Princess of Convenience. Marion Lennox

ma’am.’ He gave her a bemused look and opened the door.

      The cool air of early evening washed in—and smoke rushed out. Jess carried her pan with care straight past Raoul. He stared at her for a minute as if he couldn’t work her out.

      ‘Spuds,’ she told him, talking back over her shoulder.

      ‘Spuds?’

      ‘You might guess,’ she said kindly. ‘The little black balls with the disgusting smell.’

      He caught himself—he even managed a smile—and he followed. With spuds.

      After the smoke-filled kitchen, outside was lovely. A warm sea breeze was drifting across the kitchen garden, and the setting sun was leaving a lingering halo of colour over the distant mountains.

      Jess paused on the bottom step and Raoul stopped beside her. Holding his pan.

      Hesitating.

      This was dumb, Jess thought. It was as if there was some sort of constraining force between them. Something she didn’t understand.

      Move on, Jess, she told herself firmly. She set her pan down on the stone step and Raoul followed suit. A bunch of hens who looked as if they’d been about to head for the henhouse diverted and gathered round the pots.

      Raoul looked at the hens—and then looked back at the pots with indecision.

      ‘These guys will attack these if we leave them here,’ he said.

      ‘I guess that’s fine,’ Jess told him. ‘Chooks generally clean off everything edible.’

      ‘Chooks?

      ‘Australian for hens.’ She put on her broadest Australian drawl. ‘Chook, chook, chook… It’s a much better descriptor than hen, d’ya reckon?’

      ‘Maybe,’ he said faintly, sounding stunned. ‘Um, the…chooks…aren’t going to do so much cleaning as you’d notice. There’s not a lot there that’s edible.’

      ‘No.’ She smiled down at the chickens and said, ‘Sorry, guys. I’ll give you some toast in a minute to make up for it.’

      ‘We should put them to soak,’ Raoul said doubtfully and she sighed and put her hands on her hips.

      ‘Typical male. Of course we should put them to soak. When they’re cool. But…did you say Marcel was taking control of this castle in five days?’

      ‘Yes, but—’

      ‘Then I suggest we leave them to soak for, ooh, I’d say about five days,’ she said, and she grinned.

      He stared at her in something akin to amazement—and then the smile returned.

      It was like the sun coming out. It was a killer smile. It made Jess stare up at him and feel something inside twist.

      She did not want something inside her to twist.

      There was a tentative cluck and a chicken stepped forward toward the pan. It was enough to divert her. Especially as she badly needed to be diverted.

      ‘Don’t do it, chook,’ she told the bird. ‘It’s really hot.’ She turned to Raoul. ‘You say you’re a doctor. Have you ever treated chook burns?’

      ‘Um…no.’

      ‘Chooks are pretty dumb,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘And…you’re saying that as of Monday these pans are legally in Marcel’s control?’

      ‘For the next eighteen years,’ he said. ‘Until Edouard turns twenty-one.’

      ‘Hmm. And it’s my guess he won’t be into counting pots and pans. There’s nothing for it, then.’ Her smile widened. ‘Let’s do it.’

      She wiped her hands on her skirt in the gesture of a woman preparing for hard work. ‘Stand back, all. In the interest of chook health there’s nothing else to do.’ She walked across to a hose attached to the tap by the back door.

      Raoul watched her as if she was something that had appeared on a magic carpet.

      ‘Stand back,’ she told him again. ‘And whoosh those chooks away.’

      ‘Whoosh?’ he asked faintly and her grin deepened.

      ‘Like you did to Marcel,’ she told him. ‘Only don’t whoosh quite so hard.’

      There was that smile again. Faint. Just.

      She really liked it. They grinned at each other like fools. Then he whooshed the chooks.

      She turned on the hose.

      It was a very satisfying moment. The jet of cold water, seemingly coming straight from the distant snow-capped mountains, hit the pan with a really satisfactory hiss. The pan erupted in a cloud of steam—and then there was a solid crack as the cast-iron pan split clean in two.

      ‘Whoops,’ Jess said and tried to look contrite. Not very successfully.

      Raoul was still looking at her as if she might sprout antennae. ‘Whoops?’

      ‘You want to do the spud pan?’ she demanded, proffering the hose, and he appeared to collect himself.

      ‘Absolutely,’ he told her. He took the hose from her grasp—and pointed.

      Crack.

      Another pot less for Edouard to inherit.

      ‘How truly satisfying,’ Jess said and rubbed her hands on her skirt again—job well done. ‘You reckon we could find some more pans to heat up?’

      ‘You’re not a designer. You’re a demolition expert,’ he said on a note of discovery.

      ‘Yep.’ She gazed round, considering. ‘This is fun. What else can we do here? If Marcel is going to own all this then maybe we could do some real damage.’

      ‘Not fair,’ Raoul said, though there was a note at the back of his voice that said he wouldn’t mind swinging an axe.

      ‘OK.’ She let her demolition work go with reluctance and moved on. ‘If we can’t demolish, let’s eat. But what?’ she demanded, returning to the kitchen with purpose. She gazed down at the plates of salad. Delicate. Mouthwatering. Small. ‘This won’t cut it. I’m hungry.’

      ‘I thought you were an invalid.’

      ‘Invalids need feeding,’ she told him. ‘Besides, I’m better. As of now. I’m leaving in the morning.’ Then as the lightness faded from his face she regrouped. ‘But first, food. Bread. Now. Search.’

      ‘Yes, ma’am.’

      She turned her back on him—his look of bemusement was starting to disconcert her—and hauled open the huge refrigerator. That was enough to deflect her thoughts from the man behind her. Or almost. This wasn’t a fridge, it was a delicatessen. ‘There are six types of cheese in here!’ she exclaimed. ‘Wow!’

      ‘You’re in Alp’Azuri,’ he said, still obviously bemused. ‘Cheese-making is our speciality.’

      ‘Then the menu is toasted cheese sandwiches,’ she declared. ‘Followed—I trust—by toast and marmalade. Have you found the marmalade yet?’

      ‘No, I—’

      ‘Then search faster,’ she told him with exaggerated patience. ‘What sort of prince are you, after all?’

      ‘I have no idea,’ he said faintly. ‘I have no idea at all.’

      It was a really strange meal. They made slabs of cheese sandwiches. They fried them until they were crispy gold, and then they sat at the vast kitchen table and ate them in companionable silence. Raoul continued to be bemused and Jess left him to it. This man had his problems. All she could do was feed him and keep her questions to herself.

      Henri appeared just as they