The Marriage Test (26 page)

“I visited it. Lady Sophie—the count’s daughter—went on and on about the wonderful kitchen and I asked to see it. She secreted me there, late one night.”

He almost choked on an almond-stuffed apricot and had to look at her.

“The count’s daughter?”

“The very one.” Her eyes were full of mesmerizing lights. “She visited me in my prison chamber. She is quite a young woman. It seems I was abducted because the count believed I was actually
more
to you than a cook.” She glanced at Crossan with outraged innocence. “Can you imagine?”

“Julia—” he said in a warning tone, feeling pricked and irritable.

“If you will excuse me, milord,” she said with a pointed little smile at his reaction. “I am no doubt needed in the kitchen.”

As they watched her go, the baron leaned toward Griffin.

“She may have been your cook and even your taster, once upon a time. But she is your bride now, Grandaise. What the devil is she doing still in your kitchen, tending a blazing hearth and wearing patched garments?”

Griffin’s ears caught fire. He had seen the patch on her gown, too, and for some reason it infuriated him. He thrust to his feet and headed for the passage to the kitchens. Catching up with Julia in the covered walkway, he pulled her by the wrist out of the covered stone arches and down the slope that swept around toward the kitchen yard and outbuildings.

“Milord—”

“Just what the devil do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, pulling her around to face him and backing her against the nearby wall. “Wearing patched garments … flirting and playing fair and free with my men …”

“You told me yesterday that nothing would change as a result of the words we spoke. That I am still your cook. And as your cook, it is my duty to—”

“Well, you’re no longer my cook.” He startled himself with what he’d said. “That is … you are to cook … still … but you are no longer
just
my cook. You are also my bride. And until this marriage nonsense is sorted out, you must be more circumspect in your behavior and appearance.” His gaze dropped to her worn gown with its offending patch. “They reflect on me.”

“I cannot possibly be both ‘cook’ and ‘bride,’ milord,” she said looking up at him with those huge green eyes and a stubborn angle to her chin. “I have neither the patience nor the garments for it. Anyway … I believe you need a cook far more than you need a bride.”

“What?” He paused a moment, feeling that he’d been flanked and not quite certain how it had happened. “What do you mean, I need a cook?”

“Well, when you consider what cooks are good for … securing, storing, and preparing nutritious foods … building your strength … guarding your health and safety … concocting savory dishes … tempting and pleasing your palate … entertaining your allies …”

“Julia,” he growled.

“And then you consider what brides are good for … demanding fine clothes … decorating your hall with their presence … spending your manly strength in bed … wasting your precious hours with lustful pleasure … distracting you from duty with fleshy thoughts and temptations …”

“Dammit, Julia—”

“Which would you rather have, milord?” She edged close enough to brush up against him. “Me clothed and industrious in your kitchen or me naked and demanding in your bed?”

His tongue was so thick that he could hardly swallow. Visions of naked curves and tangled hair and sweaty sheets erupted and took over his mind. A reaction flashed through his skin. It was instantly hot and sensitive, screaming for a more direct and pleasurable contact everywhere his garments touched it.

“Cook,”
he choked out. Then he lurched back, wheeled, and strode away.

Her breath came hard and quick and her eyes glistened as she watched him flee. She folded her arms, nodded, and gave a little laugh.

“That’s what I thought.”

Sir Reynard de Crossan arrived in the banner-lined antechamber of the king’s audience hall, and sat down, propping his helmet on his knee, his elbow on the top of his helmet, and his head in his hand. Nearly a week ago the king’s chamberlain had listened to his report and ushered Lord Griffin’s letter and then Reynard himself through that massive set of doors to the king.

“I thought I had this damned thing settled!” King Philip had roared.

After his councillors talked him into a less ferocious royal mood, he quizzed Reynard on the alleged abduction. His first reaction was skepticism that Verdun would be so reckless as to defy a royal order. His second was disbelief that the loss of a mere cook would rouse such outrage in a nobleman of Grandaise’s status. His third was to demanded proof that the maid in question was under the protection of not only the Count of Grandaise, but of the Convent of the Brides of Virtue and the Duke of Avalon as well.

“Good God,” he snapped, “if it’s true, a cook in my realm has more defenders than I have!”

He sent immediately for the Duke of Avalon and for three days Reynard had sat in the king’s outer chamber waiting for the duke to appear.

Now the chamberlain called his name and ushered him into the king’s presence. Finally, Reynard thought, there would be some resolution to—

But when he stepped inside, his heart all but stopped. King Philip was seated at his writing table with his councillors gathered around him and a clerk seated nearby, taking down whatever the king indicated must be recorded. Standing before the king was a mud-spattered knight in mail and spurs … wearing a red-and-white tabard. Verdun’s colors.

“Sir Thomas de Albans has brought disturbing news.” The king’s comment and glare were both aimed at Reynard. “It seems your lord has married his mistress, and in so doing has dealt a terrible insult to the house of Verdun and to our own royal authority.”

“B-but, Majesty,” Reynard stammered, momentarily unmanned. “Lord Griffin could not possibly have wedded his m-mistress. He doesn’t have one.”

“He brought this female with him from Paris a few weeks ago, Majesty,” Sir Thomas protested with a fierce look at Reynard. “She has masqueraded as his cook. And now he has wedded her.”

Reynard’s eyes flew wide. “Majesty, this ‘cook’ he is supposed to have wedded is the young woman who was abducted a week ago.”

“One and the same?” Philip thought on that for a moment, sitting forward. “So is this female a cook or a mistress?

“Cook.”

“Mistress.”

The knights answered at once, then looked daggers at each other.

“What have you to say for your lord, Sir Reynard?” the king demanded.

“I have been gone from Grandaise for a week now, Majesty.” Reynard braced. “There may have been developments, but I am certain Lord Griffin would not wed anyone in defiance of your command.”

“He did, Majesty,” Sir Thomas insisted. “I saw it with my own eyes. Grandaise came to get the wench and when milord Verdun brought her out … the Beast wedded the wench on the spot … right on milord’s doorstep. An insult to my lord’s honor and a shocking defiance of Your Majesty’s expressed will.”

“Damned if I’m not sick of dealing with the lot of you.” Philip shoved to his feet and leaned toward the opposing pair with a face like granite. “Calais is under siege … the northern provinces are a shambles … and the Flemish merchants are near revolt. I’ll not hear another word until Avalon—”

“Here, Majesty!” came a breathless voice entering from the antechamber. All turned to the barrel-chested figure in ducal robes, hurrying to join them. He paused some feet away for a graceful bow. “I came as soon as I got your letter.”

“And not a moment too soon.” Philip sank back wearily into the cushions of his great carved chair. “This girl—this cooking wench of Grandaise’s—are you or are you not pledged to protect her?” Philip demanded.

“Cooking wench?”

“The chit from the Brides of Virtue!” the king snapped.

“Oh. The
cook.”
The duke nodded with a wince. “She was sent from the convent to revitalize the comte de Grandaise’s kitchens.”

Philip searched out the name in Grandaise’s letter. “Julia of Childress?”

“That sounds like the name. The abbess of the convent did not want to let the girl go, but the bishop liked the color of Grandaise’s gold and ordered the abbess to send the girl with him.”

“Grandaise had
gold?”
the king said, his eyes widening.

“A deal was struck: The maid would go to Grandaise and work for him for a year, establishing his kitchens, and then would return to the convent to take vows. I was to act as guarantor.” The amicable duke looked alarmed. “Are you saying, Majesty, that something has happened to the maid?”

“Grandaise may have wedded her … in defiance of a royal command that he marry Verdun’s daughter to end their long-standing feud.” Philip looked to his councillors, who nodded affirmation. Then he picked up a letter in each hand and frowned, weighing them against each other.

“So. This Julia of Childress is a cook … who may or may not have been Grandaise’s mistress … before he may or may not have made her his wife,” he mused irritably. “Verdun is seeking compensation for the violated betrothal.” He tossed both letters onto the desk in disgust. “Troth—the man has ballocks … demanding compensation, when a month ago he stood in this very chamber and said he’d rather put his daughter to the sword than hand her over to Grandaise!”

“Majesty, this is a grave insult to my seigneur, but also to the crown of France.” Sir Thomas tried to steer the king back to considering his lord’s plea.

“But it was Verdun who provoked it, by abducting the maid in the first place,” Reynard countered. “How else would she have come to be there?”

“I-I … believe she was lost in the woods … and … found and taken back to Verdun.” Sir Thomas was thinking on his feet, but too slowly.

The king gave a snort of disbelief.

“What the hell kind of female has a convent, a duke, and two counts up in arms over her?” Philip asked no one in particular. “What? Is she Helen of Troy?”

“A fetching wench, as I recall, but not a face to launch a thousand ships,” the duke said, rubbing his eyes and trying to recall that night at the convent. “I believe her attractions lay more in the culinary realm. She is a remarkable cook, Majesty. She made a hedgehog conceit for my young son that he still speaks of. I believe the abbess would have gladly killed the bishop in order to keep her.”

“Which bishop?” the king asked.

“Rheims,” Avalon answered.

“Well, that’s understandable.”

At that time a figure who had gone unnoticed rose from a silk-upholstered bench beneath the large window at the side of the chamber. The king looked up as the dignified woman in a silk brocade gown, wimple, and veiled headdress glided across the floor and through his advisors to his side.

“Milord husband,” Queen Jeanne said as she placed a hand on his velvet-clad shoulder, “too often you are France’s indulgent ‘father.’ You let these squabbling children divert you from more important matters of state. Why not send a representative to learn the truth and deal with it for you?” She glanced at Avalon, who sensed what she intended and groaned audibly. “The duke, who already has an obligation in the case, could carry the royal interest south and investigate for you.”

“Please, Majesty,” Avalon said with a wince, but sensed it had been decided the instant the words left the queen’s lips. Jeanne of Burgundy was a formidable woman, and some said the power behind the throne. Clearly, the king took her council to heart … evidenced by the fact that his councillors stepped back to allow her access as she approached. “I already must see to the interests of the abbess and convent.”

“Surely, Avalon, you would not consider putting the interests of a gaggle of nuns above that of your divinely anointed sovereign.” Philip engaged the duke’s gaze and forced a surrender.

“Never, Majesty.”

“You already know more about this mess than anyone at court. Go. Figure out what’s happened and bring these two rabid hounds to heel. I may have need of their garrisons soon, and I’ll not have their strength and substance squandered in senseless battles.” He motioned to his secretary to begin drawing up the official document embodying his decree. “Do whatever you have to do, Avalon. Make them see reason.”

For the next two days, Julia cooked her heart out. And Grandaise—both the man and the people of the great hall—ate very well indeed.

Chaudume of Pike … Turnips with Chestnuts and Sage … Fennel and Leek Torte … Cold Pork with Sage and Caraway dressing … roasted carrots in ginger glaze … Summer Squash Torte with Cheese … poached pears in spiced syrup … apple mousse with almond milk … sugared almond torte … and wafers. Lots of wafers. The potboys were ecstatic. And the Baron Crossan declared that when these present “troubles” were over, he might just forget which road led home.

Despite His Lordship’s insistence that she needn’t “taste” his food any longer, she appeared at his side at each meal to receive firsthand his reaction to what was served. The way he struggled to contain his pleasure in the food, the way his eyes lingered ever longer on her, and the increasing frequency of incidental brushes of his hands against her hinted that his resolve to keep their vows from changing anything in his life was wavering.

With each dish she produced and each meal her kitchen served, Julia refined the plan that had been developing in her mind and set another part of it in motion. Critical to her success, however, were two things available only at Verdun: Grand Jean’s book and a quantity of truffles. To that end, she sent a message to Sophie of Verdun by one of the older and shiftier potboys.

“That’s a cinch,” Raoul said with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’m good at gettin’ in an’ out, wi’out bein’ seen.”

“You must place this letter”—she wrapped his fingers around the rolled parchment—“directly into Lady Sophie’s hands. Only hers. She is shorter than me and pretty, with dark hair and eyes. She shouldn’t be hard to spot.”

“I’ll find ’er, milady. She’ll have it a’fore nightfall.”

It was risky, sending a message to Sophie. If the boy was caught it might be seen as disloyalty—Bertrand’s betrayal had pierced Griffin of Grandaise to the core. Even a suspicion of betrayal would ruin her with him. But she had to try.

It was late and the lamps were burning low that night when a bedraggled and breathless potboy burst through the kitchen door. Julia rushed to help her messenger to a stool at the table.

“Are you all right?” she asked anxiously and sagged with relief when he nodded. “And did you deliver it? Into her very hand?”

The lad nodded, grinning. “She’s pretty, milady. But not as pretty as you.”

Julia laughed and set a whole plate of wafers before him.

The next midday, just before dinner, one of the potboys came rushing into the kitchen calling for Julia. “Come, milady—there’s someone askin’ for ye.”

Julia wiped her damp hands on her apron and hurried outside, thinking it might be a messenger with the truffles from Verdun. She stopped stock-still at the sight of Lady Sophie standing in the kitchen yard, wearing a hooded cloak and a determined expression. In her arms were a large black book and a cloth-covered basket, and behind her, a groom holding her baggage-laden horse.

“Sophie!” Julia was so surprised she could scarcely say the name. “What are you doing here?”

“You asked for these”—she held out the book and basket—“and I decided to bring them myself.”

“Oh, Sophie!” She opened her arms and hurried to engulf the lady of Verdun in a huge, boisterous hug. “I can’t tell you what this means to me! How can I ever thank you?”

“I had a devil of a time getting into your old chamber to search for that book. And Francois—ever since that night you cooked with him, he’s been snarly and secretive. I had to wait till he was out of the kitchen and steal into the larder to filch these ‘truffle’ things.” Sophie drew back enough to unload the things into her arms. “This better be important.” At closer range, Julia noted an uncharacteristic trace of strain and uncertainty in her expression.

“It is. Very important,” Julia said, touching Sophie’s cheek. “Goodness, Sophie, you’ve taken a terrible risk coming here. If your father finds out—”

“He’ll have a royal fit. He’ll stomp and swear like a devil and probably behead somebody.” She tossed her head strongly enough to send her hood sliding down to her shoulders. “But it won’t be me.”

“Don’t be so sure—” Julia recalled her encounter with Bardot of Verdun.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Sophie said tautly. “Because I’m not going back there.”

“What?” Julia blinked, thinking surely she had misheard. “You mean—”

“I’m not going back to Verdun. Ever.” She squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “I need shelter and protection. Do you think your ‘beast’ would be willing to take me in?”

Julia took her in to the kitchen and sat her down at one of the empty work tables. Sophie looked around in astonishment.

“This is exactly like Francois’s kitchen at Verdun,” she said.

“Exactly. Remember, I said to Francois that our kitchens were identical. He didn’t seem pleased to hear it.”