by Betina Krahn
“This cooking nonsense—why didn’t you tell me about it? Everyone from the pot boys in the kitchen to the king himself has heard of it. I was asked about it in front of the king, and I couldn’t even hazard a guess!” He squeezed her shoulders. “I want to know the rest of this cursed wife test—every damned step of it—every task, every requirement. And I want to know it now!”
Again she tried to remove his hands from her shoulders, but he was too strong and too determined. She raised her chin to show she wasn’t intimidated.
“Ladies … are required to oversee the kitchens in their households, and it is only sensible to see that the tastes of husband and wife are in harmony,” she declared. He was scarcely inches away, filling her vision, invading her on the very air she breathed. “My sisters will prepare their favorite dishes and their husbands-to-be will choose their favorites.”
“And?”
“It will demonstrate a likeness of taste and sense.”
“And?”
“That is the sum of it.” She avoided his eyes, only to have her attention fasten impulsively on his lips. “I-I will be able to match who made a dish with who preferred it.”
“A simple matter of preference?”
“An important matter of preference,” she insisted.
“And what if several men prefer the same dish?”
“In that event … I … shall … take note and it will still be useful.”
He considered that for a moment. “What is next?”
“Another riding lesson,” she managed. “We still have much to learn.”
“You’ll get no argument on that. Then what?”
She swallowed hard and looked past his shoulder, scrambling to decide which of the tasks she had considered would sound most plausible.
“Then there is the test of … the gift. Each of the husbands-to-be will present the maids a gift that represents his home.”
“What is the point of that?”
In the brief silence she felt her throat tightening and her skin heating beneath his hands. Having him so close and touching her was making it devilishly difficult to concentrate.
“My sisters will listen to each man tell the story of how it represents his home, and then they will choose which gift means the most to them.”
“Preferences again. What if more than one maid chooses the same gift?”
“Again … it will be useful no matter who chooses which gift.”
“It seems to me”—his voice was suddenly lower—“that this ‘wife test’ of yours depends a great deal on simple preference. But ‘preference,’ I have learned, is not always a simple matter. What happens if, in the end, all of the men prefer the same maid? What if there is one maid no one wants?”
“I doubt that will occur.”
“But it is possible. And let’s say that it happens. What then?”
“Then … they will have to trust in the wisdom of the test.”
“In our judgment, you mean. For isn’t that what your precious ‘test’ comes down to? Our judgment? Our preferences? Yours and mine?” Then he asked the question that had deviled her sleep for the last two nights. “What happens if we don’t agree?”
She drew a shaky breath and forced herself to look up at him. His sable and russet eyes were glowing.
“Th-then we will discuss it and come to some sort of agreement.”
“Negotiate, you mean.”
“Discuss it,” she insisted. “Exchange points. Engage in give-and-take.”
“Meaning: you take and I give. For, without knowing the details of your precious ‘test,’ I will always be at a disadvantage. Then, in truth”—he paused to draw an alarming conclusion—“what this all comes down to is your preferences.” As he thought on that, his gaze wandered over her face.
“Why don’t we save ourselves a great deal of time and effort?” He leaned closer. “What are your preferences, Chloe of Guibray?”
Her skin flushed with heat. All of it. From her scalp to her toes.
“To make the best possible matches for my sisters—”
“I mean your personal preferences. You are to be wedded, too.”
Rivulets of warmth began trickling down the walls of her body to pool below her waist, carrying her indignation, her determination, and most of her concentration with them. Even her voice seemed to have been affected; it was suddenly little more than a whisper.
“I don’t have preferences … of that sort.”
“Come, now.” He pulled her toward him. “You’ve listened to them and watched them with your sisters. The handsome Jaxton. Simon the diplomat. That charming rascal William. Good-hearted and easily-led Graham. You can’t say you haven’t thought about it. This is your chance to declare your preference, negotiate for your choice.” He pulled her still closer, as if that might somehow force it out of her. “Which one do you want?”
“I-I hardly think this is …” She tried to wrest free and might have succeeded if he hadn’t slid his arms around her and hauled her fully against him.
“Tell me.” They were so close she could feel his heart pounding through their clothes. “Who do you want?”
Everything happening inside her—thought, heartbeat, breath—halted as the answer sprang from her heart to her mind and then her lips, where she just managed to stop it from escaping.
You.
Her legs weakened as that truth crashed over her in a sudden, overpowering wave of longing. She jerked her head aside to keep him from seeing what was surely as plain in her eyes as it was in her heart. How could this be? How could she possibly want him, knowing what sort of man he was … how he despised women and marriage? He was everything she knew to spell disaster for a peaceful and harmonious married life.
He cupped her face with his hand and forced it up. The last thing she saw as she closed her eyes was his mouth lowering toward hers.
For that first, stunning moment all she could do was feel. The strength of his arms around her, the hardness of his body against hers, the paradoxical softness of his lips … she was engulfed by new and overwhelming sensations. This was a kiss. This was what those handsome lips felt like when they were pressed against her own. Sweet heaven—it was wonderful. How could she have imagined anything this intimate, this delicious, this enthralling?
Then his mouth canted and began to move over hers, caressing her lips, coaxing a response from deep inside her. She grabbed the sides of his tunic to steady herself as she grew warm and pliant, melting against him, tilting her head to better receive his kiss. It became a subtle dance of desire and fulfillment between them, of curiosity and discovery.
Her second recognizable thought was that the feel of his body pressed against her was somehow familiar. It felt strangely as if she knew his embrace, even though she had never experienced or even imagined anything like it. She ran her hands up his back, measuring with the span of her fingers those broad shoulders that were proving not to be quite so impervious after all. He responded by running his hands firmly, hungrily over her back and sides. Each stroke unleashed a wave of pleasure that made her want to experience more.
She slid her arms up his chest and around his corded neck. In her mind dozens of stored images appeared: the line of his cheekbones, the soft curl of his hair, the breadth of his shoulders, the sensual sway of his shoulders as he walked, the hint of beard that grayed his jaw …
Then something in the feel of his mouth against hers changed.
He opened his eyes and jerked his head up, breaking that heavenly contact. A moment later he ripped his overheated body from hers and lurched back, looking at her as if she’d just sprouted horns and cloven hooves.
Abandoned abruptly, she staggered back a step, where she smacked the stone wall. As she shoved her hands out at her sides to support herself, every half-pleasured part of her was screaming in protest. But the look on his face silenced whatever voice she might have given to those complaints.
He turned on his heel and blindly strode off, banging his
shoulder into the side of the tower as he fled.
The impact of what had just happened caused her knees to buckle, and she slid partway down the wall. Handsome, powerful, enigmatic Sir Hugh had kissed her. It was all she had dreamt of and more than she could have known to imagine. She touched her newly sensitive lips and tried to hold on to echoes of the pleasure he had stirred in her. But the sensations were fading quickly, growing elusive. Her awareness quickly broadened to admit a larger, more sobering reality. Arrogant, self-righteous, abstemious Sir Hugh of Sennet had kissed her.
Since that first night in the woods she had relived again and again those moments with him pressed against her, touching her face, and staring into her eyes. She had told herself she was merely studying the encounter, learning, anticipating the feel of being a wife in relation to a husband. But, in truth, what she had been anticipating were far more specific pleasures: the feel of Sir Hugh’s arms around her … his lips on hers … the tingle of her skin at his touch.
The horror in his expression as he backed away washed over her anew. Where were her wits, her common sense … her instinct for self-preservation? How could she have let herself stumble into such a disastrous attraction? He was her royally appointed overseer, her adversary, the lone threat to her “wife test” scheme. But, even worse, he was the one man in the kingdom who could calmly and with full theological justification pull a lovesick heart from a smitten breast and stomp on it.
What on earth was she going to do?
Looking around, she spotted the round tower at the top of the hill and headed for it. Frantic to escape the turmoil of her emotions, she ran head down, headfirst into a group of men coming down the main path.
“Lady Chloe!” The king himself grabbed her by the shoulders and set her back. “Are you all right?”
“Y-yes, Your Highness.” She dropped into a deep curtsy, and her knees were so weak that she could scarcely rise again. When she looked up, the king was staring intently at her, and she quelled an urge to hide her lips behind a hand. “I was out for a walk and am on my way back to my sisters.”
“Did Sir Hugh find you?” he asked casually. “I believe he had something to discuss with you.” Behind him, Lord Bromley made a noise somewhere between a cough and a choking sound and two other nobly dressed fellows looked abruptly away.
“He did,” she said, blushing in spite of herself.
“Good.” He motioned to the others. “Come, my lords. The tilting matches. Our royal defenders await.”
Chloe couldn’t have known, as they left her and she gathered up her gown and raced first to her chambers and then to the chapel, that she was in fact following in footsteps Sir Hugh had laid down only a short while earlier. He, too, had seemed distracted when he ran into the king’s party. His lips had also been swollen, and his eyes glistened with the same smoky allure.
She couldn’t have known that the king responded to her hasty departure the same way he had to Hugh’s: with a sardonic chuckle. Nor could she have guessed that the priest assigned to hear confessions that day, Father Ignatius, reacted with equal amusement to the sight of her heading for the confessional.
Impure and unworthy thoughts, she confessed.
“An unfortunate consequence of the human gift for imagining,” Father Ignatius declared philosophically.
Uncontrollable and misdirected desire.
“The inevitable result of the Almighty’s insistence on giving mankind both free will and a bred-in-the-bone mandate to ‘be fruitful and multiply.’ ”
Recklessly lustful and impassioned contact with a man.
“Tsk. Most unfortunate.” The canny father templed his fingers and produced a secret smile. “Tell me more, my child …”
That night at dinner in the great hall, the men and maids were seated opposite each other. There was precious little conversation at their section of table or elsewhere in the hall. Everyone, even the king, was watching and listening for the slightest clue as to the state of relations between the intended couples. But the most telling detail seemed to be the fact that Sir Hugh was seated well down the table from the group, all but ignoring them.
When Edward called for a report on how the wife test was proceeding, Chloe rose at her seat and answered that it was going as expected. When the king called her forward and demanded details, she volunteered a description of the “cooking test” set for the next day.
“Sir Hugh,” the king called out. “Am I to assume that you have discussed this with Lady Chloe and are in agreement?”
Hugh rose slowly, trying to swallow the gulp of wine he had taken just as his name rang out. He succeeded and obeyed the king’s beckoning hand.
“Yes, Highness.” He moved forward to stand by, but not beside, Chloe of Guibray. So much for his plan to keep at least a county’s worth of distance between them.
“I confess, I am surprised, Sir Hugh, to see you wear your responsibilities as the realm’s ‘wife judge’ so casually.”
He felt his ears heating.
“If it appears that I do so, it is only because I have such confidence in Lady Chloe’s ability as the convent’s ‘wife judge.’ ”
“Confidence may sometimes be misplaced.” The king’s genial expression thinned enough to reveal the determination underneath it.
Edward of England would not be cheated out of his entertainment. He was serving notice that he would not tolerate Hugh distancing himself from the proceedings.
“Your opinion of Lady Chloe’s abilities has risen considerably. Two days ago she was a ‘mere girl’ unfit to pass judgment on England’s noblemen.”
Hugh flushed crimson but held his ground. What had he ever done to deserve such punishment?
“Two days ago I had not learned the secret of the wife test.”
“Aha!” Edward sat forward, his eyes alight. “And this ‘secret’ is?”
“Why, a secret, Highness,” he said earnestly, serving notice that he would obey, but not without being allowed some dignity. The king eyed him for a moment, then sat back, yielding that point. Inspiration struck. “Lady Chloe and I have decided that, since the weather looks to be favorable, the cooking test will be held out in the countryside, away from the palace.”
“Feasting outside,” the king declared with such enthusiasm that one might have thought the notion originated with him. “Nothing like being out in the warm air and sunshine to stimulate the appetite.”
There was a taint of wickedness in the laughter that rolled around the hall, and with a wave of hand the king dismissed them.
“Dining out in the countryside?” Chloe said in a fierce whisper as they returned to their seats. “What in heaven’s name made you say such a thing?”
“Haven’t you had enough of Windsor hanging over your shoulders and watching your every word and step?”
She had indeed, she thought, glancing around at the faces turned on her and her sisters in sly conjecture. It would be a great relief to be out of the common eye for a while. She glanced back at him, trying to imagine why he would try to arrange such a thing. Then a cooler, more rational impulse took over. What did it matter why he did it, as long as it helped?
She gripped the edge of the bench, forcing herself to set her own reeling emotions aside and think of what was best for her sisters. In the end, what did it matter that she wanted him desperately and that he couldn’t bear even the thought of wanting her? They might have drastically different desires, beliefs, and destinies, but just now they had a common duty to complete the wife test. In her sisters’ interest, she would have to lock away her troublesome desire for him. She would have to do that anyway in five more days, when she approached the altar with her royally appointed husband.
She looked down the table to where her sisters were stealing looks at their husbands-to-be, anticipating the future and imaging each of the four noblemen standing beside them as vows were read.
Four noblemen. Not five. Where was her future in all of this?
Secondary, she realized with a
leaden feeling settling in her stomach. And she might as well begin to make peace with her lot. After all, she was the one who had chosen it.
Getting away from the crowds and constant scrutiny at Windsor was a laudable aim but, in point of fact, much easier said than done.
The kitchens were in a flurry and the cooks apoplectic the next morning, preparing the maids’ dishes in a transportable form while going on with the task of feeding a small army of nobles, ladies, knights, clerics, retainers, and servants. Outside, the stables grew crowded with residents and visitors who decided at the last moment to go riding … including Lord Bromley, a pair of ambassadors from Italy, several minor nobles, and the Lord Bishop of London.
Hugh and Graham had selected a spot near a stream at the edge of a wood, a place where they had often paused while returning from a hunt. Hugh had to tell the cooks first thing that morning to allow them to prepare, and word of their destination had time to spread. By the time the cart bearing the food arrived at the designated place, there were a number of people on horseback milling around, churning the sod and leaving horse piles all over the area. The kitchen steward had a difficult time clearing a space for the equipment they had brought and marshaling his helpers to set up the table, lay the linen, and light the braziers.
When the nuptial party arrived on horseback, at midday, the once placid retreat looked like the first day of a long-awaited hot fair. All that were missing were jugglers and bull-baiting dogs. The maids looked to Chloe in dismay; Chloe looked at Hugh in annoyance; and Hugh looked to Heaven for understanding as he let fly a fiery one-word summary of the situation.
Irritably he took charge and ordered the husbands-to-be to help him clear a space around the tables and order everyone not in the bridal delegation to move back. The onlookers retreated. Then Lord Bromley and his party arrived and rode right through that established perimeter, and everyone else took advantage of it to invade them again.
“My Lord Treasurer.” Hugh intercepted Bromley as the portly lord dismounted. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit?”
“Curiosity, Sir Hugh, curiosity. I am a great lover of food and was informed that you will be having some most excellent fare. I was hoping to sample a bit of it and perhaps coax the recipes from your charges.”
