Read Online The Princess and the Huntsman by Patricia Green - Free Book Online Page B

pleasant, however. She would have liked more of those, but in this case, he had to remain her enemy until he came to see the truth of her words. Unfortunately, it all meant that she was stuck there in the humble cottage with the huntsman for a while.
    Brandywyn watched him gather up a few things and put them on the table. Flour, eggs, milk, a chunk of tallow, a bit of leavened dough in a small canister, and a bag of salt. “What are you doing?”
    “I am getting out the ingredients for bread making. I thought you could make the bread while I go catch a few fish in the stream.”
    “M-m-make bread? You cannot possibly think a princess would make bread. Why, my hands would blister! My arms would harden. I have seen cook at the task, and it is not something I would care to try. In all my ten and nine years, no one has asked me to do such a menial task. No, Tom. You make the bread.”
    He scowled at her. “No, Brandywyn. You will do it. If you cannot remember the steps, I shall teach you.”
    Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes, but Brandywyn fought them back. “How can I remember what I never knew?”
    “It will come to you. Perhaps this task will jog your memory.”
    “You are insufferable. I refuse.”
    “Then you will go hungry.”
    Fury filled her head and added venom to her tongue. “You would starve a princess?!”
    Tom sighed and turned to build up the fire in the small brick oven built into the hearth. “I shall not starve a princess, no. I shall remind a woman of her place in the world.”
    “My father will—”
    “You know, Brandywyn, I suspect your father is a simple tradesman, a cobbler, or goodly yeoman who tills his fields. Once you remember, I shall take you to him. But I shall not roam the countryside asking every person I meet if they are missing one spoiled daughter.”
    Brandywyn ground her perfect teeth together. “I cannot remember what is not true.”
    “You will remember, given time. And I have plenty of time for you, my girl.”
    “Of course you do, you peasant.”
    He laughed. “I may be a peasant, but here you are with me in my humble home, eating my humble food, and wearing my humble shoes and shirt. At this moment, Brandywyn, you are as much a peasant as I.”
    She pounded a fist on the table and the bowl jumped and the eggs rolled close to the edge. Tom caught them, gave them an impressive juggle, and put them in the bowl for safekeeping.
    “Enough of your temper tantrums for the nonce, Brandywyn. You need to get this bread in the oven.” He picked up the flour and poured a bit in the big wooden bowl. “Here is how you do it. Stop me when you remember.”
    Brandywyn watched him mix ingredients, stirring and adding this and that until a dough had formed. He floured the table some and turned the dough out upon it. “Now we knead it.”
    “We do?”
    “Aye. Do you not recall kneading dough? Surely it was one of your childhood tasks.”
    “Never! Princesses do not cook!”
    He gave her a hard stare. “Of course they do not. But since you are not a princess, the question remains.” He pulled her over to the dough and floured her hands. “Here, like this.” Taking her hands in his, together they kneaded the soft, fragrant mass. It was a sensual feeling, the yielding of the dough beneath her fingers, the slightly tacky outer skin with the glutinous texture beneath. It was lot like flesh—soft, pliable flesh. Brandywyn flushed at the thought of kneading Tom’s much harder flesh with her same two hands. At about that time, he withdrew his guidance.
    “Do that for a moment or two more, then rub the bowl with tallow and put the bread in it. Cover it with a clean cloth and put it by the hearth. Not too close, mind you. The bread will rise and then you will knead it again.”
    “Again? But my hands tire.”
    “Come, come, girl. You are sturdier than that. I have to go fish for our supper. Do you follow my instructions and we shall bake when I return.”
    She was left with no