repeated Esurhite assaults for months.
Maddie had heard a bit of this up at the palace earlier that day, most of it smothered by the other juicier gossip surrounding her pregnancy and damped by a cultural more that insisted Chesedhan noblewomen were too delicate to endure hearing the details of war and too stupid to comprehend the politics behind it. Here at the inn, ironically, that same belief manifested in a looseness of the tongue before the table maids, as if they weren’t even there. With no concern whatever for female sensitivities, the men exchanged gory details of stories that might not even be true. It was the entire reason she had taken up her charade her as a serving girl.
As she set the first of four plates of seared catfish onto the polished oak table, the men seated there were already deep in conversation on that very topic.
Inevitably she finished doling out plates before she’d heard all she wanted to, and had to move on to the adjoining table, where the six men seated there sent her off to the kitchen for tankards of ale and, afterward, slices of bullock with plump dough puddings. When she returned with those, she noted that Trap Meridon, whom she’d been expecting, had come in while she was in the kitchen and had settled himself in a corner booth not far from where she stood. Once she’d set out her current order, she went back to the kitchen, drew a tankard of cider, and returned to his table. He was lounging back against the booth wall, watching the diners at the tables in the lower level, and when she set the tankard before him, he looked up at her.
Weariness etched his freckled face and darkened his brown eyes.
“Alone tonight?” she asked, surprised and disappointed, for she’d expected him to bring Carissa.
“For now,” he said, grimly. “Hamilton will be joining me later.”
“Hamilton?” She frowned. “Did you even ask her?”
“Aye, ” he said shortly. “She didn’t want to leave Conal.” But from the pain that flared across his face, she guessed there was more to it than that, and knew better than to probe further. Bad enough she’d goaded him as hard as she had into asking. . . .
Usually she twitted him by inquiring if he’d like the mutton stew, though she knew very well he loathed it. Tonight she only asked if it would be the usual, and when he said yes, she headed back to the kitchen for the bullock and an extra helping of the puddings he always ordered.
It seemed the day hadn’t been any easier for him than it had been for her. His expression had brought back memories of the hideous breakfast she’d started her morning with. Her brother’s wife, Crown Princess Ronesca, had certainly possessed an ulterior motive for her invitation, starting in on all of the things she found wrong with the First Daughter from the moment they’d sat down. Maddie’s lack of religious propriety and dedication, her failure to cultivate the proper people socially, her ongoing weakness in continuing to mourn a husband who was dead and gone were becoming inexcusable. Brutally, Ronesca had informed her that Abramm was not coming back and six months of grieving was quite enough time to get over his loss.
She was even worse with regard to the pregnancy, faulting Maddie for not having come to her the moment she’d known of it so they “could have dealt with it efficiently and discreetly.” When Maddie had reacted with heated outrage to the crown princess’s suggestion of using her physician’s special potion to take care of the thing, Ronesca had only shaken her head in exasperation.
“Madeleine, where is your brain? You must know you’ll have to remarry if you have any hope of living the sort of life to which you are entitled. I was hoping it would be within a year of your bereavement—we could use the opportunity to strengthen the power and influence of the royal house. And your father’s treasury cannot withstand much longer the drain you and your retinue are putting
Maddie had heard a bit of this up at the palace earlier that day, most of it smothered by the other juicier gossip surrounding her pregnancy and damped by a cultural more that insisted Chesedhan noblewomen were too delicate to endure hearing the details of war and too stupid to comprehend the politics behind it. Here at the inn, ironically, that same belief manifested in a looseness of the tongue before the table maids, as if they weren’t even there. With no concern whatever for female sensitivities, the men exchanged gory details of stories that might not even be true. It was the entire reason she had taken up her charade her as a serving girl.
As she set the first of four plates of seared catfish onto the polished oak table, the men seated there were already deep in conversation on that very topic.
Inevitably she finished doling out plates before she’d heard all she wanted to, and had to move on to the adjoining table, where the six men seated there sent her off to the kitchen for tankards of ale and, afterward, slices of bullock with plump dough puddings. When she returned with those, she noted that Trap Meridon, whom she’d been expecting, had come in while she was in the kitchen and had settled himself in a corner booth not far from where she stood. Once she’d set out her current order, she went back to the kitchen, drew a tankard of cider, and returned to his table. He was lounging back against the booth wall, watching the diners at the tables in the lower level, and when she set the tankard before him, he looked up at her.
Weariness etched his freckled face and darkened his brown eyes.
“Alone tonight?” she asked, surprised and disappointed, for she’d expected him to bring Carissa.
“For now,” he said, grimly. “Hamilton will be joining me later.”
“Hamilton?” She frowned. “Did you even ask her?”
“Aye, ” he said shortly. “She didn’t want to leave Conal.” But from the pain that flared across his face, she guessed there was more to it than that, and knew better than to probe further. Bad enough she’d goaded him as hard as she had into asking. . . .
Usually she twitted him by inquiring if he’d like the mutton stew, though she knew very well he loathed it. Tonight she only asked if it would be the usual, and when he said yes, she headed back to the kitchen for the bullock and an extra helping of the puddings he always ordered.
It seemed the day hadn’t been any easier for him than it had been for her. His expression had brought back memories of the hideous breakfast she’d started her morning with. Her brother’s wife, Crown Princess Ronesca, had certainly possessed an ulterior motive for her invitation, starting in on all of the things she found wrong with the First Daughter from the moment they’d sat down. Maddie’s lack of religious propriety and dedication, her failure to cultivate the proper people socially, her ongoing weakness in continuing to mourn a husband who was dead and gone were becoming inexcusable. Brutally, Ronesca had informed her that Abramm was not coming back and six months of grieving was quite enough time to get over his loss.
She was even worse with regard to the pregnancy, faulting Maddie for not having come to her the moment she’d known of it so they “could have dealt with it efficiently and discreetly.” When Maddie had reacted with heated outrage to the crown princess’s suggestion of using her physician’s special potion to take care of the thing, Ronesca had only shaken her head in exasperation.
“Madeleine, where is your brain? You must know you’ll have to remarry if you have any hope of living the sort of life to which you are entitled. I was hoping it would be within a year of your bereavement—we could use the opportunity to strengthen the power and influence of the royal house. And your father’s treasury cannot withstand much longer the drain you and your retinue are putting
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