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substance.
    “Nutmeg.”
    He recalled her tale of misfortune the first time she cooked with nutmeg. She had told it the first time she cooked for him. He warmed inside, but he resisted it. He wasn’t here to fall prey to her wiles. He looked away, indifferent to what she did next. But when she began to hum, he looked back.
    She had made little mounds of the meat on the first sheet of dough and was laying a second over it all. It looked exactly as though she were tucking them in for the night, and the corner of his mouth twitched with the thought. Once she had it covered, she took a metal circle and pressed it over each mound, cutting them out like biscuits.
    Now he knew what she was making, though the name eluded him. It was the little pillows she’d brought to Brother Paine’s picnic. He scowled. It wasn’t much of a stretch to consider that day the start of it all. If he hadn’t wanted to try her fare, he wouldn’t have gone back for more.
    “Your face is as long as Guiseppe’s mule.”
    He glanced up at her and found the shadow of a smile. So she thought it amusing. He forked his fingers into his hair. “I’m tired. It’s a long road.”
    “This won’t take long.”
    He wanted to say never mind, he wasn’t hungry. But that would be a lie, and the longer he looked at the golden loaves before him, the more he imagined the flavor of it drizzled with oil and basil and salt. She’d taught him that much.
    “What do you call those things?”
    “Ravioli. It won’t be the best without butter or parmigiano or garlic.”
    “You used it all up?”
    She spread her hands. “What do you expect in two months?”
    He tried not to think of the meals he’d missed. It didn’t matter. He could do with a can of something heated over a fire.
    She dropped the ravioli into a pot of boiling water. Now that was something he hadn’t seen before. He would have guessed she baked them. Crossing to the table, she brushed her hair back from her forehead with her sleeve, then took the knife and began to slice the bread. Steam erupted and filled his nose with the wonderful smell.
    His throat worked already. If she wasn’t looking, he’d snatch a piece and stuff it into his mouth whole. She laid the slices of bread onto a plate and drizzled the oil over them. He noticed the bottle was nearly empty. The jar that held the pungent basil was all but empty as well.
    She placed the plate in the center of the table and turned back to the stove. His fingers itched; his mouth watered. But he controlled the urge. No good letting her see his impatience. Gently she strained the ravioli from the boiling water into a bowl. With a sigh, she poured the rest of the oil and the last of the basil over them. She tossed it lightly with a spoon, then set it on the table.
    Mae came in, refilled her pot, and left again, the noise of the men in the other room reason enough for her haste. But Quillan knew he’d have no help from that quarter. She’d find something to occupy her and leave them alone together all evening. Carina sat down, and he reached for a slice of bread.
    “We’ll bless the food and thank God for it.”
    His hand hovered over the plate, then returned to his side. If she wanted to pray, let her.
    “Grazie, Signore, for this bounty. Bless it to our use. Amen.” Her hand made a path from her head to her chest and across each shoulder.
    Quillan narrowed his eyes mockingly. “Is it safe now?”
    “Sì.” She didn’t even blink.
    He snatched a slice of bread and took a bite. Heaven . The most heaven he’d ever know. Carina then spooned ravioli onto his plate. Again the steamy aroma wafted to his nose. She wasn’t playing fair. He cut into one and brought it to his mouth. She was right that it wasn’t as good as the last time, but he chewed it with relish nonetheless.
    “When can you go to Fairplay and get me more?”
    “More?” He knew exactly what she meant.
    “The market there. I need ingredients.” She held a ravioli poised,