The Marriage Test (12 page)

Julia stepped out into the moonlight, scrambling for an explanation of her presence and praying some fleet-footed minion of Heaven would bring her one.

“What the devil are you doing out here?” he demanded, striding to her.

“I-I was just … I wanted to … how did you know it was me?”

“Who else in these parts would smell as if they’ve bathed in pepper?” He seized her by her upper arms and her hands came up against his chest. “What are you doing out here in the dark?”

She sensed her only recourse was the truth.

“I wanted to see where you go each night.”

“Where I go is none of your concern.” He released one of her shoulders and with the other arm still captive, began hauling her back toward that trail through the woods. “You’re my cook, dammit—not the keeper of my soul.”

“What makes you think those are separate tasks?” she said, trying unsuccessfully to wrench her arm from his grip. “In order to feed you properly, I have to know what you need, what you like, even what you crave.”

“What I
need
is a cook who knows his place and keeps to it.”

“Well, you’re out of luck there, milord. And how am I suppose to learn what pleases you? You eat each evening without showing the slightest bit of enjoyment in your food.”

“You want compliments on your work, when all you do is stroll around the campfire and gossip with my men?”

“As you said yourself, I am not a turnspit or scullion. A head cook does not chop, roll, stir, turn, and baste every morsel in the kitchen herself.” She planted her feet to resist and succeeded in pulling him to a halt. “I cannot carry out my duties properly if I know nothing about the one for whom I cook.”

Griffin knew better, sensed it was sheer folly, but he turned in the midst of the moon-dappled path and grabbed her by both shoulders, holding her at arm’s length. In the stillness of the woods, without the help of a breeze or even movement to dissipate it, her scent billowed up around him. And—God help him—he inhaled.

Pepper.
He was positively greedy for it.
A strong hint of cloves and nutmeg …
the spices she had been grinding … the fine dust still clung to her garments. The combination made his mouth water.
And her own spicy, womanly scent.
Redolent of tangy-sweet oils and nutlike musk. That sensual essence made his very soul water.

Living without the stimulation of the strongest and most vital of his senses was like living in a continual haze or behind a veil. Without the input of his sense of smell, nothing was ever entirely clear and sharply focused. Nothing was ever entirely pleasurable or satisfying. Worse still, nothing brought him to a full and involving response; nothing touched him on all levels, roused his emotions, and reached deep into his soul. He lived at the very surface of his being, just beneath his skin, as if the depths of him didn’t exist. On those rare occasions when he cast off those self-imposed restraints and filled his starved and ravenous senses, his responses sometimes leaped out of control.

Now, he could feel desires and hungers roiling up from his unplumbed depths. His nerves began to crackle and his blood began to heat. His skin came alive and tingled all over his body, hungry for sensation, aching for direct and potent contact. He pulled her closer, staring into her luminous, dark-centered eyes and then at her moist, fragrant lips. Every part of her was lush with possibilities for pleasure. And every sensually laden inhalation he took told him exactly where the trembling beginning in his body was leading. He was gripped by an overwhelming need to smell her … to taste her …

With his responses spiraling out of his control, he released her as if she burned him and backed away, fumbling for his metal band and the sanity that lay in the cool restraint of polished steel. The familiar pinch, the cessation of smell, the fading of scent … it only took a moment for him to feel control returning.

“If you want to know something, you
ask,”
he ordered roughly, striking off along the path by himself and leaving her to collect herself and follow.

“Fine. I am asking. What foods do you prefer?”

“I eat beef, lamb, most game … fish when the church requires it.” He batted small overhanging branches out of the way. “Poultry. Eggs and cheeses. I like food I can carry with me. Pasties … be sure to make plenty of pasties.”

He wasn’t certain she was keeping up, but he wasn’t about to turn around and find out that he was talking to himself. Truth be told, he could use some distance between himself and her. And if she somehow managed to get lost in the woods for a while, so much the—

“Pasties … sweet or savory?” From the thudding of her feet and her breathless question she was practically running to keep up with him.

“Both.”

“Breakfast or not?”

“Breakfast.”

“Raw fruit or cooked?”

He snorted. “Raw fruit’s for livestock.”

“Dinner or supper?”

His hesitation reached his feet. Which meal did he favor as the largest of the day? He thought of the sometimes erratic flow of life at Grandaise.

“Sometimes one, sometimes the other.”

“Dining in company or separately?”

Would he take his meals in the hall with his men or separately in his own chambers, as was becoming the fashion in the cities?

“In company,” he said stalking on. “Unless I say otherwise.”

After a moment of silence came a question that stopped him in his tracks.

“And your upcoming marriage … what sort of celebration will I be required to mount?”

Marriage. A tremor of true horror rattled through him. He had fought battles all over France and faced blood thirsty opponents and desperate odds. And none of that had struck such fear and loathing in him as the prospect of wedding Verdun’s nameless daughter.

“My marriage has nothing to do with you,” he ground out, moving again, stepping over roots and batting back brush growing over the trail.

The oppressive urgency of his nuptial fate bore down on him. Whatever peace he had achieved in his household would surely be ripped asunder by her arrival. What kind of celebration was appropriate for a troth pledged in a blaze of antagonism that would leave both bride and groom charred and miserable?

“I will be in charge of your kitchens, and planning a wedding celebration will take time. The sooner I begin—”

“There will be no celebration,” he declared without looking back.

“Oh? And how am I to serve your lady if I have not welcomed her and acknowledged her place and authority?”

“The wedding is still three months away,” he said, realizing that against all odds, he harbored hopes for a reprieve. “And you won’t serve her … you’ll take direction from me and me alone.” He wheeled to face her and jerked a thumb at his chest. “You’re
my
cook. Is that understood?”

She stood her ground silently, her shoulders square and her chin up. He could see rebuttals vying for expression in her face and stalked back to stop just short of banging into her.

His head was still dangerously full of the lingering pepper-and-cloves scent of her and his blood was dangerously warm from the flint of her temper striking the steel of his determination. She was so hot and determined and breathless. Her flashes of defiance were so recklessly alluring. And she was so delectably unaware of just how close she was to being kissed …

“You’re
mine,”
he repeated in a voice ragged with unaccustomed emotion. The saying of it created an imperative in his blood to make it a fact in the most basic and elemental way possible.

“For one year,” she said quietly but adamantly.

“Or more,”
he corrected, speaking his unthinkable thought aloud.

“You cannot think of defying the abbess and the bishop and the Duke of Avalon, too. That would be madness.”

He seized her and dragged her closer. If it was madness, it was damned compelling madness. Her eyes glistened in the dim light. Her lips were moist, parted, quivering with tension. He had to taste them … this very moment …

She didn’t pull away or try to avoid him as he lowered his head. His tensed muscles started to uncoil as he touched her soft, moist lips—

Wood snapped in the distance and suddenly branches in their path were jerking and thrashing. Out of pure instinct he lurched up, grabbed her by the wrist, and bolted back up the trail toward the stream. She stumbled and called to him to wait as she yanked up the hem of her gown.

Their pursuers approached on two sides and without much stealth, he realized. He’d have heard and evaded them easily if he hadn’t been roaring at the top of his lungs and plowing through the woods like a stag in rut.

Outlaws, poachers, or Verdun? He could hear the wretches well enough now. Half a dozen at least. Most on foot, as far as he could tell.

On they plunged, until there was a brightening ahead that signaled the edge of the woods. He caught the glint of a blade off to the side and was spurred to even greater effort. If they could make it to the stream bank …

The trees ended abruptly; they were in the open, exposed by the moonlight. There was a desperate surge and crash all around as their pursuers closed in on them. Griffin wheeled and drew his knife, to put himself between Julia and the bandits, cursing himself for leaving his sword in camp. Then someone plowed into him from the side and knocked him into the undergrowth at the very edge of the trees. As he went down, he caught the flash of a moon-brightened blade and heard Julia scream.

Dazed but struggling fiercely against the weight of two men on top of him, Griffin looked up to see Julia in the clutches of armed men … wearing what appeared to be yellow and black. Not red and white, but
yellow and black.

“It is a man and a woman, seigneur!” one of them addressed their leader.

Griffin heard a soft thudding and the swish of the brush nearby, and found himself staring up at a horse wearing familiar trappings … silks he had seen that very afternoon as he visited with the baron on whose land they camped.

“Crossan?” he managed to gasp out, past the beefy arm at his throat.

The man on the horse squinted down at him, and demanded, “Who calls me by name?” He dismounted for a closer look. “Grandaise?” Instantly, he was shoving his own men off their captive and offering Griffin a hand up. “Pardon, my lord count. We had no idea.”

“What the devil are you doing out here in the dark, running people down?” Griffin demanded, jerking free and brushing leaves and grass from his tunic.

“Poachers. We’ve had a plague of unlawful taking. With the moon full, we set out to catch the wretches at their game. When we heard voices and saw you moving we thought—” The burly nobleman looked a bit uncomfortable and glanced away. His eyes fell on Julia and widened. “I am surprised to find you here, milord. I thought you were camped some ways downstream.”

“My cook had gone off by herself and got lost,” Griffin declared with an irritable gesture toward Julia, “and I had to come out and find her.”

“Your cook?” Crossan barely covered his disbelief as he stared at Julia.

“My new cook,” Griffin declared, setting off for the distant light of his camp. “Acquired on my sojourn to Paris.”

“A cook from Paris.” The Baron Crossan scratched his stubbled chin and produced a wicked chuckle. “Well, they do say that the best ‘cooks’ in the world come from Paris, milord. It’s good to know you’ll be feeding my son so well.”

Griffin didn’t care to correct whatever erroneous conclusion the baron had drawn. It would require more explanations than he intended to make.

“Care to join me in my camp for a bit of wine, Baron?” Griffin said, gesturing toward his downstream camp.

“Your
wine? Damme, Grandaise. You needn’t ask twice.” The knightly fellow barked out a few orders to his men to escort “the cook” and struck off with Griffin to commiserate on poachers and discuss the news from the Paris court.

Julia watched her employer dismiss both her presence and her purpose as he strode off with his fellow nobleman. Moments ago he’d pulled her against him and weakened her knees with a look and stolen her breath with a lightning brief kiss. Now she was abandoned like a smelly old cheese rind.

She might be his personal cook, his expensive prize, and even his culinary salvation, but she was still just a cook. Whatever her birth, however she pleased him, whatever happened between them … a cook was all she would ever be. And a nobleman of his status did not dally with mere cooks. She gasped as the full context of that interrupted kiss returned to her … unless, of course, he had other motives … such as keeping her from returning to the convent to take vows. If he kept her from being able to take religious vows, she realized with widening horror, then she would be ruined for taking marriage vows, too!

The wretch!

She came to her senses and found several men-at-arms standing around her, glaring at her in both annoyance and speculation. No one offered so much as a hint of an apology for their earlier bone-jarring handling of her. She walked surrounded by a dozen armed men, feeling their eyes on her and holding her head up to show she had nothing to hide.