When she spotted the hulking Cheval standing near his hearths just watching the heat-flushed turnspits working, Julia dragged the big fellow to the dough trough, thrust a wooden paddle into his powerful hands, and bade him stir as she added the combined water and ale to the flour. Periodically, she halted him to add a bit of salt and check the consistency. When the dough met her standards, she sent four of the younger girls to wash their hands, then put them to work cutting and rolling circles of pastry.
A trio of young knights came bursting through the door; two laughing at the third’s dripping wet head, which had obviously been pushed completely under in the trough. They were so busy enjoying their jests at their unfortunate comrade’s expense that they didn’t recognize at first that it was their lord’s back they saw seated at the table.
“There she is,” one declared broadly. “All that was said and more.”
“Sugar and spice made flesh,” the second declared with a gallant bow.
“A sight to make the heart beat fas—” The third didn’t get his compliment fully out of his mouth before he stopped dead, skewered by his lord’s glare.
“Milord.” The first gallant straightened and nodded to his lord. “We came to welcome our lovely new cook to Grandaise.”
“Whose
cook?” Griffin said, turning slowly to face them.
“Why,
y-your
cook, milord.” The second fellow said uneasily, sensing they had trespassed, and reading in their lord’s face that he was right.
“Some bread and eggs for my loyal knights to take with them to the practice field,” he ordered Julia, making the dual point that she was his to command … and so were they. When there was no movement from where she stood, he turned to her with a scowl. She met his gaze with a stubborn look, squared her shoulders, and wiped the flour from her hands.
“Have a seat, good sirs, while I fetch you some ale.”
“They can get ale in the hall,” he said sharply.
“They can get it here as well, and save themselves steps.” She nodded to the stools and the three looked uneasily between their lord and his cook.
“They take morning ale in the hall with their fellows. There is no reason to change that.”
“Except to offer hospitality,” she declared, striding to the table where he sat. “It appears to me that you would benefit from a greater spirit of hospitality, milord … even within your own household. Hospitality makes for alliances and alliances make for strength.” She sliced a loaf of bread three ways and slathered each piece with butter. As she handed it to them, she nodded again to the stools.
Griffin reddened. Tossing the last of his food aside, he shoved to his feet and glowered at his men.
“Take your food and go.
Now.”
They didn’t have to be told twice; they had seen that look in his eyes too many times not to know what it meant. The instant they quitted the door, he turned on her with his anger blazing.
“Don’t
ever
take it upon yourself to interfere between me and my men again. When I give an order I must have complete and immediate obedience—lives may depend on it. Fighting men cannot look with respect on a lord who is countermanded and ordered about by a
cook!”
Some of the high color drained from her face.
“I am sorry, milord.” She seemed genuinely stunned by the intensity of his reproach. “I did not meant to intrude between you and your men. I had no thought of doing any such thing.”
Griffin felt his nerves vibrating inside his limbs as he stared down into her huge green eyes, and felt a bit ashamed of the magnitude of his reaction. If only she wasn’t so arrogant and outlandishly brazen, he wouldn’t have to—
“But truly, milord, a kitchen is nothing like a battlefield.” Her voice grew measured and insufferably reasonable. “Your men surely know the difference.”
“They were not where they were supposed to be,” he said irritably, feeling his ire rising again. “And they were intruding on my kitchens.”
“But they weren’t in the way, milord. And they have to eat somewhere. Why does it matter if they break fast here instead of in the hall?”
“If it were only a matter of food,” he said tautly, knowing now that she would not let it lie until her suspicions and his motives were both aired, “they would never have come to the kitchen.”
“Of course it was a matter of food.” That defiant edge was creeping back into her voice. “What else would they seek in a kitchen?”
He looked up to see every hand in the kitchen still and every eye turn on them with eager fascination. He seized her by the arm and pulled her out the door with him into the dubious privacy of the open kitchen yard.
“You may have spent most of your life in a convent, demoiselle, but you cannot be that blind.”
“Blind?”
“You cannot think they came here for food.”
“Sir Axel said he was famished, as did Sir Greeve. My food is worthy of seeking out. You yourself—”
“Look.” He seized her other shoulder and drew her up to face him, intent on making an impression on her. “I know these men. I’ve trained them and taken them into battle and into relief after battle. I know their intents and their desires. And I know they do not pour out honeyed words and flattery in a woman’s ear unless they seek something in return.”
“Of course they seek something:
breakfast!”
He gave her a shake that only made her more resistant to his meaning.
“Don’t feign innocence with me, Julia of Childress. You know they came to see you as a woman, to flatter and court you. And I tell you now, I will not allow that … not now, not ever.” The vehemence of those words reverberated in his very core. “I have sworn to preserve you and return you to your convent in a year so that you may take vows and offer yourself to God. I intend to do exactly that. If I have to lock you up in the kitchen in order to do it—so help me God—I will!” He knew beyond all doubt that it was more than just keeping his word in an ill-begotten bargain that created such vehemence in him … there was beneath his determination a thwarted and unsettling urge for possession.
She wrenched her arms free. As she stood glaring at him with all the heat and passion she possessed, her eyes filled with moisture and her body began to tremble. Her voice came low and full of emotions that found resonance in the hollow that had opened in him the moment she set eyes on his knights and opened like a morning glory.
“And what if I don’t want to go back?”
She whirled and charged into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. He stood staring at the door for a moment with her words rumbling about in that alarming emptiness inside him.
Dear God.
What if she wouldn’t return to the convent?
An edict went out that day, spread quietly through the house, grounds, and garrison: The kitchens were off limits to all but the assigned kitchen staff. There was more grumbling among the men of the garrison, some of whom who were accustomed to stopping by the kitchens on their way to and from the stables and practice fields to get a sample of dinner and flirt with the kitchen wenches. But Reynard, Axel, and Greeve quelled the dissent by reminding them that the improved food that resulted would more than make up for the inconvenience.
As if to prove that assertion, dinner arrived just after midday in the hall, heralded by clean cloths on the tables, salt cellars aplenty, and cups ready for the cellar master to fill. Julia herself escorted the first round of servers into the hall, bearing baskets of wooden bowls and bread trenchers. As they were being distributed, the huskier servers arrived carrying heavy kettles of beans cooked with generous chunks of rendered bacon and baked in a pepper, onion, mustard, and honey sauce. The aroma wafted up from the kettles to set mouths watering and tongues wagging.
She stopped first by Griffin’s chair to watch them ladle out his portion.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Overseeing the serving, milord. As a good cook should.”
“That won’t be necessary. Return to the kitchens.”
He could see that she was annoyed by the dismissal. She stood for a moment, studying him as if deciding whether or not to obey.
“Where is your taster, milord?” She glanced up and down the long table.
He glowered. “Are you saying I have need of one?”
“I would think it a necessity for a nobleman in your situation, milord,” she answered. “Having enemies close at hand and a cook who clearly has not yet earned your trust.”
“Fine.” He shoved the bowl across the linen toward her. “You taste it.”
“Very well. To assure you that your cook and kitchens have nothing but your best interest at heart …” She pulled her tasting spoon from her belt, lifted his bowl, and took a bite of the bean pottage.
“Mmmm.” She licked her lips and made a show of waving some of the vapors toward her nose, inhaling, and closing her eyes briefly. “I love this dish. It combines the heat of mustard and the sweet of honey with the meaty richness of beans. The flavors create an unexpected harmony. That is what fine cooking does, you know … it brings about unexpected harmonies.”
He realized his mouth was drooping and clamped it shut.
“I believe it’s safe to eat this one, milord.” She nodded to order the servers to continue around the tables.
Stifling the urge to strangle her, he dragged the bowl back in front of him and dug in with his spoon. In two bites he confirmed all she had just said. It
was
good. Dammit. As pottages went, it was neat and tasty and rather novel. None of his other cooks had presented such a combination to him. He looked around as he munched. His men were wolfing it down and calling for seconds.
“How is it, milord?” she asked, a smile teasing one corner of her lips.
He didn’t bother to look up.
“Different.”
Soon the kettles were removed and replaced by platters bearing a second course: pasties fried to golden perfection and dusted with herbs and spices. Chicken, spinach, onion, and a dry and tangy cheese were wrapped in a tender, delectable crust. All over the hall there were groans of anticipation.
Griffin took several from the tray and would have begun eating straightaway if she hadn’t appeared at his side with her arms crossed.
“I would not keep my men from eating,” he said defensively, referring to the custom that the lord of the hall must open each course. She took the pasty from him and broke it open. Steam rose from the meat and cheese packed inside, and she inhaled ostentatiously.
“A very nice balance of humors and flavors, if I do say so.” She took a bite. “Next time, I think I’ll try minced lamb, mild cheese, and add a bit of nutmeg.” Finishing the morsel, she licked her lips. “It is quite safe, milord.”
No, it wasn’t, Griffin thought as he dragged his eyes from her glistening lips and bit into what was left of the first pasty. It wasn’t safe at all. This tingling in his fingertips was like an alarm bell. She was up to something.
But his attention was quickly stolen by the pasties … the firm, golden crust, the flavors of the filling—savory to piquant—which were blended into a tasty and satisfying mouthful. They were even better than he’d hoped. First the pottage and now the pasties managed to tantalize him entirely without the help of scent. Only genuinely fine food could accomplish that. As he looked around the hall at the jovial faces of his knights and men and retainers, he envied them the pleasure their ordinary noses added to their eating.
“You said you liked pasties, milord. How do you find these?”
He could tell she was smiling by her voice and refused to look at her.
“I’ll eat them,” he declared flatly.
By the time the third course arrived, Reynard, Axel, Greeve, Bertrand, and the rest of his knights were licking their fingers and scooping out the soppy centers from their bread trenchers. When they saw the capon and beef, both roasted to brown-tinged perfection, and smelled the sauces meant for the meats, they began to joke about fighting all comers for the rights to an entire platter.
When Griffin was served meat and bowls of sauce, he tensed with anticipation and felt his heart beat more vigorously … even without the heavenly aromas. When she didn’t appear at his side straightaway, he looked around and found her down the main table, speaking with his younger knights. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks were glowing like ripe peaches, and the idiots were staring at her as if she were sugared and set on a tray.
Suddenly he knew: She was here in the hall for more than just seeing that her food was served properly … for more than tormenting him with the limits of his unique affliction …
“And what if I don’t want to go back?”
The image of her that morning in the kitchen yard returned to him with a vengeance. At the time, part of him had felt a guilty twinge of satisfaction at the thought that she might rather stay here and cook for
him.
Now, with deepening alarm, he watched her working her way down the table past Reynard to Axel and Greeve and Bertrand and beyond. The gracious smiles she aimed at his knights raked his pride like cat’s claws. It occurred to him that if she didn’t want to go back to the convent, it might not be because she wanted to stay here and cook for him. She might have other ambitions, other plans … which would of necessity involve finding someone to beguile into helping her … a man … of his garrison, his hall.
Dammit. He’d have to find a way to keep her at his fingertips and then keep those fingertips at a full arm’s length from the rest of him.
“Demoiselle Julia!” he called irritably. The sound of his raised voice reduced the noise in the hall by half. When she abandoned her new friends to approach his chair, her face alight, he felt a disconcerting heat ignite in the pit of his stomach.
“Yes, milord?”
“Since you have appointed yourself my taster, I suggest you see to your duty.” He gestured sharply to the untouched beef on his trencher. The smile left her face as she bit back whatever it was that she was tempted to say.
She rolled a slice of the beef on his trencher and dunked it into the sauce.
Against his better judgment, he watched her lips close around that meat and felt every muscle in his body tense with expectation. When she chewed, clearly savoring the tastes, he felt his mouth begin to water. Her swallowing conjured the same action in his tightened throat.
She borrowed his napkin to wipe her fingers and dab her lips.
“As you can see, milord, I am still hale and well,” she said crisply.
He took a bite and the meat all but melted in his mouth, leaving a lingering sensation of sweet and sour on his tongue. Damned, if this wasn’t excellent beef! He ate several more pieces, reveling privately in the beefy flavor, juiciness, and tender texture. Then he tried the capon in Jance sauce and quelled an involuntary groan. Ginger tingled his tongue at the top of other piquant sensations, and he briefly closed his eyes. For all the trouble she caused, the woman certainly knew how to—
Musical, feminine laughter reached him, floating above the coarser male rumbles in the hall, jolting him back from the realm of satisfaction. Alarm filled him as he spotted Axel and Greeve trundling one of the hearth stools over to the table to seat Julia in the midst of his knights.
“Axel! Greeve!” he called out. The pair snapped upright. “Bring that over here.” The two complied with such visible disappointment that he felt compelled to add: “If the demoiselle insists on being my taster, she must stay close at hand.” Then he thumped the seat of the stool they had placed between his chair and Sir Reynard’s. “Sit, demoiselle. By your own word, you have made this your place in the hall.”
She sat, sensing she was being reined in, and gripped her knees.
“How is the beef, milord?”
“It melts to nothing in my mouth.” He didn’t make it sound like a compliment. She supplied the proper term.
“So it is
tender,
then. And how about the sauce, milord?”
He chewed for a moment, apparently thinking.
“Not very … peppery.”
Julia settled onto the stool, watching him plod through the trencher of meat and poultry as if he were an ox munching hay, and longed desperately for a club. A
big
one.
How dare he behave as if her food were unworthy of compliment?
She glanced down the table to Axel and Greeve, who were consuming the same meat and sauces with an almost worshipful demeanor. Admittedly, the pair were more appreciative of good food and more effusive of expression than most men. But up and down the head table, knights and retainers were moaning with pleasure and exclaiming with surprise and delight at the quality of the fare. Of the over four score people in the hall, only His Lordship acted as if the food were unremarkable. Why?
It wasn’t the food. She knew that was pleasurable; she had tasted and corrected and brought it along herself, and knew it to be at a peak of flavor and desirability. Why wouldn’t he just admit it was good? She stared at the flexing muscles in his jaw as he chewed, and felt a curious trickle of arousal that might have been rising anger or rising interest. Scowling, she sat straighter to banish it. Was his taste so linked to his sense of smell that he couldn’t appreciate food without it? If so, why had he bothered to bring her here?
As he turned from speaking to one of his vintagers, he caught her staring at him and she flushed and turned quickly away. When she could refocus her gaze, it ran into Sir Reynard’s and he gave her a somewhat apologetic smile that spoke volumes. She turned to him on her stool.
“It has been some time since we’ve seen you in the kitchen, Sir Reynard.”
“I’ve been busy overseeing patrols and training with the men.”
“All of this wretched training you do … surely you could make a little time for yourself.” She gave him a wistful smile. “And us.”
“The men and I”—he glanced up, past her shoulder, and the look that registered in his face made her realize His Lordship was watching them—“have important duties, demoiselle.”
“Important, perhaps. But none half so pleasant as tasting cherry and cinnamon rissoles, fresh out of the fryer.”
“I cannot argue that.” He smiled ruefully, his face almost boyish. “Alas, duty must come before pleasure, demoiselle.” He turned adamantly back to his food, cutting off further conversation.
Frustrated, she looked around and ran headlong into His Lordship’s gaze. This time, he leaned toward her and lowered his voice.
“Don’t waste your time there, demoiselle.” When she frowned as if she hadn’t taken his meaning, he nodded to the noble Reynard. “He’s sworn to God and to me, until he swears to a wife. And he takes his vows most seriously.”
“Really, milord—” She was taken by surprise and couldn’t mount a proper protest.
“Really,
demoiselle,” he responded. “You would do well to consider your own future vows.” Then he dismissed the topic as he waved to the fritters. “I may as well save Fleur the trouble of eating a few more of those things.”
Her vows.
Stinging privately, she served him more fritters and folded her arms with a huff. So, he knew she had ulterior motives; that was the real reason he isolated her on a stool beside his chair. It should be no surprise; she had all but admitted she had mutinous intentions that morning in the kitchen yard. And she could scarcely blame him for wanting to interfere with her plans. He had, after all, given his word.
Her face reddened as she kicked a few absurdly personal conjectures about his motives back into a dark corner of her mind.
But if he thought he was going to hand her back to the abbess at the end of the year, he was sadly mistaken. She would find someone to marry her, even if she had to court an entire garrison with her food. She looked at the eager faces of the men up and down the tables. One of them was going to be hers. It was just a matter of finding one who loved her food enough to defy a duke, a bishop, and an abbess to have it.