The Marriage Test (8 page)

Griffin awakened hungry and irritable the next morning and as they resumed their journey, his mood darkened still further. Axel and Greeve kept wending their way back to the cart, and each time his own gaze went with them and lingered alarmingly on the halo of reddish hair that belonged to his cook. Each time he roared for them and sent them riding ahead on some errand or other. But his attempt to discipline his own gaze and thoughts was not so successful.

He kept recalling the defiant flash of his new cook’s unusual eyes as he held her against the convent wall.

That was what bothered him most, he realized. Julia of Childress might know something about kitchens, might even be a cook of sorts. But to him, she would always be a female first … a tart-tongued, pepper-haired wench who was brazen and arrogant and entirely too full of herself. And the last thing he needed was a temperamental female meddling in what was left of his beleaguered kitchens and bringing them to a grinding halt … especially as he was preparing to take a bride he wanted about as much as he wanted to have both of his legs broken on a rack.

Midday, they located a copse of trees near a stream and stopped to be out of the hot sun for a while. The men watered the horses and tied them out in a grassy area, then removed their helms and sun-heated mail shirts to sprawl beneath the trees.

Griffin was in the process of joining his men when he saw his new cook and her chaperone slipping away along the leafy bank and followed, intending to order them back to the cart. But they continued, out of sight of the others, to a bend in the stream where the flow had gouged out a shallow pond. He stopped and watched for a moment, curious about what they would do.

Through the trees, he saw Julia of Childress raise and tuck her skirts into her belt and wade bare-legged into the cool water. She kicked up a spray and called to Sister Regine to join her. The good sister declined.

Rightly so, he grumbled mentally. What the devil was she doing out there in the water, exposing her legs. Smooth and muscular and neatly tapered. He watched her untie the top of her gown and open her chemise to splash water on her throat and chest. Smooth throat and creamy … a pang of frustration shot through him as she turned slightly and blocked his view of her bared breasts.

Look at her. No cook worth her salt splashed around bare-legged and bare-breasted in a stream. She was supposed to oversee the feeding and nourishment of his whole household, for God’s sake, and here she was prancing around in a stream like some pagan water sprite. How could he possibly trust his health and well-being to a female who behaved like a deranged bacchanal—

A branch snapped somewhere and she snatched her chemise together and whirled to search the bank. His heart skipped at the sight of big green eyes set in a heart-shaped face and framed by a swirl of bright hair. All he could think was that in sunlight that hair seemed more like spun gold than dusky red pepper.

“What are you doing there, Your Lordship?” she called breathlessly.

He realized that the wood that had snapped was beneath his foot. He had inched forward into the sunlight without realizing it and now stood fully exposed on the bank above her. Appalled at being caught staring, he scrambled for an excuse.

“You’re too far from the others,” he managed to grind out. “The closer we get to Paris, the more travelers about. It’s not safe for women to be abroad—”

“Paris?” She suddenly began wading toward the bank. “Did you say we’re near Paris?”

“Yes.” He blinked, dismayed to see her heading directly for him as she left the water. “We’re … just over half a day’s ride to … Paris.” He stumbled back a step as she came toward him grappling with the ties of her chemise and pulling the top of her unlaced overgown together. When she reached him, the hem of her gown was still raised and tucked in her belt and her legs were bare and wet from the knees down. He backed another step and then another, reddening with embarrassment at his instinctive retreat.

“I have been meaning to speak to you about that, milord.” She finally yanked her hem free and let it fall, then used her shift and gown to dry the water on her legs. He suffered equal impulses of fascination and horror as she pushed the fabric over those sleek contours that had just burned themselves into his brain. “Since we are so close to such wonderful markets, I thought it would be a good time to replenish your supplies of spices and—”

“Ohhhh, no.” He rescued enough of his wits from the heat pooling in his loins to realize that this was no time and he was in no condition to engage in such negotiations. “We are not setting foot inside Paris. And that is
final.”

He turned back to the camp, desperate to put distance between them.

“Not Paris proper, milord.” She came after him, holding her hem up and picking her way through the dried grass and shrubby undergrowth. “The Hot Fair held to the north of Paris this time of year. I have never been there myself, but I’ve been told that the Paris merchants bring their wares out of the city to set up stalls in the open air. Merchantmen arriving from the East stop at the fair when sailing up the Seine on their way to the Hot Fair at Troyes. It’s a grand market … everything imaginable … the freshest foods and spices … and good prices …”

Her voice had begun to fade and, against his better judgment, he glanced over his shoulder. She was hopping up and down to keep her balance as she brushed her feet and shoved them into her slippers. Appalled by the way he had paused to watch, he wrenched his attention forward and struck off again, quickening and lengthening his stride. She soon caught up.

“How much do you spend in a year on spices and condiments, milord? Quite a bit, I should imagine.”

He scowled and refused to honor her with a glance.

“My steward does the buying and keeps my household accounts. And he is under strict orders not to bother me with tallies of turnips and trenchers.”

“In other words, you have no idea how much of your coin is spent each year to feed your household,” she charged, breathless from the effort required to match his pace.

“In other words,
how much I spend is none of your concern.”

“I beg to differ.” She darted past him and stopped directly in his path, causing him to arch and teeter to avoid touching her. “If I am to plan meals and bargain with local producers and purchase staples, spices, and equipment, I must know what I have to spend.”

“Who says you will do the buying?” He tried to look through her instead of at her, but he could still see she had taken serious umbrage at that prospect.

“All
cooks do their own buying, milord. How else can we be sure the ingredients we use are fresh and healthful? How else can we be held accountable for the safety and nourishment of the household we feed?” She yanked and tied the laces on the half-open front of her gown. “When was the last time your cook went to a spice market?”

“I haven’t had a head cook for some time,” he replied, refusing to watch what she was doing.

“Well then, your steward. How long ago did he attend a fair or travel to a spice market to replenish your spice chest?” When he didn’t answer, she finished the bow she was tying and tried another tact. “When was the last time your kitchen served you anything made with cinnamon or nutmeg or a good fine spice?” She drew a conclusion from his silence. “If you cannot say, then it has been too long a time, milord. If I am to revive your kitchens, then I must do some buying on the way to your home.”

“So that’s it. You want me to throw good money after bad.” He bent closer to her, scowling. Wittingly or not, she had just provided the most convincing evidence to date that she was a true cook. He had never known a cook—young or old, seasoned or green—who didn’t harangue his patron for more money or a chance to spend it at a market or fair. “You expect me to spend money at the behest of a cook who refuses to cook.”

“A cook without the proper ingredients and tools cannot do much, milord. Surely you can see that,” she said, straining to sound reasonable.

“Out of the question,” he said, lowering his face still closer to hers.

He could see that she was trying to avoid meeting his gaze. Smart wench. Then in the silence that settled between them, she turned her head slightly and slid into his gaze like melted butter into bread. Perhaps too smart. Perhaps she sensed that some of the heat building in him had nothing to do with anger or outrage.

“What is your favorite spice, milord?” Her voice was suddenly full of texture and nuance that made his ears heat and sent a surge of anticipation prickling through his scalp. He felt a need to swallow, but found himself incapable of doing it. “What taste do you crave above all others?”

The growing tightness in his throat now prohibited speech as well. Was she leaning closer to him or was he swaying toward her?

“What makes your mouth water and your heart skip in anticipation? Cinnamon … a dusky red powder that tingles the tip of your tongue? Or could it be ginger … hot and bright along the back of your throat? Perhaps it is nutmeg … sweet and nutty … caressing your lips and bathing your cheeks with flavor …”

Julia was mildly surprised by the words leaving her mouth. Tingles and caresses. Bathing in flavor. Someone else must be talking; she was too busy sinking in pools of hot Baltic amber to string together a coherent thought.

Every part of her body had come alive with awareness of him. She should move, blink, clear her throat … something … anything but stand here gazing into his eyes and succumbing to the mystery of a man who owned her time and talents and, despite the exorbitant price he had paid for them, seemed to value neither.

“Pepper,” he said in a cracked whisper. “I love pepper.”

“Red or black, milord?”

“Both.”

“Short or long pepper?”

“Short.”

“Is it the spiciness or the heat that you find most pleasing?”

“H-heat. Eye-watering, blood-searing, sweat-out-a-fever heat. Red hot. Like a glowing iron poker.” His gaze flowed over her head and he curled his hands into fists at his sides.

She was warm from the sun, but felt her skin glowing hotter where his notice touched it. As she watched, feeling strangely sensitive in every womanly part of her, he parted and wetted his lips. Instantly, all of her awareness settled on his bold, generously curved mouth. Moist now. Glistening.

“I’m sure there will be wonderful peppers at the fair’s spice market,” she murmured, trying to rescue her senses from the puddle of melted resolve in the middle of her. “Pungent fresh pepper that will burn your nose and make your eyes water and your blood heat. I make a special three-pepper pottage with red pepper and horseradish and mustard and paprika …”

“Say that again,” he demanded, his voice deep and rough.

“Red pepper and horseradish and—”

“The name of the dish,” he specified, his eyes darkening in the centers.

“Three-pepper pottage.”

“Again.”

“Three-pepper pottage.” The words caused her mouth to draw into a bow and she felt his gaze on it like a physical touch. “Three-pepper pottage.”

His head lowered.

She raised her chin one accommodating inch.

“Ahem.”

Sister Regine’s voice from nearby startled them both and set them lurching apart with heat-burnished faces and luminous eyes.

“We … were just … I was just a-asking about …” she stammered.

“Spices.” He cleared his throat with an authoritative rumble and glared at her. “Consider performing your rightful duties and I shall consider your request.”

Sister Regine watched as he strode off and turned on Julia with a frown.

“What in Heaven’s name was that all about?”

“I was asking for permission to attend a hot fair outside Paris,” she responded, feeling damp inside her garments and oddly exposed.

“Oh, is
that
what you were asking for.” Regine narrowed one eye. “All of that staring and breathing and blushing over a few grains of spice?” Her other eye narrowed. “Cooking must be more involving than I thought.”

Julia’s face flamed as she headed back to the cart.

“You have no idea.”

That night, they camped on a hill outside of Paris, overlooking the city’s hazy glow upriver and more distinct lights coming from the campfires in the market camps that littered the valley below. There was enough breeze from the west to keep the market smells at bay and provide a steady cooling. And when the men arrived in camp with fresh chickens bought from a nearby farmer and looked to her, she glanced at her brooding master and gave them a nod that set them scrambling for their knives and fire steel.

As she did the night before, she strolled the camp, peering, assessing, and giving advice that yielded some of the finest chicken sops the men had ever tasted. Her refusal to cook was compromised, but toward a higher good. And unlike the night before, the count also took a portion of bread, filled its soft center with the savory chicken, and ate hungrily.

When the meal was finished and the tools were cleaned and packed away, Julia retired to the cart to prepare for sleep. When she returned from visiting the bushes, she found the count sharing a silence with Regine.

“Milord.” She paused warily at the side of the cart.