The Captain's Surrender (Currents of Love Book 6) by Emilee Harris

Author:Emilee Harris [Harris, Emilee]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2020-12-27T00:00:00+00:00

Turning about yet again in her bed and tugging her feet loose of the sheets twisting about her ankles, Lenore came to rest on her back with a beleaguered sigh, staring up into the dark canopy. Unable to stop thinking of Daniel, she’d been lying awake for hours. She tilted her head on the pillow toward the starry sky visible through a sliver left open in the curtains and wondered how far off the dawn was. She had no proper sense of time, unsure if she’d been awake for only a few hours or most of the night.

Scrunching her hands into fists in the blanket on either side of her, she sat up with an angry huff. If she couldn’t sleep anyway, she might as well move about. She swiveled her legs off the bed and slid her feet into the slippers sitting beside it, then stood and reached for the wrapper draped over the foot of her bed.

As a child, her mother always made her warm milk when sleep evaded her, often laced with Valerian and honey. Perhaps that cure might ease her enough tonight to salvage the remainder of the wee hours. With any luck she could then speak with Daniel in the morning. Padding across the room and pausing to light a taper along the way, she opened the door and made her way toward the kitchen.

She wasn’t often in the kitchen anymore; it took her a moment to remember where cook liked to keep things. Rummaging about, the details came back to her, and she procured a cup, saucepan, and some milk. She had no desire to wake either cook or her scullery maids, so she rolled up her sleeves in preparation of discovering if she still remembered her way around a kitchen.

She located the Valerian and honey; the herb pantry had always been the most prominent portion of the kitchen. Locating the tinderbox proved the more difficult task. Once found, she set about lighting a small fire in the cook stove.

The estate claimed a large functioning hearth for the cooking thanks to its age, but luckily also boasted the addition of a more modern stovetop and oven, installed at some point during her mother’s upbringing. She set the milk on to warm, then turned back to the larder to consider what other additions she might want to make to her tea.

During her childhood, she spent hours in the kitchen with her mother and aunts, especially in the summer and fall, preparing medicines and tonics to see them through the winter. She all but abandoned the process in England, there were far too many other indulgences to divert one’s attention, and procuring medicines proved far more convenient in the more populated region.

Now, though, as she added the ingredients to the pot and monitored her progress, careful not to scald the milk as she allowed it time to warm gently on the stove, those old memories resurfaced, bringing with them a sense of happy nostalgia. There was something calming, almost healing, in the process of creating cures.

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