The Marriage Test (19 page)

“No problem,” he muttered back, ripping the platter from between them and sending it clattering onto the floor. “Better?”

“Much.”

She forced his mouth harder against hers and felt his groan of response vibrate all through her. Suddenly she was moving backward—it felt as if she were falling, weightless, floating, until she smacked into the wall and felt his body cover and press her back against it. Every part of her body came alive, demanding attention and craving fulfillment of the promise of pleasure washing through her. She molded herself against him, opening to his kisses, returning them without restraint … no longer capable of resisting the pleasures being spread before her …

Banging came at the door and the sound seemed to explode around them.

She froze, her lips still captive, her heart still beating like a drum.

He froze, his body curled over and around her, taut and focused with desire and expectation.

Reality was being pounded back into the chamber with every fall of a fist on those weathered planks. “Milord!” It was Sir Reynard’s voice. Something about “news.”

Suddenly His Lordship was peeling himself from her body and staggering back, staring at the rattling door with something akin to fury. Then something of the urgency of his first knight’s tone apparently penetrated the blood roaring in his head, and he called out: “Come in!”

The door flew open and Reynard ducked his head to step inside. Behind him were Axel and Greeve, their noses in the air, sniffing.

“Sorry to interrupt, milord,” Reynard said with genuine regret. “But I knew you would want to hear straightaway—there’s been hunting in the south forest.” His expression became even more grave. “With
dogs.”

“Dammit.” The count’s big hands curled into fists. “You’re certain it was hunting?”

“Packs. Ten to twenty animals each. And men on horseback … heavy mounts … riders most likely wearing armor.”

“Verdun.” His jaw clenched visibly. “What damage?”

“Deer. Fox. Wild boar. All savagely torn, half eaten, and left to rot.”

The words seemed to carry some taint of the carnage they implied. Blinking, His Lordship staggered back and fumbled in his leather jerkin for the band to clamp across his nose.

“A thousand pardons, milord.” Reynard glanced at her and his eyes widened. “I would not have disturbed you for anything less.”

When the band for his nose was in place, His Lordship straightened, took a pair of breaths, and was once more in full control of his faculties.

“You did right, Reynard.” Then he glanced at her and was jolted by the sight that held Reynard, Axel, and Greeve transfixed.

His look of horror caused Julia to realize that her lips felt hot and swollen and conspicuous. She look down at herself and found her apron and gown, from breast to knee, covered with squashed cherry rissoles. Her face flamed as she looked up and glimpsed a similar mess on the front of His Lordship’s jerkin and tunic. The knights looked with astonishment from cook to count and back. As she tried frantically to think of a plausible explanation, one of the moist cherry pastries peeled from her gown and fell to the floor with a gooey
plop.

“Dammit!” His Lordship roared, his face nearly as crimson as her own. Then he stalked across the chamber, struggling visibly to clamp a tighter control over his impulses. A moment later he turned back, his thoughts already shifted and fury etching its way across his face.

“Verdun and his damnable dogs—it’s no less than we expected. He’s trying to provoke me into an armed exchange.”

Without a word to her, he stormed out of the chamber and down the stairs with Reynard at his heels. Axel and Greeve stared at her with broadening grins, then turned to follow their lord, muttering:

“Those must be some rissoles.”

Outside, as they strode for the stables, Reynard scooped a finger full of cherry filling from Griffin’s jerkin and popped it in his mouth.

“Ummm—”

“Not a damned word, Reynard, or I’ll run you through. I swear it.”

The hall was abuzz by the time Julia collected herself, cleaned her gown, and wobbled her way downstairs. Fortunately, the topic of feverish interest in the hall had nothing to do with her or squashed cherry pastries. With knee-weakening relief, she heard the men talking about dogs—packs of dogs in the forest—and finally it registered that it was something about dogs in the forest that had sent His Lordship storming from the sentry chamber.

“Damnable dogs,” growled Lucien, the head of His Lordship’s sword and pike men. “They rip game to shreds just for the pleasure of it.”

“A dozen deer … a half dozen foxes … a whole score of wild boar, I heard,” a nearby fellow supplied a group of eager ears. “The forest’s knee-deep in blood.”

“That’s nothin’ new,” came a harrumph from another soldier. “That bit o’ forest’s cursed. Time and again, it’s run red with gore.”

“It’s them devil dogs,” one of the serving women declared, glancing around the hall. “Thanks be … His Lordship don’t allow them filthy beasts to roam Grandaise, or to skulk about in the hall chewin’ on folks’ ankles.”

Dogs, it seemed, suffered grave disrepute on Grandaise … which accounted for the absence of hounds in the hall and on the estate grounds in general. On her way back to the kitchens, to oversee the evening cleaning, she paused long enough to glance about the hall and recall her surprise that there were no rushes on the floor and no dogs running about to pick up the scraps and bones that fell from the tables.

“Well?” Regine and the rest of the kitchen folk gathered around to hear the results of their most valiant culinary effort to date. “His Lordship … what did he think of our Oxtail Brewet?” The little nun’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. “Did he swoon with pleasure?”

Julia tried heroically to ignore the way her face caught fire.

“He was more than pleased. He removed the band from his nose and smelled it all and proclaimed it fit for the angels.” The others murmured excitedly and grinned at one another. “He wanted to know every ingredient in the Lorraine Pie. And the venison—that was when he spoke of feeding the angels.”

“And the rissoles?” Old Albee looked at her with hope in his age-faded eyes. “What did he say about our cherry treats?”

“He”—she flushed crimson—“couldn’t say enough about them. It wouldn’t surprise me if he requested them again, soon.”

Smiles and congratulations broke out all around.

“So, tell me. What really happened?” Regine demanded later, as the door of their chamber closed behind them and they settled, exhausted, onto their beds.

Julia removed her slippers and began to rub her feet.

“It was as I said. He thought the food was wonderful.”

“And?”

“And … it took a while for him to remove the band from his nose. When he finally did, I glimpsed the intensity he lives with day by day. You know … he smelled the rissoles and told me what was in them before I even took them out of the hamper.” She grew thoughtful and spoke her thoughts aloud. “What must it be like to be besieged by such powerful sensations? To perceive so many things, so strongly that they all mix into a great, oppressive slurry? To feel such a potent invasion on every breath that it is tempting at times not to breathe at all?” She shook her head. “It’s no wonder that he refuses to smell anything.”

“Goodness.” Regine was clearly disturbed by Julia’s description. “I had no idea.” Then her gaze came back to the cherry stains that had seeped through and around the edges of Julia’s apron. “But, he liked the food.”

“He loved it.”

“He didn’t throw anything at you or knock anything over?”

“Of course not.” Julia frowned and sat straighter.

“Then how did you get rissole filling all over you?”

Julia’s face flamed and glanced down at her gown. “Oh. Well. I-I was holding the tray of pastries when Sir Reynard and the others burst through the door with news about dogs in the forest. They startled me and I stumbled and fell right into that tray of sweets.” Abruptly, she tilted her head and launched into an altogether different subject. “You know, I wondered why I seldom saw hounds about the demesne. It always struck me as odd, considering how noblemen usually love to hunt. Some of the men tonight said that His Lordship does hunt, but with falcons rather than dogs.”

Regine blinked at Julia’s abrupt change of topic.

“I thought that was strange, too,” she finally said with a shrug. “And look at Fleur and her clan. People hand-feed them and talk to them and even pet them. Pigs seem to have replaced dogs here. How could such a thing have happened? I mean, hounds have fur and pigs have …”

As she prepared for bed Julia listened with one ear to Regine’s dissertation on the unprecedented reverence of pigs on Grandaise. But her thoughts kept returning to His Lordship … the way the breeze tugged at his dark hair … the way his jaw muscles flexed as he ate … the trill of expectation that swept her as their eyes met … the pleasure that suffused her when he claimed her lips.

Her time with him had been intensely personal and pleasurable. She had intended it to be. She had wanted to see his eyes light, his features soften, and his broad shoulders lose their defensiveness and rigidity. She wanted to see passion and pleasure in his face and to know that she’d had some part in the making of it.

Now, as she slipped into her narrow bed, she felt a lingering glow within her own heart and realized that she had never felt such warmth and such a sense of belonging as when he wrapped his arms around her and caressed her lips with—

She froze mid-thought, mid-breath.

His pleasure … his embrace … his kisses …

Heaven help her … she had searched for a path from his stomach to his well-guarded heart, but what she had found was a path to her own stubborn desires! It struck her with a horrifying clarity of vision that the giving of pleasure brought a unique and beguiling pleasure of its own. And such pleasure, once experienced, begat a growing need for more of the same. Already she had been thinking of more dinners, more embraces, more kisses …

She sat up in the dark, her heart beating frantically.

Madness.

What about her sane and sensible plan to provide herself with a future? What about courting and wooing the men of his hall and the visitors to his table until one of them agreed to marry her? Desperately, she tried to banish the memory of the heat and possession of his kisses. But the more she tried to sweep it aside, the more vivid and emphatic it became in her mind.

She wanted him with every particle of her being, even knowing he was destined to live his life with another. And the worst of it was that she couldn’t imagine wanting another man—any other man—the way she wanted him. How was she supposed to look for a husband—someone to share her bed and board and the balance of her days—knowing that His Lordship already occupied the choicest parts of her heart?

* * *

At daybreak, the next morning, his Lordship rode out with Sir Reynard and a party of men to inspect the damage firsthand and take steps to make sure the wholesale slaughter of game in his forest did not happen again. The hall was unusually quiet as Julia led her servers up the steps with bread and eggs and crisp fried bacon to break the fast of the remainder of the garrison.

As she strolled along the undraped tables, greeting the men of the garrison and chatting with the men and women of the household, Bertrand de Roland entered, spotted her, and headed straight for her.

“The very face I had hoped to see.” He gave her a courtly nod. “I have something for you, demoiselle.”

“Oh?” She watched with interest as he reached into a small leather pouch that dangled from the side of his belt.

“Here they are.” He produced three perfect white mushrooms, displaying them on his open hand. “What do you think?”

“They’re lovely, Sir Bertrand.” Her eyes widened. “Where on earth did you find them?”

“In the woods—not far away.” His smile broadened. “I saw them and thought of rice and mushroom stuffing … a cheese and mushroom tart … sausage-filled mushrooms …” He placed a hand over his heart as if to slow it. “There are hundreds, thousands of them, and this is the perfect week for harvesting. They are just beginning to open.” He slid the mushrooms into her hand. “I am due out on patrol shortly, but I had to come and tell you about them.”

She closed her eyes and smelled their earthy, woodlike fragrance, already thinking of a dozen dishes that would tempt the palate and try the will. Opening her eyes, she grabbed him by the sleeve.

“Please, Sir Bertrand. You have to show me where they grow before you leave on patrol. I simply must have these for His Lordship’s dinner.”

That was how she, Regine, and a trio of the kitchen girls—cooks in training—came to be traipsing into the woods west of the vineyards that morning. They carried willow baskets, linen napkins for protecting the precious cargo, and small knives for harvesting. The student cooks listened eagerly on the way to Julia’s explanation of the humors and culinary properties of mushrooms and of how to tell an edible from a poison one. Sir Bertrand, who escorted them on foot while leading his horse, added bits of lore regarding the woods they had entered.

“The southern part of this wood was where the count’s brother was killed.” He waved down the gasps and jitters of anxiety. “But the mushrooms are at the northern edge, and the Count of Verdun’s holdings are well to the west. You’re in no danger.” He gave Julia a roguish smile. “Not with me along.”

Julia smiled back, thinking that his eyes shone with a peculiar glint just then. But that fleeting thought escaped as they came to the first patches of mushrooms growing in the dark, woody soil at the foot of a stand of venerable trees. She instructed the girls how to pick so as not to damage future production, and left a pair of them to collect those mushrooms while she and Regine and a third girl headed farther into the forest with Sir Bertrand.

Soon they came to a stretch of forest floor that seemed to be paved with small white cobblestones. It was a veritable sea of mushrooms! Laughing with surprise and delight, she set Regine and the other kitchen girl to harvesting, and hurried forward to see how far the growing bed extended. It went on and on through the huge old trees whose leaves provided the rich compost that nourished the edible buttons. She followed, fascinated by the way it sometimes trailed off and then reappeared around the next bend of the narrow path.

For a time she heard Sir Bertrand behind her, but he was scarcely able to keep up with her eager pace. With her thoughts occupied with ways of drying and storing the mushrooms for use during the rest of the year, she paid no attention to the rustle of leaves behind her or the snap of a small branch nearby. After a time, she stooped to pick several additional specimens and examine them for evidence of the red pigment that would mark them as poisonous.

Happily, there was none. She began to imagine great strings of mushrooms drying in the sun outside the kitchen, and didn’t notice a trio of stealthy figures moving up behind her.

Hands clamped tightly over her mouth and she flailed as she was yanked and fell backward onto her rear. Men—two, young and powerful—pinned her to the ground, one stifling her screams and grappling furiously with her arms while the other knelt on her legs to keep them from thrashing.

“She’s stronger than she looks,” one of them muttered breathlessly as they worked to contain and bind her.

“She works as a cook,” came a familiar voice that caused her to cease struggling and look up. Towering above her was Sir Bertrand, holding several loops of rope. “Yes,” he declared to her unspoken charge, “I’m afraid I’ve led you into something of a trap. But you won’t be harmed, demoiselle. And you will see … it will all work out for the best.”

She condemned him to the farthest reached of perdition, though not a word of it reached his ears. She thrashed her head trying to free her mouth to scream, but they snatched a bit of linen from her gathering basket and stuffed it into her mouth. The thirsty cloth wicked up the moisture in her mouth and throat, rendering her incapable of anything more than a parched croak.

They used Sir Bertrand’s ropes to bind her hands and feet, then hoisted her across the saddle of a horse, face down. She kicked and thrashed, trying to relieve the pressure on her ribs, struggling to draw breath. Then someone mounted the horse behind her and it took off as if it were launched from a bow. The constant bouncing and jostling pounded the breath from her and—robbed of air—she felt everything going slowly darker until she lost consciousness.

It was some time before Sister Regine topped her basket of mushrooms and stood up to arch backward over her hands and relieve the strain on her muscles. She asked the others if they had seen Julia and, hearing that they hadn’t, went to look for her. Some distance farther down the path, she found Julia’s basket, empty and discarded, beside a badly trampled patch of mushrooms. She called repeatedly for her friend and charge, but there was no response. Alarm filled her and she rushed back to the others.

“I can’t find Julia. She seems to have dropped her basket and …” She held it up and discovered that it had been crushed on one side. The ominous implication of that damage caused her face to drain of color. “Something has happened to her.” She whirled around, peering through the trees in every direction in an attempt to locate their knightly escort. “Quickly—where is Sir Bertrand?”