The Marriage Test (27 page)

“Why would he be?” Sophie said. “He brags about how he planned it and how unique it is in all of France.” She frowned. “But that’s not true.”

“No, it’s not.” Julia smiled, wondering what she would say when she met
the Beast.
“There may be quite a few surprises in store for you at Grandaise.”

She introduced Sophie to Regine and enlisted the sister’s aid in keeping her presence there a secret until the appropriate time to reveal it. Together they got her some wine to steady her nerves and, between sending the two evening courses up to the hall, listened to her story.

“I thought when you married the Bea—
the count
that I would be free … that perhaps my father would consider making me a match with someone I know … someone who …” Sophie lowered her gaze to her cup, cleared her throat and composed herself. “But as soon as you rode off with your count”—she looked up at Julia—“he was already scheming to barter me off to some German prince.”

Tears came to Sophie’s eyes, but she glared so hotly that they dried before falling.

“I heard my father laughing and saying the prince is monstrously fat … that his first wife died when he rolled over on her in bed.”

Julia made a choked sound that was halfway between a laugh and a gasp. She and Regine looked at each other and reached for Sophie’s hands.

“Well, you’re safe here,” Julia declared. “I’m sure His Lordship will give you sanctuary.” She chewed the corner of her lip, thinking. “I just have to find the right time to tell him that you’re here.”

From the cover of outbuildings at the edge of the village around Grandaise, Martin de Gies watched the front gate for sign of a gray horse and rider.

“Dammit, Sophie,” he swore quietly, glancing up to judge the late hour by the red streaks in the sky overhead. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He thought of his men and the column of smoke they had been riding to investigate that morning when he spotted a familiar gray horse and cloaked rider headed along the edge of the trees across the fields from Verdun’s main gates. By now, Gerard and the men would have assessed the situation, rendered what aid they could, and reported back to the garrison. All without him. And he would have to explain, when he returned, what had made him send the patrol on without him.

Sophie. If he went back now he would have to reveal that he’d spotted her on horseback, unescorted, riding east, and that by the time he tracked her through the woods, he had found her riding furiously for the gates of Grandaise.

He couldn’t imagine what had possessed her to head straight for the seat of her father’s sworn enemy, but he had a good idea of what had set her to flight in the first place. For the past three days she had teased and enchanted and out-and-out seduced him … had melted his reason, resolve, and resistance … and all but succeeded in reducing his defenses to cinders. He’d been on the brink of throwing her down on her bed and giving her exactly what she was asking for when she whispered into his overheated ear that both she and Verdun were his for the taking … words that seemed like a betrayal of his oath to his lord and his sense of honor … words that rattled his very bones with their potent allure.

After following her to Grandaise, he stopped long enough to remove his armor, hide his colors, and swipe a ragged cloak from a clothing line to cover his leather jerkin and sword. By keeping to the edge of the outlying barns and sheds he had managed to escape detection. But if Grandaise’s men found him here, just outside their walls, his life was probably forfeit.

And if he returned home without Sophie, he could face a similar fate. Her father had trusted him with her safekeeping. If anything happened to her …

A stab of loss struck him, sending an ache of longing fanning through his chest. If anything happened to her—to those big brown eyes, sweetly petulant lips, and saucy tongue—he would never be able to forgive himself.

He couldn’t imagine what she was doing in the hall of her father’s dreaded rival, or how he was going to convince his seigneur that she had gone there of her own free will. His only hope was to get her out of there and home again before her father found them
both
missing.

“Go home, Sophie. Don’t make me come in there after you.”

It had been a long, arduous day and showed every sign of getting longer. As Griffin entered his hall, he removed his sooty gauntlets and brushed at the combination of dust and ash that had collected between the links of his mail. He had ridden out early to investigate a column of smoke spotted by one of the tower sentries. On the way, he encountered a family of displaced shepherds and discovered that their cottage, situated on his pasture lands, had been set on fire by ill-dressed but well-armed men who wore no colors.

They might as well have worn their red and white, Griffin thought. He knew exactly where they had come from.

It was a cruel and cowardly attack, coming just at dawn and aimed at simple people who had nothing to steal and no weapons to defend themselves. The worst of it was, they had returned to their cottage just yesterday, after having spent several days in the safety of their lord’s walls. He and his men spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon riding to other outlying cottages and bringing the vulnerable folk back into the safety of Grandaise.

He and his patrol had missed dinner and as they returned, all the men could talk about was what they hoped Lady Julia would have for them at supper. They each had favorite dishes and described them in such loving detail that he felt his stomach rumbling and his patience dissolving in the water his mouth was making. Now he felt fatigued and gritty and ravenous … in no condition to have to encounter Julia’s delectable food and even more delectable presence.

Night after night he sat there in his hall, in his chair, watching and wanting her … being stewed in his own damned juices. He knew what she was doing. Being cooperative and reasonable and diligent. Letting his own passions do her work for her. And they were. Dammit.

He wanted nothing more than to scoop her off her feet, bear her straight up to his chambers, and love her until he worked out the ache in his body and the fever in his blood. But his desire for her had already wreaked havoc on his standing with the king and brought him to the brink of war. Imagine what catastrophes awaited should he ever truly tried to make her his wife!

“Supper is a bit delayed, milord,” Arnaud the Steward said to him as he strode onto the dais and handed off his gauntlets and helm to his squire. He looked at Griffin’s streaked face and dusty mail and smiled apologetically. “If you would like, milord, I can have water sent to your chambers so that you may bathe and change your clothes as you wait.”

Grumbling at the delay in supper but grateful for a few moments of solitude, he trudged up the steps to his chambers, where a crew of house women had begun filling his great copper-lined tub with heated water. At that moment, the sight of the steam rising from the water and the prospect of soaking his aching body in warmth were every bit as welcome as a platter of well-peppered beef.

His squire helped to remove his armor and boots. When the women left, he stepped naked into that beckoning tub, sank into the water, and groaned as his squire brought him a tankard of mulled wine. He drank and soaked and let his head drop back and his eyes close … gradually letting go of the day’s strains and worries. Around him footsteps and scrapes indicating movement told him his squire was dusting and putting away his garments and laying out fresh ones …

“Wake up, milord. Your supper awaits.” A voice cut through the pleasant darkness … a familiar voice … a woman’s voice. He sat up with a jerk and fumbled to keep from emptying the dregs of his tankard into his bathwater. Sitting on a chair across from the end of his tub was the subject of the tantalizing dream he had just been forced to abandon. There she was. In the flesh. Looking warm and fresh and delectable enough to eat.

“What the devil—” He reddened, checking to see how much of him was exposed. Thankfully, not much; the water was gray from the soap. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to give you a taste of something,” she said, leaving the chair to kneel beside the tub. That was when he realized she had a covered dish in her hands.

“You invaded my bath to—to—”

“Bring you something to eat. You are hungry, aren’t you?” she said calmly, discarding the lid and drawing out a wedge of what appeared to be custard pie or tart. “I think you may remember this.” She held it up toward him, urging him to take a bite.

“This is absurd. You shouldn’t be here.” He looked around frantically, feeling a prickle of anxiety running over his scalp. “Where is my squire?”

“Not here. Try this, milord. I made it specially for you.” She smiled and he hoped it wasn’t because she could see his growing panic.

“Cooks do not invade their lords’ chambers and force-feed them tarts,” he declared irritably, staring at that morsel and feeling his mouth begin to water. “I am about to leave my bath, and if you don’t remove yourself, you’ll have only yourself to blame when you’re subjected to the sight of a man’s nakedness.” When she didn’t move, he glowered and leaned forward with an air of threat.

“Don’t expect me to pick you up when you faint,” he announced, clapping hands on the side of the tub as if preparing to rise. “If you swoon, you’ll lie where you fall until my squire comes and scrapes you up.”

“I’m a cook, not a bride, remember? Nothing on your person could possibly unhinge me.” She narrowed her eyes defiantly. “I’ve seen oxen and capons and even
sausages
being made.”

She shoved the pie an inch closer, with a stubborn look. She was calling him on his threat, and he wasn’t certain which was more alarming … his desperation to have her go or his desire to have her stay.

“All right, dammit. If it will get you to leave,” he said, his voice suddenly thick. He bit off a piece and as he chewed, his heart all but stopped.

He knew that taste. An egg-based custard flavored by chunks of rich pink-fleshed fish and a musky, garlicky, mushroom-like flavor that coated his mouth like culinary velvet. It was a heaven-inspired pairing of the very best produce of land and sea …
salmon and truffles.
He chewed slowly, luxuriating in the tastes, feeling the flavors seeping up the back of his throat into his head, rattling the closed and padlocked gates of his sense of smell.

“Where did you get—” He looked at her with his mouth drooping and she stuffed another bite of the torte into it. He chewed, feeling a shiver course through him. He seized the remainder of the piece and took the third bite on his own. “How did you ever find—where did you get this recipe?”

“We cooks have our sources, milord. You do recognize the taste?”

He caught the knowing glint in her eyes and felt a quake of anticipation run through his body. She knew something she couldn’t possibly know. But just now the larger part of his consciousness was focused on that well-remembered and often-longed-for taste.

“Truffles,” he said thickly, his mouth already watering for more.

“Salmon Truffle Torte,” she said, then braced on the side of the tub and pushed to her feet. “There is more, milord. Lots more.” Her voice was low and earthy and as thick with the potential for pleasure as the torte she had just fed him. “But you have to get out of the tub and come with me to get it.”

At that moment he would have followed her to the end of the earth. Stark naked.

He rose out of the water like Neptune himself, and stalked out of the tub and across the stone floor to the toweling draped over a stool. His legs were a little weak and he could feel memories and emotions stirring in him … palpable and volatile and not a little alarming. He turned his back to her so she wouldn’t see how his hands were trembling. He pulled on a pair of tights and then a long shirt and simple tunic. The moment his belt was on, she took him by the hand and led him out the door and up the winding stairs.

The sentry lookout was much as it had been a fortnight ago. The large wooden shutters were thrown back to the open air and there were hampers stacked around, and a linen-draped table was set before the bench on the balcony. His mouth began to water and the hollow feeling in his middle intensified as he sank onto the edge of the cushion-strewn seat and watched her light several candles and place them just out of the breeze. In the sky overhead, the dusky rose of evening had given place to encroaching purple hues. He gripped his knees and watched her swaying toward him with something in her hands.

She slid onto the cushion-littered seat beside him and held out a spoon of something. After a moment, he opened his mouth and was rewarded by another taste he hadn’t experienced in more than seven years: Oyster and Truffle Soup.

Upon his first bite, his eyes closed. On his second, he gave a ragged sigh. His third he rolled around in his mouth, savoring the meatiness of the oysters, the richness of the broth, and the pungent flavor of the mushrooms.

“It’s been a long time since I had oysters,” he said, his voice resonant with pleasure he couldn’t suppress. “Especially with truffles.”

“The oysters came from Bordeaux,” she said, edging closer.

“And the truffles?” he asked, taking another bite.

“We cooks have our—”

“Sources,” he finished for her, staring into her softened smile and shimmering eyes. He lost track of everything else for a moment … until she guided his hand to fill the spoon and raise it to his mouth. And while he was occupied with imbibing that liquid paradise, she slipped the band from his nose.

“Hey!” He tried to grab it back but she refused to release it, looking steadily into his gaze, making him think about what she was doing.

“You won’t need this tonight,” she said softly, exerting just enough force to take it from him and lay in on the table by his trencher.

He stared at the curled band of metal on the white linen and realized what she was doing. For the last seven years that band of steel had been his sole defense against both the sensory assaults of the world and his own charged and overpowering emotions. Tonight, she was stripping him of that defense and demanding that he let his emotions run wherever his potent senses led. The alarming thing was that she had no idea where those complex and volatile emotions could lead. And for once, he didn’t, either.

“This isn’t fair, you know,” he declared.

“Fair? You expect ‘fair’ from a maid who was sold by an abbess to a nobleman who all but imprisoned her in his kitchen and made her cook for hours on end without a single word of praise or simple gratitude?”

He stared at her heart-shaped face with its stubborn chin; at the clear, bright mind visible inside those haunting eyes; and at the strong, sleek little body honed by exertion to withstand hours of intense labor. She was right. She was no shrinking violet or easily bruised lily. She was a strong, capable, intelligent young woman. And she was demanding to be let into the heart she had already laid siege to and won.

He closed his eyes and prayed he wasn’t making a huge mistake. Because, if she were willing to weather the storms that were coming their way …

Then it was done.

His decision made, he lifted the bowl of soup to his nose and took a long, slow breath. His eyes closed as the vapors—mingled scents of earth and sea, perfectly blended—curled through his deprived and ravenous sense, reaching for the very core of him.

“He made them for you, didn’t he?” she said quietly, near his ear. “Grand Jean.” He opened his eyes and nodded.

“How did you know?”

She smiled and left the bench. He continued to eat and by the time he reached the bottom of the bowl, she was back with an uncovered platter.

Rich scents billowed up from an artful fan of slices of golden, sautéed capon … basking in a sauce made of truffles and mushrooms in wine and almond cream. For a moment he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink.

Then she draped a slice onto a finger of bread and offered it to him.

Flavors and smells that seemed to come from both the depths of earth and the heights of Heaven filled his head. He ate that piece, then another, and another …

Memories and old lessons mingled with new desires and awareness to burst through the last of his carefully wrought restraints. He looked up into her eyes, his head filled with potent scents from his past and his body filled with warmth from her nearness, and saw his past and future merging.

He reached for her, drew her close to him on the bench, and startled her by putting a piece of the capon into her mouth. She groaned softly and melted against his shoulder. Her eyes glistened and her lips reddened as she licked sauce from them. When she looked up at him … open and heart naked … he glimpsed what this dinner, this special bid to his senses and passion was meant to accomplish. She wanted to be fully that which fortune, guile, desire, and perhaps even the Almighty Himself had conspired to make her.

The next instant his lips covered hers. Her scents curled through him … the dark soil and garlic fragrance of truffles on her hands and near her mouth … she tasted while cooking. The hint of long pepper remaining on her fingers … the musk of warm cream and newly ground flour … the tart, winey sweetness of early pears … cinnamon and nutmeg … the dust of ground almonds … the more subtle layering of lavender and fresh soap …

She was not only the cook, he realized, she was the feast.

His feast.

In that moment he knew. Abbess, count, duke, king … none of them, not even all of them together were going to keep him from having this woman. Pulling her onto his lap, he kissed her and accepted unequivocally—for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health—everything she had just offered him.