“You have the first taste, Nell.”

She let him put the spoon up to her lips, then sipped the deep red stew, lapping it up, opening her mouth, suddenly greedy for the whole spoonful. “That’s incredible,” she gasped. “It’s delicious. Taste it.”

    Taking the spoon from him, she dipped it into the cooking pot and brought another spoonful out, this time holding it over for him to try. His eyes on hers, he tasted it.

“It is the very best, like this afternoon together, like you.”

“Do you think it needs more herbs or flavors? Fennel maybe?”

“Let me taste again.” He urged her to get more for him. Thoughtfully, he savored the flavor. “A little more vinegar,” he said at last. “And yes, fennel. You have a good taste.”

“Palate. The English word is ‘palate.’ The head cook, Mrs. Quince, has been teaching me since I was fourteen.”

“You were only fourteen when you leave home to work?”

Her face fell. How could she tell Paolo that about her childhood? The familiar sense of shame washed over her. Some of her friends from the orphanage wore it like a battle scar, brazenly boasting that they were tough: They had survived. But when Nell looked into people’s eyes, she only saw their discomfort, their pity, their careful plan to get away from her.

But she looked over at Paolo, his eyes looking into hers so lovingly. Would he understand? She wasn’t sure. But there was one thing she knew for certain.

Now is the time to be brave.

Taking a deep breath, she began. “I came from the orphanage. My parents died when I was born—or at least that was what I was told. I was brought up by women who were too busy to give us anything. The older girls were sometimes nice to us—I tried to be kind when I became one of them, looking after the little ones. You learn to get by, to keep out of t-trouble.”

Without a word or a breath, he reached forward and took her hand in his. “Nell, that is so very sad. It must have been lonely for you, all alone in this big world.” His arm went around her shoulders, his dark eyes meeting hers. “You must join my family. It is so big, so loving, and we have space for you, too.” He smiled warmly. “And maybe one day we can make a family of our own, have our own children. We can teach them how to cook, just like my grandmother showed me and Mrs. Quince showed you.” He held her tightly, urgently. “You will never be alone again.”

    But she pulled back. “Don’t play games with me, Paolo. Please, whatever you do, don’t lead me down a path only to let it dissolve into air.”

He took her hands—one in each of his—and pressed them. “You can have faith in me, Nell. When I met you that first day, on the path beside the meadow, you turned back, and I saw something—the future maybe. You are the one for me. I know it, inside my heart. You make me feel so safe when I am so very far from home. Being with you is like I am at home. You understand who I am, and not just what this war says that I am. You make me forget that I am a prisoner here.”

His steady, emphatic gaze met hers, and she felt the frightened shell that had coated her insides for all these years melt away. She knew she had the strength to do it—she had to, after all. Her alternative was to simply go on existing in a world she could no longer bear.

And so it was that right there, in front of the fire, where their ingredients and cooking joined and combined, so did their hearts. Gently, one kiss at a time, they talked, they shared the stories of their lives.

When the chicken was cooked, he led her to the table, sat her down, and served her.

The cacciatore was heavenly. The flavor deep and rich, the tomatoes adding an intensity to the sweetness of the browned onions and the succulent density of the stock. Hints of marjoram lifted it, providing a floral freshness that bit into the rich gravy. The tang of sizzling bacon underlay the whole dish, the chicken sweet and gamey, cooked to perfection.

They tried each element, discussed the merits, shared it, leaning across the small table to feed each other. Their passion for food, for cooking, combined with a tenderness so real it was as if the world had meant for them to be together.

    Or perhaps not.

Suddenly, a gunshot sounded.

Then another.

Their eyes met.

Fear gripped her. She was not allowed to be there, and he most definitely wasn’t either.

Quickly, they rose.

“Who can it be? It must be four o’clock by now, later even?” she gasped.

“Someone’s hunting, maybe a poacher.”

“Could they be looking for you?” Her heart thumped.

“We should put this away, hide.”

Together they sped around the clearing, bringing the pots and plates into the shed, stamping out the fire.

Another shot sounded, closer.

Who were they? Were they coming for her? For Paolo?

Meeting his eyes, they communicated only one thing: Hurry!

Within minutes, everything was inside the shed, the clearing was as it had been, the wood wilder than ever. Their hours of magic over.

Quickly, they went in and closed the door. In the pitch darkness, she felt Paolo’s arm around her back, pulling her close.

“At least we are together,” he whispered.

Another shot came, and she clung to him in fear. “What will they do to you if they find you here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shh! I hear something.”

Voices carried through the wood. Someone was in the clearing.

“It smells like cooking.” A man’s voice came through from the clearing.

Paolo whispered as softly as he could, his lips beside her ear. “It’s Barlow. He must be out shooting with someone.”

Barlow’s voice came toward them. “Do you think someone was here?” He sounded panicked, worried someone had found his illegal game in the hut perhaps.

Footsteps in the undergrowth, and then a new voice, this one young and educated. “How extraordinary! It looks like someone’s been cooking over a fire.”

    “It’s one of Sir Strickland’s assistants. I recognize the voice,” Nell whispered in a panic. If he found her, she would be punished like an errant mongrel.

“Why would anyone be cooking in the middle of Rosebury Wood?” Barlow asked, and the sound of him kicking logs filtered through the thin, wooden door.

“It could be spies, Nazi parachutists,” the assistant said darkly. There was the sound of his rifle being cocked, Barlow’s following suit.

Nell gripped hold of Paolo. “Are they going to shoot us?”

Then, suddenly, the hut door was flung open, two guns pointing straight at them as they stood, clasping each other.

“It’s one of the Italian POWs,” Barlow said, lowering his gun and striding forward, pulling Paolo away by the collar.

“And a girl,” the assistant added, his eyes running up and down Nell, who stood alone, her hands covering her face so that he couldn’t recognize her.

“What are you doing here?” Barlow demanded of Paolo. “You’re not allowed to fraternize with the locals.”

Paolo stood silent, inscrutable, his eyes flickering sternly from one man to the other.

“I’ll have to take him back,” Barlow said apologetically to the assistant. “Looks like he’s trying to take advantage of our women. They warned us about you Italians,” he added with a snub to Nell.

The assistant’s eyes lingered over Nell. Did he recognize her? She was rarely in the upstairs part of the hall, never in the offices. “You take the Italian back,” he said. “I’ll deal with the girl. We’ll get back to our hunt another time.”

As Paolo was walked away, Barlow’s shotgun in his back, his eyes turned beseechingly to Nell’s. It was a look so powerful, so intense, that she could feel his heat, his warmth spread through her once again, filling her with strength.

And then, he turned, and it was gone.

    She was alone in the wood with only the frightening presence of the assistant, giving her a snide smile, his gun still pointed at her.

“What are we going to do with you?” he asked, cocking his head.

Instinct kicked in.

If there was one thing she’d learned in the orphanage, it was how to sidestep unwanted advances, and as soon as he lunged toward her, she slipped to one side of him, darting through the door and out, out into the wood. Weaving between the trees, hearing his commands and curses fade into the distance, she ran through the trees, over bushes, ignoring scratches to her legs, her arms, her face. All that was in her mind was one thing: escape.

By the time she stopped for breath, she was completely lost. She stood, completely still, listening. There was no trace of the assistant’s menacing voice or his footsteps chasing her. Only the same owl hooting softly in the distance.

She was alone in the woods.

Catching her breath, she began walking toward the edge of the wood. It wouldn’t take long to find her way out, and then she could make her way back to the hall, slip back into her usual world.

All she had to do was pretend that none of this had happened, while deep inside she felt as if everything had changed forever.

Paolo’s Chicken Cacciatore