stopped.
Her?
The kitchen wench with the peppery tongue?
This couldn’t be!
She met his gaze with a bold air of defiance, and then continued on with her good-byes until she came full circle, back to the cart.
“Sister Helena, I’m counting on you,” she said to a younger-looking nun dabbing at her eyes. “Don’t forget the older sisters’ bedtime cups … to help them sleep.” The sister bit her lip and nodded.
He kneed his horse forward, sending sisters and girls alike skittering out of his path.
“This?” He motioned to the red-haired vixen. “This is my cook?”
“I am afraid so,” the abbess said, making her way to the fore and taking a stand with her hands lodged up her sleeves. “We have decided to send one of our sisters with her as a companion and chaperone. Sister Regine.” She nodded to the sister arranging herself on one of the planking seats that lined the sides. The sister lowered her eyes and blushed as red as a berry.
“Chaperone?” Griffin scrutinized the abbess, seeing in her aged face the sum of years of shrewd dealings. “Nothing was said about a chaperone.”
“Nothing was asked. Julia of Childress is of noble birth and as such is entitled to the same consideration we would show to any of our charges forced to travel abroad in the world.”
“But … it can’t be her,” he said, gesturing irritably to her.
“And why can’t it?” the wench “Julia” demanded brazenly.
“You. You told me she could … you said she was big enough to … you said …” He was halted by the taunting spark in her eyes.
“I’ve said nothing to you, Your Lordship. How could I? We have never met before this moment.”
He looked from the kitchen wench to the adamant abbess and then to the hostile faces of the nuns and maidens gathered around them.
This was it. Whether she was the Angel of the Spit and Griddle he had purchased or not, this was the female they were handing over to him. He suffered a brief, alarming visitation of his body pressed hard against hers as he struggled to hold her against the kitchen wall, and prayed it wasn’t a harbinger of force he’d have to use in dealing with her. His face reddened and he looked up to find Axel and Greeve staring with undisguised fascination between him and the fiery young maiden he had just paid a knight’s ransom to procure.
“Into the cart,” he ordered the wench irritably. “We’re wasting daylight.” Barking orders to his men, he swung his horse around and headed out the gate.
Behind them rose a wail of voices calling farewells. One would have thought he was stealing some holy relic from all the racket. Not that he was stealing anything. He’d paid dearly for the services of the tart-tongued female riding in the cart. Then it occurred to him that there had to be a reason they were so distraught at losing her. It was cold comfort to be sure, but better than none.
By the time they crested the first rise and started down the hill, he had decided to question the wench before they went any farther. If she were an imposter, he would turn straight around. He rode back to rein up beside the cart.
“Julia of what?” he demanded.
“Childress,” she answered, without turning to look at him.
“That doesn’t sound French.”
“It isn’t.”
“And your father was?”
“The Baron Childress. Deceased.”
“After which you were brought to the convent just like the rest of the ‘maids awaiting.’ Where did you learn to cook?”
“The convent.”
When he was silent, she turned to glance at him. Green eyes. Glinting in a way that made him wonder how much he would come to regret this bargain.
“Who taught you the kitchen?”
“Sister Boniface. She was the head cook before me.”
“Head cook? You? You expect me to believe you were the convent’s head cook?” He gave a snort of disbelief. “You’re scarcely eighteen.”
“Age is no indicator of experience,” she said defiantly. “I’ve worked daily in the
Her?
The kitchen wench with the peppery tongue?
This couldn’t be!
She met his gaze with a bold air of defiance, and then continued on with her good-byes until she came full circle, back to the cart.
“Sister Helena, I’m counting on you,” she said to a younger-looking nun dabbing at her eyes. “Don’t forget the older sisters’ bedtime cups … to help them sleep.” The sister bit her lip and nodded.
He kneed his horse forward, sending sisters and girls alike skittering out of his path.
“This?” He motioned to the red-haired vixen. “This is my cook?”
“I am afraid so,” the abbess said, making her way to the fore and taking a stand with her hands lodged up her sleeves. “We have decided to send one of our sisters with her as a companion and chaperone. Sister Regine.” She nodded to the sister arranging herself on one of the planking seats that lined the sides. The sister lowered her eyes and blushed as red as a berry.
“Chaperone?” Griffin scrutinized the abbess, seeing in her aged face the sum of years of shrewd dealings. “Nothing was said about a chaperone.”
“Nothing was asked. Julia of Childress is of noble birth and as such is entitled to the same consideration we would show to any of our charges forced to travel abroad in the world.”
“But … it can’t be her,” he said, gesturing irritably to her.
“And why can’t it?” the wench “Julia” demanded brazenly.
“You. You told me she could … you said she was big enough to … you said …” He was halted by the taunting spark in her eyes.
“I’ve said nothing to you, Your Lordship. How could I? We have never met before this moment.”
He looked from the kitchen wench to the adamant abbess and then to the hostile faces of the nuns and maidens gathered around them.
This was it. Whether she was the Angel of the Spit and Griddle he had purchased or not, this was the female they were handing over to him. He suffered a brief, alarming visitation of his body pressed hard against hers as he struggled to hold her against the kitchen wall, and prayed it wasn’t a harbinger of force he’d have to use in dealing with her. His face reddened and he looked up to find Axel and Greeve staring with undisguised fascination between him and the fiery young maiden he had just paid a knight’s ransom to procure.
“Into the cart,” he ordered the wench irritably. “We’re wasting daylight.” Barking orders to his men, he swung his horse around and headed out the gate.
Behind them rose a wail of voices calling farewells. One would have thought he was stealing some holy relic from all the racket. Not that he was stealing anything. He’d paid dearly for the services of the tart-tongued female riding in the cart. Then it occurred to him that there had to be a reason they were so distraught at losing her. It was cold comfort to be sure, but better than none.
By the time they crested the first rise and started down the hill, he had decided to question the wench before they went any farther. If she were an imposter, he would turn straight around. He rode back to rein up beside the cart.
“Julia of what?” he demanded.
“Childress,” she answered, without turning to look at him.
“That doesn’t sound French.”
“It isn’t.”
“And your father was?”
“The Baron Childress. Deceased.”
“After which you were brought to the convent just like the rest of the ‘maids awaiting.’ Where did you learn to cook?”
“The convent.”
When he was silent, she turned to glance at him. Green eyes. Glinting in a way that made him wonder how much he would come to regret this bargain.
“Who taught you the kitchen?”
“Sister Boniface. She was the head cook before me.”
“Head cook? You? You expect me to believe you were the convent’s head cook?” He gave a snort of disbelief. “You’re scarcely eighteen.”
“Age is no indicator of experience,” she said defiantly. “I’ve worked daily in the
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