A Woman Made for Sin by Michele Sinclair

who is fou if ’e expects me to ’ide ye ’ere in me kitchen.”
    Piqued, Aimee replied in English, “Since you feel so strongly, Mr. Jean-Pierre, maybe
     you should not hide me. I have no problem leaving this kitchen and announcing my presence to Mr.
     Hamilton. Of course, I’ll have to explain these.” She held up her wrists. “And, of
     course, just how kind you were in cleaning them.”
    The cook squinted at Aimee. Her face was bruised and her dress was ill fitting, and
     yet the woman definitely outshone any female he could recall. Her pale golden tresses
     and sharp, twinkling eyes could mesmerize the most hardened of men, and JP knew he
     was far from immune. If only she would be haughty or proud, then he could easily spurn
     her presence.
    Instead, he took in a deep breath and turned back to his pots. “You must love ’im
     deeply, mademoiselle. And I, being French, know better zan to contend wiz an emotional
     woman. So stay if you must”—he waved his ladle as if splashing something all around—“but be quiet .”
    Aimee gave him a mock salute and smiled. Finding a narrow, tall stool next to where
     he was working, she sat down and propped her elbow on a bench, placing her chin on
     her hand. “Mr. Jean-Pierre, whatever happened to the stew you were preparing?”
    Jean-Pierre stood stock-still for a moment and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.
     What had he expected from a woman who insisted on calling him Mister Jean-Pierre? That she would heed his simple request for silence? “It is fini , mademoiselle . Just like everyzing I prepare. I stir and combine and bake zee finest foods in zee
     world and zose men,” he said through gritted teeth, using his ladle as a pointer,
     this time toward the ceiling, “just gobble it up. No savoring. No enjoyment. Just
     swallow is all zey do.”
    “Oh,” Aimee replied, not even trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. She
     had no idea that nothing else could have captured the respect and the loyalty of the
     thin cook more.
    “You really like me stuff, eh?”
    “Absolutely!” Aimee proclaimed. “You included paprika, and I have been trying to convince
     our cook for ages that it would only enhance the flavor.”
    Jean-Pierre’s eyes widened in appreciation and eagerness. “Ah, so you know something
     about cuisine.”
    Aimee watched as he moved a large bin of carrots and potatoes over to the table she
     was sitting beside. “In truth, I know very little. Like you, our cook detests anyone—even
     other cooks—being in her kitchen. But whenever she is on leave to visit her family,
     I have been known to sneak into our kitchens and help with the pastries. Tilly, who
     stands in for her, thinks it’s amusing.”
    “I zought zee, eh, nobles did not like, ’ow do you say? Get zeir ’ands dirty. Cooking
     can be dirty, eh? Especially zee pastry.”
    Aimee got up and without thinking, selected a knife and began to assist with the chopping.
     “It is only a little mess, and pastries are so fun to make. The dough is like a piece
     of art begging to be molded.”
    JP jumped as she slammed down the cleaver, cutting a large spud in two. She was right.
     He did not like anyone—even other cooks—in his kitchen. But it was clear she was not
     going to leave or just sit quietly. “Mademoiselle, zere is an apron be’ind zat cupboard
     zere. Yes, zere. I ’ave no use for such zings, but you may want to protect your .
     . . uh . . . your robe , since you insist upon interfering.”
    Aimee grabbed the thick covering and put her arms through the loops. “As I have only
     this gown until I can stitch the sides of another, I thank you and will be glad to help you in any way I can. Just what pastry are you making?”
    JP shook his head. “Never ’eard ’ardtack called a pastry before,” he said, handing
     her the bowl. “Keep adding a spoonful of water until it sticks togezer. Make it into
     a ball, let it sit, and zen roll it out very zin for