Griffin looked around the mostly empty chamber. The floor had been scrubbed scrupulously clean; there wasn’t a trace of bird droppings or a spider web. Stacked against a near wall were several willow hampers, kettles, and crocks, and a set of poles for transporting them. Nearby was another small table laden with cloth-covered trays and bowls. He turned back to the table laid for him … trying to keep his wits about him … making himself think about what motives might lie behind this exceptional display.
The linen was as white as new. His own silver trencher and wine cup nestled in rings of pristine napkins. He needed a drink but when he started to sip, his cup was empty. The heat igniting in his stomach told him where the wine had gone. That alarmed him; he didn’t remember drinking it.
Knowing he would probably regret it, he allowed himself to be pushed toward the bench and sat down onto the cushions. She nudged the table closer to him and lifted a lid on a thick earthen crock sitting on it. He could almost see the vapors curling around her head as she inhaled the aroma of the pottage.
“Ahhh.” She smiled and began to ladle out what she called “Oxtail Brewet.” It was a rich broth thick with beef and marrow, in which steeped barley, onion, pepper, and small, sweet red carrots. His mouth began to water.
“All I ask is …”
Here it comes, he thought, bracing his hands against the edge of the table. The change that came over his face made her hesitate.
“… that you take the band from your nose and smell the food.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Something akin to relief flooded through him.
“If you’d like, I’ll leave. I’ll wait outside and you can call for me when you’re ready for the next course.”
Was she serious? Gripping the table, he looked around and weighed her words. A light breeze ruffled his hair. She’d chosen a place high above the miasma of smells that came from the stables and pens, the smithy and storage barns, the dairy and slaughterhouse, the privies and middens. A place with a light breeze to dilute the intensity of the sensations. A place where he and his reactions couldn’t be seen or heard or judged.
He stared at her without speaking. How had she known the exact conditions he needed in order to free his sense of smell? Then he realized: She had seen him without the band on his nose in the forest. She was certainly clever enough to deduce why he was drawn to it.
She had thought about him.
The pulse of warmth that idea generated in him said he was in trouble. He couldn’t summon a grain of resistance to this calculated appeal to his senses.
He looked down at the rich brewet, picked up the spoon, and took a bite.
He closed his eyes. Beef and marrow and onion and pepper … with a touch of rich red wine. It rolled over his tongue and down his throat, sending a wave of response through his body. Ahhhh. He opened his eyes, chagrined to find he had closed them. What were those herbs that blended with the wine enough to speak their presence, but not enough to say their names?
By the third bite, he couldn’t keep from groaning. By the fourth the curiosity and the impatience to experience the food fully were gaining the upper hand. By the fifth, he braced himself and ripped the steel band from his nose.
The assault of sensation he always feared and frequently encountered on his first breath … didn’t happen. It was the breeze that saved him. His entire body relaxed as mild, clean air filled his head along with his lungs. Among the scents of hay and ripening oats and grinding wheat from the mill, he caught just enough of the remaining scents of horse and stable to feel at home. Then he lowered his head toward the bowl and inhaled.
The succulence of the beef broth and marrow seeped through his head, blending with and enhancing the tastes. Bay leaf and basil … wine from his own cellars … pepper freshly ground … beef … a trace of applewood smoke … it was ambrosial. He ate spoon after spoonful, holding each to his nose and relishing the complex blend of flavors and essences. And he felt the tight grip he held on his apparatus of sensual appreciation begin to slip.
He looked up, surprised to find her standing not far away, and shoved the bowl toward her with one ragged word.
“More.”
As she refilled the bowl, he realized she was keeping downwind. Smart girl. He kept forgetting just how clever she was. As he consumed a second portion, she began to pull things from hampers to assemble the second course.
“Pie, milord. A golden pie of cheeses, mushrooms, crisped bacon, and onions.” She cut a generous slice, set it on his trencher, and withdrew several paces. “I saw how you enjoyed the Herbed Chard and Cheese Pie and thought you might enjoy this one even more.”
She was right.
He groaned fully now, no longer willing or able to hide his pleasure.
“Spices,” he declared with his mouth full, pointing at the pie. “What herbs and spices are in there?”
“Thyme, milord. And pepper, of course. And lesser amounts of marjoram and rosemary.” Her eyes widened as she watched him begin to sway on his seat, as if to some unheard melody.
“Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I ate food like this?”
“Yesterday,” she answered. “And the day before and the day before that. You’ve been eating food like this for two weeks, milord.”
“Dear God.”
He stuffed the rest of the piece in his mouth while she drew a bread trencher from a basket and slipped it onto his platter. Then she produced a crock and a covered pewter dish from another basket, and served him medallions of vinegar-marinated venison covered with a thick, aromatic civet made of raisins and almonds, bacon and onions, wine, and a blend of ginger and cinnamon. He gasped and grabbed a slice with his fingers.
“This is heavenly. Nectar. Fit for the angels themselves.” He filled his mouth with it and moaned, concentrating on how the sweet and sour flavors blended flawlessly and filled his head.
Somewhere in the middle of that Sweet and Sour Civet of Venison, his appetite slid beyond his control. His mouth watered profusely, his stomach contracted as if it were still ravenously empty, and his belly and loins both ached with physical longing. He wanted more … wanted to smell it, inhale it, absorb it … revel in it. It was suddenly all he could do to sit still.
“Demoiselle Julia …” His voice scraped the bottom of its register as she came forward again with the flagon of wine to refill his cup.
“Yes, milord?”
“Sit.”
“But, milord—”
“Sit!” He flung a finger at the end of the bench.
Julia sat. Clutching the flagon of wine to her breast. As far from him on the stone bench as she could get.
“I don’t wish to taint the food with my own scents, milord,” she said, her heart beating like the wings of a trapped butterfly.
“It doesn’t matter where you stand, demoiselle. As long as you are in this chamber, I will smell you.”
“Surely not, milord.” She flushed, fighting the urge to stare at him. “I … I bathe regularly.”
“Every two days. With a soap that has lavender in it.”
“How do you—” Her brow knitted in dismay at the thought that occurred to her. “You can tell that?” He nodded.
“Just like I can tell that you spent the day with your hands in dough.”
She glanced down at her hands, looking for evidence that lingered on them. They seemed spotless … even her fingernails. Then she realized there was probably flour dust still clinging to the apron she had worn all afternoon.
“I should really—” She started to rise, but he seized her hand and held it. When she sank back onto the bench, he brought her fingertips to his nose.
“The cherries with cinnamon … almonds … and raisins … can wait.”
“How could you—did you really smell that? Or did you glimpse it when you came in?” She forced her gaze from his pleasure-bronzed features to the preparation table, across the chamber.
“You still don’t understand,” he said, leveling a penetrating look on her and reeling her closer. “Then I’ll have to show you.” He put her hand to his face and inhaled along each of her fingers. “Pastry … made with lard … and flour. You rolled them out yourself … and filled them with the fruit and nuts and spices … cinnamon and nutmeg.” He closed his eyes as he smelled the back of her hand before turning back to her palm. “You draped the table yourself … the scent of new linen is on your hands.” He worked his way across her palm and paused at her wrist. “Here, you used soap from the kitchen earlier … a harsh soap, heavy with lye.”
“How”—she swallowed hard, mesmerized by the sight of his chiseled face pressed against her naked skin and the deep, intimate sound of his voice—“could you know that?”
“I know the scent of the soap Old Damon makes for my household.” He pushed up her sleeve as he ran his nose along the pale, sleek skin of her inner arm. “And here is your lavender … and a hint of salt … the heat of the hearths in the kitchens made you sweat.”
“Please, milord …” She could feel heat flooding her skin as if she were standing before Cheval’s blazing hearths. “There are some things a woman prefers to keep to herself.”
“Unfair, demoiselle.” He reeled her still closer. “If I must give up my secrets to satisfy your wretched curiosity … then you must give up your secrets to assuage mine.” He inhaled his way up her upper arm and then clamped a hand around her waist to draw her against him.
“But I have no secrets, milord,” she said on a forced and nervous whisper. This unusual and determined seduction was not what she had in mind.
“You won’t when I’m through with you,” he murmured, pulling her onto his lap and burying his nose in the hollow of her throat. “Ummm … a touch of vinegar and a hint of honey … that damned lavender again …”
“Really, milord, I don’t think—”
“Good.
Don’t
think.”
She could feel his breath at her ear and realized he was tracing her ear with his nose and lips. Every bit of marrow in her body began to turn liquid and seep out of her bones. She suddenly wished that his tantalizing stream of breath would slide inside her garments and flow over her entire body … bit by bit … shiver by shiver … thrill by entrancing thrill. Frissons of excitement raced along her shoulders and down her spine to coil in her lower body.
As he turned her to face him, she met the molten amber of his eyes and told herself that this was a very bad development. She shouldn’t be here, on his lap, looking into his dark-centered eyes, and drinking in his scents even as he did hers … a vinegary tang of male sweat, sandalwood, sun-warmed hair, a hint of oil and metal from his hands and garments … the must of aged and well-worn leather … mint from the water he’d used to wash his hands in the hall … the sweet and sour spiciness of the venison on his breath …
“Cherries,” she said weakly, saving the rest of her strength for pushing away. Her movement must have surprised him; he allowed her to lurch up and scramble along the bench to find her feet. Once she was solidly on her own legs, she hurried to the table and began to stack sugar-dusted rissoles on a small wooden platter. The way her hands trembled and the unsteadiness of her knees alarmed her. Another moment or two on his lap and …
She turned and gasped, nearly dropping the platter. He was standing close behind her, simmering in a stew of sensory provocation and raw male hunger. And when he leaned toward her with his eyes glinting and his lips parted, she panicked and stuffed a cherry rissole in his mouth. He choked in surprise and grabbed the pastry from his mouth—not, however, whole. Fully half of the succulent pastry was still in his mouth and he had to either spit it out or chew and swallow.
She could have sworn she saw him shiver as the juice of the cherries filled his mouth and sent a burst of tart sweetness through his senses. As he chewed, he looked at the half-eaten pastry in his hand and bit into it again with a groan. Then he reached for another, then another. And then he reached for her.
He was so quick and she was so startled that she had no time to react. He pulled her hard against him, upending and trapping the whole tray full of pastries between them. She sputtered and tried to push away … but his muscular arms clamped around her like a band on a barrel and tightened. Then his lips closed over hers and all resistance, all thought … even time itself … stopped.
Her only surviving impulse was to melt and give herself over to the exploration of a kiss that had been interrupted on the road from Paris and had haunted her every night since.
His mouth was sweet with cherry juice and redolent with cinnamon and sugar and sweet almond cream. It was mildly shocking to her that he would share the taste that lingered in his mouth with her so intimately, and that she would find it so enjoyable. Her arms came up to clasp him as she responded with the urgency of an exploration a long time in the making. Heaven help her, she couldn’t separate the taste of the pastry from the taste of him.
He slanted his mouth over hers, massaging, kneading her lips … teasing her tongue with his … and she opened to him, making small, helpless sounds of discovery with each new sensation and every new delight. His hands ran up and down her back and sank into the base of her thick braid. She arched upward to press harder against him, running her fingers up his corded neck and into his hair.
“Ummm … platter …” she muttered against his lips.