hallway, and a wave of dizziness overcame her. Her legs trembled, and she wobbled. At that moment, she was swept up into strong arms, squealed at the sudden motion, and grabbed the neck of the person holding her.

“What are you doing out of bed?” a deep voice snapped.

It was Mr. Hallahan—Liam. She met his intense gaze. My, but he possessed beautiful crystal blue eyes with long black lashes—and he had a small mole at the corner of his right eye. Celia had the urge to touch and caress it. She waved her arm toward the water closet. “I had to—you know.”

He kept staring at her, not moving to put her down or take her to her room. How wonderful it felt to be held in his sturdy arms; he was as warm as a wood stove and as solid as—Celia wasn’t sure what words to describe him. She trailed the tips of her fingers across his shoulder and partway down his arm. He was so muscular. And tall. He had to be three or four inches over six feet.

Liam strode toward her room. Celia had left the door ajar, so he kicked it open with his boot. She stroked his longish hair at the nape of his neck. So silky—what was she doing?

Celia pulled her hand away. How shameless.

Liam lowered her to the bed. “Doctor Hornsby said you’re to stay in bed today. I’ll fetch breakfast.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself. Someone can bring me porridge later when you are not busy—”

“I will bring it,” he replied firmly.

Right. There was no arguing with this man.

“Cover up.” He poured a glass of water and thrust it toward her. “Drink this.”

Celia gave him a proper salute. “Yes, sir!” She smiled to show she teased him.

He stomped from the room. Liam Hallahan was obviously not fond of teasing—that was good to know. But she couldn’t help it; he acted far too seriously—such a grumpy man. Celia pulled the quilt up to her chin and waited.

Not ten minutes later, Liam returned with a tray.

“It must be difficult in this weather to bring food trays outside and up the stairs,” she ventured. “But then, I suppose, it’s not something anyone does often.”

“No,” he grunted as he placed the tray on her lap.

“Holy crow. This is a veritable feast,” she murmured, impressed at the fried eggs, ham, toast, and cheese. “Thank you so much.”

Liam turned to leave.