The Marriage Test

by Betina Krahn

  Julia set the mortar down on the cart floor and sank onto her bottom beside it, staring at the half-ground peppercorns, cloves, and nutmeg in dismay.

  “You do have a knack for annoying His Lordship.” Regine blew her nose for the tenth time. “But he’ll come around once you start cooking for him.”

  “What makes you think he’ll ever trust me to feed him?”

  “Well, he didn’t strangle you when you spent every coin in his purse. That’s a start.” She reached for Julia’s hand. “Haven’t you heard it said: ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’ ?”

  “Why would I want to reach his heart?” she said in rising alarm.

  Regine softened with a smile.

  “Have your forgotten your lessons so quickly, Julia? When our Lord was on earth He made it very clear: The most important part of a man is his heart. When a man gives his heart, the rest of him always follows.” She patted Julia’s hand. “If you cook, you’ll reach his heart, and the respect you seek will follow.”

  It was meant to comfort her, Julia knew, but the guilty truth of it was, she wanted a good bit more than just the count’s respect. She wanted his appreciation. No, his amazement. His adoration. His awe. She wanted to awaken his palate and astound his senses with her food and make him giddy with delight. She wanted him to take such pleasure in the taste and smell of her food that he would proclaim her skill from the rooftops. She wanted him to be so proud of his kitchens that he invited all of his neighbors—the whole countryside—to come and sample his wonderful food. More to the point, she wanted him to make him repent of every doubt and misgiving he had ever harbored toward her.

  She picked up a grain of the spice she had chosen to begin grinding. Black spice. Comprised mostly of pepper. His favorite.

  Perhaps she hadn’t forgotten her lessons entirely.

  For the rest of the day, the count’s men took turns riding downwind of Julia’s cart and breathing in the peppery aroma from the spice mixture she was making. That evening His Lordship returned after a long absence and directed them to camp in a spot he had selected near a stream. Sir Axel and Sir Greeve informed her that His Lordship had secured permission to pass the night there from an old friend of his family, a local baron who controlled the roads and provided both security and sustenance for travelers. The birds they secured from the baron’s cottagers were rubbed generously with the combination of spices they had smelled all afternoon and were roasted to a turn over well-placed spits. The results were excellent, even by Julia’s standards.

  But the count sat off to the side by himself and added nothing to the heaps of praise and groans of satisfaction aimed her way. She refused to show her disappointment as she watched him from her seat on a stone by the fire. But after a while she decided to approach him directly on his opinion of the food.

  Just as she started toward him, he rose and strode off into the gathering darkness. She stood on the edge of the camp, her arms folded, watching him escape into a small wood nestled alongside the stream where they camped. Sir Greeve joined her and followed her gaze to his lord’s disappearing form.

  “Where does he go at night?” she asked, only half aware she spoke aloud.

  Greeve shook his head and cleared the campfire smoke from his throat.

  “Away for a bit of solitude, perhaps. Who can say?”

  Before her better sense could dissuade her, she headed after him.

  “Where are you going?” Greeve asked, alarmed equally by her direction and determination. “Ohhh, no.” He reached out, but quickly thought better of setting hands to her and jerked them back. “Not good. Not good at all.”

  Running helped her close some of the distance between them, but he still disappeared into the trees well ahead of her. The woods were pitch black, at first, and no air stirred under the dense canopy. The result was a stillness so profound that the trees around her seemed to be holding their breath. She closed her eyes, hoping to hasten their adjustment, and listened.

  The telling shuffle of leaves and snap of twigs betrayed his position. He traveled carefully and steadily, with no attempt to disguise his movements. When she opened her eyes, she was able to detect fingers of silver-blue moonlight piercing the leaf cover and began to pick her way along.

  The underbrush always seemed to thin in the direction she was drawn and she realized he was following a trail of some sort. Soon the sounds of his passage merged with the sounds of running water. The stream … they were some distance upstream from their camp. She halted, listening, but couldn’t tell if he was still moving or not. Her heart seemed to beat in her throat as she decided to continue along the path. She had come this far …

  The silver-blue glow of moonlight bloomed ahead of her, through the trees. The air began to stir again; light branches swayed gently and leaves rustled with an almost human shh-h-h-h.

  Then she spotted him on some rock ledge that jutted over the edge of the stream, standing perfectly still with his head back, staring up into the night sky. As she watched, he raked a hand down his face and turned into the breeze, letting it wash over his face and ruffle his hair. When his face turned toward her, she saw that he had taken the band from his nose.

  Was this what he did each night when he left camp? He came to the forest to free his sense of smell and bathe it in nature’s fresh and gentle scents?

  Keeping to the shadows of the trees, she lifted her own face to the breeze and closed her eyes, hoping to catch whatever scents he might be experiencing. She was able to pick out the scents of moist wood and damp earth, the must of the leaves on the forest floor, and a tang of fragrant herbs growing between the woods and the stream … wild onion, tansy, butterwort. Was there still more?

  Then his face lowered and it appeared that he focused intently on something just upstream, at the edge of the trees. She held her breath waiting. Something was there, watching him even as he watched it. Tension crept up her neck as she scoured the brush. Movement caught her eye.

  A pair of dark, luminous eyes and pale ears became visible. A deer, little more than a fawn, stood with its nose up, trying to take his scent. He was downwind, just as she was downwind from both of them, and the animal remained wary.

  The count continued motionless, patient, unthreatening, and the fawn finally took a step from the safety of the trees. Again its nose quivered for confirmation, and again the breeze carried away his scent. The animal approached cautiously, sniffing, and then halted a yard from him, looking him over. It froze as he slowly raised a hand.

  He stood for what seemed an eternity with his arm outstretched, waiting for the animal to overcome its instinctive caution. Finally it came close enough to discern what was in his hand. But in so doing, it took his scent and darted back toward the safety of the trees. When he remained motionless, the fawn’s hunger and curiosity provided grew greater than its fear of danger.

  She watched in amazement as the deer came close enough to take something he offered and skittered back to eat it. For the next few moments, the man and the deer engaged in a dance of wariness and pleasure as the fawn satisfied its curiosity about him and took the treats he offered.

  Wanting a closer look, Julia crept slowly closer, keeping to the cover of the trees. Soon she had a clearer view of his face as he stood in the moonlight. It was relaxed, almost peaceful. She was so absorbed in his expression that she hardly noticed the fawn withdrawing and springing for the trees. The count whirled and visually scoured the line of trees where she stood.

  The wind had changed, she realized, shrinking partway behind a tree.

  “Come out,” he ordered angrily, “Julia of Childress!”

  Chapter Twelve

  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.