Jean led her along the stone counter with the easy authority of a man who knew these stalls and their keepers well. He paused to exchange words with one of the fishmongers, a heavyset woman with arms like knotted rope who handed him a wrapped bundle with a wink and a murmured comment about the quality of the morning's eels.
Jean thanked her by name and tucked the bundle into his satchel, and the brief exchange told Jocelynn that whatever else this man might be, his mastery of the kitchen was no performance. He was also, she realized, an utterly shameless flirt, even though both he and the fishmonger clearly knew nothing would come of it, his smiling charm never wavered.
Devlin kept pace a few steps behind them, his eyes never resting on any one place for long, while his hand never strayed more than a few inches from the hilt of his long, curved knife.
