Three French Hens by Lynsay Sands

job for a lady.”
    “He’s right, m’lady. ’Tis kind of ye to wish to assist, but yer more like to be a hindrance than a help. You might get hurt.”
    Brinna rolled her eyes at that. A decade working in the kitchens carting heavy pots and vats around had made her quite strong. Of course they could hardly know that, and she could hardly tell them as much, so she merely lifted her chin stubbornly and murmured, “I am stronger than I look, sirs. And while I may not be of much help, it wouldseem to me you could use any little help you can get at the moment.” On that note, she put her shoulder to the cart once more and arched a brow at first one man, then the other. “Are we ready? On the count of three, then.”
    After exchanging a glance, the two men shrugged and gave up trying to dissuade her from helping. Instead, they waited as she counted off, then applied their energies to shifting the wagon when she reached three. Brinna dug her heels into the icy ground and put all of her slight weight behind the cart, straining muscles that had been lax these last several days, grunting along with the men under the effort as the cart finally shifted, at first just an inch, then another, and another, until it suddenly began to roll smoothly forward and right back onto the path. She nearly tumbled to the ground then as the cart pulled away, but Royce reached out, catching her arm to steady her as he straightened.
    “Whew.” Brinna laughed, grinning at him widely before turning to the wagon driver as he hurried back to them.
    “Thank ye, m’lord, and you too, m’lady,” he gushed gratefully. “Thank ye so much. I didn’t know how I was going to get out of that one.”
    “You are welcome,” Royce assured him. “Just stick to the center of the path the rest of the way to the castle.”
    “Aye, m’lord. Aye.” Tugging off his hat, the fellow made a quick bow to them both, then hurried back around the wagon to mount the driver’s bench again and set off.
    “Well—” Brinna straightened as the cart disappeared around the bend in the path, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves fading to silence. “That was fun.”
    “Fun?” Royce peered at her doubtfully.
    “Well, perhaps not fun,” she admitted uncertainly. “But there’s a certain feeling of satisfaction when you get a job done well.”
    He nodded solemn agreement, then frowned as his gaze slid over her. “Your dress is ruined.”
    Brinna glanced down with disinterest, noting that aside from being soaked, it was now mud-splattered. “ ’Tis but mud. ’Twill wash out,” she said lightly, then glanced back up, her eyebrows rising at his expression.
    “You are a surprise, Lady Laythem,” he murmured, then explained. “When you fell off the horse and were soaked, you did not cry that your gown was ruined, coif destroyed, or curse all four-legged beasts. You picked yourself up, dried yourself off, and said ’twas the best to be done until you could change.”
    “Actually, you picked me up,” Brinna pointed out teasingly and he smiled, but continued.
    “Then, when we came across the farmer with his wagon stuck in the snow, you did not whine that I would stop to help him before seeing you safely back to the castle, changed, and ensconced before the fire. Nay. You put your own shoulder to the man’s wagon in an effort to help free it.”
    “Ah,” Brinna murmured on a sigh as she considered just how out of character her actions must seem for a lady of nobility. “I suppose most ladies wouldn’t have behaved so … um … hoydenishly.” She murmured the last word uncertainly, for while Aggie had often called her a hoyden as a child, Brinna wasn’t sure if “hoydenishly” was a word.
    “Hoydenishly?” Royce murmured with a laugh that had Brinna convinced that it wasn’t a word until he added, “ ’Twas not hoydenish behavior. ’Twas unselfish and thoughtful, and completely opposed to the behavior I expected from a woman who was described as a