When she looked away, she spotted Lord Bromley watching her, noting her discomfort. The Lord Treasurer then turned to the old earl.
“Troth, you’ve a fine kennel there, Ketchum.” The treasurer studied the hound-loving earl, who beamed and fondled the ears of two dogs whose front paws now rested on his shoulders. “It’s been a while since I had a good run with a pack. Mind if I borrow your beasts? My grooms can act as whippers-on.”
“I-I’m not sure they’ll run for anyone else.” The earl seemed torn between pleasing Bromley and keeping his beloved hounds by his side.
Bromley invited a few of the other knights and nobles present to join him, and soon had gathered an impromptu hunting party.
Relieved to see some of their audience departing, Chloe called for the bridal party to join her at the table, which was being set with steaming crocks and platters. Hugh dragged the Earl of Ketchum over, explaining what was taking place … then explaining it all over again more loudly.
“I hope they got something wi’out pepper. Can’t tolerate pepper.” The earl clasped his melon-shaped belly with both hands and curled his nose. “Gives me a bout o’ th’ green an’ gassy.”
Just as the kitchen helpers set the last platter on the table and Chloe began to lift the covers on the food, there was a sudden resurgence of barking and baying in the near distance. The old earl jerked around and shoved past Sir Jaxton and Lord Simon to stare down the edge of the trees.
“They got somethin’! They got a scent!” he called and began to run after the hunting party.
But a moment later his hounds came rushing back … some streaking across the open field, others darting into the underbrush and following the line of the trees. All were focused on something that brought them to a fevered pitch.
As the thrashing and snapping of branches grew closer, Chloe and the others watched in rising alarm. The men urged the maids back as they heard the frantic yelp of a dog and a low ominous rumble that grew steadily louder. It took a moment for Chloe to place the sound: wild pigs. Hugh and Graham reached the same conclusion an instant before a huge black boar broke from the trees.
“Climb!” Hugh roared as he lurched into motion, pushing men and boosting maids out of the way. “The trees, the cart—anywhere higher up!”
Maids screamed, horses reared, and husbands-to-be raced to rescue both. Then, just as the boar might have veered and run off through the adjacent field, the earl’s hounds caught up and turned it back to the very heart of the gathering.
More than half a dozen mangy hounds hurtled over and under the linen-draped planking … knocking the table over and sending food, crockery, and wooden platters flying. The smells of meat and pastry distracted some of them, and for a moment several slowed and ran back and forth over the ruined feast, sniffing and trampling it. Then one of the kitchen helpers screamed and overturned the braziers into the boar’s path. The beast squealed as it encountered the burning grass and searing coals, and the dogs abandoned the wrecked table to search out the source of the smell of scorched boar.
Cornered now, between rocks and cart and dogs, the boar wheeled and charged blindly at the pack, slashing its tusks from side to side, sending dogs scrambling and yelping. Then it made a quick, canny swerve and headed for the cover of the brush on the far side of the wrecked table.
Standing directly in its path, frozen with horror, was Chloe.
“Out of the way!” Hugh shouted, giving the maid in his hands a toss up onto the cooks’ cart, where others stood screaming. He rushed for Chloe and reached her just as the boar slashed at her legs with its tusks. Launching himself at her, he managed to knock her back and out of the beast’s way.
She came down on her back in some scraggly bushes, covering her face and struggling to breathe against the weight pressing down on her. Through her fear and confusion she managed to realize that the weight on top of her wasn’t thrashing dogs or an enraged boar. She opened her eyes. It was Sir Hugh, covering her head, pressing her face into his chest. He was shielding her with his body as they were swarmed by dogs charging after their quarry and then nearly trampled by the mounted hunting party pursuing boar and hounds.
Sir Hugh. All she could think was that with his strength and power around her, cradling her, she was safe. She lay motionless, scarcely able to breathe but unwilling to relinquish the slightest part of that trusted shelter. The baying and thrashing of undergrowth around them slowly ceased. When it seemed the worst was over, Sir Hugh thrust up on his arms above her.
“Are you all right?” When she nodded, he pushed up further and glanced around, taking stock of their situation. Deciding that they were clear of immediate danger, he pulled her up to a sitting position.
“Where are you hurt?” he demanded, helping her rid herself of twigs and leaves sticking through the weave of her woolen gown.
“Everywhere,” she muttered, trying not to whine as she removed a sharp twig from her side. “I feel like a pincushion.”
“Can you get up?”
“Only if I have to.” She rubbed the backs of her scratched arms and the back of her neck. When she looked up, she found him sitting on his heels astride her knees, looking at her with what appeared to be genuine anxiety. Having just survived a charging boar, she ventured something even more dangerous … gazing directly into Hugh of Sennet’s eyes. She knew the instant their gazes met that her bravado was ill-advised. The intensity of the anxiety and relief she glimpsed in those pools of liquid bronze melted holes in her recent resolve.
Then he reached for the cap dangling from her hair and, without taking his gaze from hers, pulled it free of its pins and handed it to her. One by one he pulled leaves and twigs from her hair and tossed them aside, his hands lingering to let her tousled tresses slide through his fingers. When the leaves were gone, he touched the side of her cheek, a place that was stinging, and ran his fingertips gently over the scraped skin. His touch was so tender that she felt its soothing effect all through her, all the way to her reeling heart.
It wasn’t until voices approached that he pulled his gaze from hers, pushed to his feet, and pulled her up with him. When she swayed, he caught her by the arm and steadied her until she found her legs.
“Are you all right, Lady Chloe?” Sir Graham and Lord William rushed up.
“I am, thanks to Sir Hugh,” she said, rubbing the backs of her arms and neck to relieve the small scrapes she’d suffered. Then she halted, alarmed. “Is anyone else—are my sisters all right?”
“Fine,” Graham declared, jerking a nod to the cart across the way, where they had weathered the danger and confusion.
Suddenly the old Earl of Ketchum came panting up, pulling his wild-eyed mount behind him. “Got to go!” he shouted, clamoring up into the saddle and flapping his heels against the horse’s sides. “Got to be there for th’ kill!”
Hugh watched the old cod charge off to join his precious hounds, then turned to survey the damage.
The once tranquil glade was nothing short of a disaster. The entire area had been flattened … the bushes, the wrecked table, the stools and blankets … and covered with food, broken crockery, and scattered serving vessels and baskets. Nearer the stream, several of the kitchen helpers were frantically beating out the last of the flames caused by the overturned braziers, inadvertently fanning the smell of charred vegetation everywhere.
Onlookers, kitchen helpers, and the bridal delegation were coming down from their roosts looking a bit stunned. A number of horses were running nervously about the field while their riders—including Lord William and Sir Jaxton—gave chase. Averting his eyes with a groan, Hugh spotted someone lying a distance away under a tree with one of the maids by his side. He ran to see who was hurt, and Chloe and Graham quickly followed.
It was Lord Simon and Helen. She related that the earl had been moving their mounts out of harm’s way when one reared and came down on his foot. She had seen it happen and, as soon as the boar and hounds disappeared, ran to help him. She was holding his hand, stroking it, looking at him with undisguised admiration. Despite his pain, Simon seemed to be returning that sentiment. Hugh looked away in annoyance.
“I think we’re finished here,” he declared. “Graham, get everyone mounted up.”
The bridal delegation straggled back to Windsor behind their audience, who rushed back to the castle to spread the tale of what had happened. Hugh brought up the rear, watching Graham being cornered by Lisette, Simon being attended earnestly by Helen, and William and Jaxton riding protectively alongside Margarete and Alaina.
He felt strangely dislocated … removed from his usual reactions … as if his interior landmarks had somehow been uprooted. And he only had to glance a bit ahead and to his left, where Chloe rode, to understand why.
He had vowed to keep his distance, to remain detached and aloof from this wife test nonsense and especially from
her,
but each time he tried to remove himself, the king or fate or happenstance conspired to force him back into the thick of it. Back into contact with
her.
Just now he had remained coolheaded and rational in the midst of the chaos, until he saw the boar headed for her. His entire world had narrowed abruptly to a curvy little body and a freckle-prone face that of late had become part of his mental landscape. Seeing her in danger, he had launched himself over a rampaging boar and risked life and limb—
He’d have done the same for any of the maids, he told himself. And that was probably even true. But he wouldn’t have felt as if his own life depended on saving any of the others. And afterward he would never have touched their hair or face, or felt such consuming relief doing so. And he sure as hell wouldn’t have come within a hair’s breadth of kissing any of the others.
God and the Devil—what was happening to him?
He was being squeezed hard in the grip of Temptation, that was what. Yesterday he had given in to it briefly, telling himself that the taste of her lips would somehow dispel his growing preoccupation with her. He’d kissed her thoroughly, and she responded just as he had expected: she’d kissed him back.
That, according to his superior male logic, should have been that. Their kiss should have demystified her allure for him and proved to her that she harbored the same grievous stain-of-the-flesh as the rest of her sex … rampant sexual passion. But instead of dismissing his fascination with her, that kiss had somehow enshrined it in him. It was all he’d thought about since.
Now, instead of proving his courage and Christian concern for others, this rescue had just proved that one kiss was not enough to disillusion, disgust, or deter him from wanting her.
He felt a shiver of dread as he made himself face the truth.
He wanted her. Completely. Totally. The way he’d never wanted a woman before. In the bloody
biblical
sense.
Dammit.
He was still brooding over that alarming thought when he entered the great hall and found the old Earl of Ketchum holding forth before the king and a number of nobles on the day’s impromptu hunt.
“Fine boar—biggest I’ve seen in many a year,” the old earl declared, his eyes bright and mood boyish. “Was surprised to see you havin’ to import game t’ your forest, though, m’lord.”
“Import game?” The king frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Found a cage as we came back. Not far from th’ ladies’ dinner.” The old boy stroked his chest, pleased to have news that drew the king’s interest. “Game cage, it was. Boar shite inside. Your warden must’ve just set it loose.”
The king looked to his chamberlain, then his secretary and his treasurer.
“I saw it myself, Sire,” Bromley declared, lowering his cup of ale. “It struck me as odd until we discovered it was boar. There hasn’t been boar in that part of the forest for some time, so I thought perhaps you ordered—”
“Why would I have given my wardens orders to secure boar? I don’t even like boar hunting,” Edward demanded, scowling. The king was well-known to be a devoted falconer who preferred to hunt with a bird on his arm. He turned to Hugh. “A fortuitous end, then. None of the duke’s daughters were injured.”
“Yes, Highness. Most fortunate.” Hugh stilled, his whole body tensing.
“A pity to have such culinary delights ruined,” Bromley put in. “From the smells, this ‘cooking test’ seemed most promising.”
“Promising, eh?” The king brightened and looked at his portly treasurer. “Then why don’t we re-create it here in the hall, where we can all sample their dishes?” He turned to his chamberlain. “Instruct the kitchen steward to make the same the dishes for us all … straightaway … we’ll dine late this evening …”
Hugh heard no more. He was in motion, heading out the doors of the hall, stopping servants and pages to demand Graham of Ledding’s whereabouts. He found his friend on the practice field, wielding a sword vigorously against a well-hacked wooden post, and pulled him away from it to the side of the field.
“What the devil—” Graham panted, giving him an indignant look.
“You’ve had enough practice for the day,” Hugh declared.
“The hell I have …” Graham dragged him to a halt.
“We have a problem.” Hugh stepped closer and lowered his voice, though the men hacking at the posts behind them showed no interest in their exchange. “That boar. Bromley and old Ketchum found a cage. The beast was imported and released not far from the place everyone knew we would be eating.”
“So?” Graham wiped his sweaty face on his tunic sleeve and sheathed his sword. “Nobles are always bringing in game to stock their lands for hunting.”
“Edward knew nothing about it. He’d given his wardens no such order.”
Graham shook his head, missing the implication.
“Don’t you see? This is the second mishap that endangered the duke’s daughters in as many days. First, damaged cinches and now a boar set loose.” Graham frowned at him, and he straightened emphatically. “It’s not
two
random mishaps, it’s four attempts on the duke’s daughters.”
“Four?”
“They were attacked twice before we reached the Channel, remember?”
“I thought we agreed that was the work of renegade soldiers looking for whatever might bring them a bit of profit.”
“But the orders came from a lord … probably one who lost lands or family during the fighting.” Hugh paused, trying out the idea in his own head before voicing it. “What if he is more angry and more determined than we supposed? What if he followed us across the Channel?” It grew more plausible by the moment. “Once here, it wouldn’t be difficult to learn where the duke’s daughters are and what they are doing. Everyone in Windsor seems to know their daily schedule. Scores of people are in and out of the stable, and half the castle turned out to the damned cooking test.”
Graham’s eyes widened as it sank in. “Then the duke’s daughters may still be in danger.”
Hugh was relieved to have his suspicions given credence. Perhaps he wasn’t losing his mind after all.
“What do we do?” Graham said anxiously. “Tell Lady Chloe and the others?”
“And have a clutch of hysterical females on our hands?” Hugh gave him a withering look. “Besides, we have no real proof.” He glanced toward the great round tower that commanded all of England. “Dammit—if Edward had only taken a few moments to hear … I never got the chance to tell him about the attacks in France.”
“You didn’t?” Graham’s shock was probably foreshadowing the king’s.
“He was occupied and then closeted with the queen. Then he ordered me to help with this wife test nonsense, and there didn’t seem to be a good time to put it before him.” His shoulders sagged. “And, truth be told, it didn’t seem all that urgent, since the maids were safe at Windsor.”
“Still”—Graham shook his head—“he should have been told.”
“I know. I’ll request an audience tonight after—dammit!”
“What is it?”
“He’s ordered feasting tonight. He decreed that the whole court will partake of the maids’ dishes, to make up for the ruined cooking test.” He winced. “God knows what else will strike his fancy before the night is over … dancing … balladeering … versifying … it could go on forever.”
Graham gave a sympathetic groan and fingered the hilt of his blade.
“Should we tell Simon, William, and Jax?”
Hugh considered that for a moment. Edward wouldn’t countenance being the last to know of a possible threat.
“We’ll tell them to stay close to the maids and keep alert … that two accidents in two days is one too many. God knows that’s true.” He clapped a hand on Graham’s shoulder as they headed back to the castle. “And we’ll make certain they wear their blades.”
As if the audience they endured during the cooking test weren’t enough of a strain, the maids were now informed that the entire court would partake of their special dishes along with their prospective husbands. They were under no illusion; the tasting was the lesser part of the evening’s agenda. Unspoken was the understanding that the entire court would now have a chance to offer opinions on their merit. The others looked to Chloe in dismay, Chloe looked to Lady Marcella, and Lady Marcella squinted at her star charts and decreed that the evening would be auspicious for gustatory indulgence … or for fumigating one’s linen storage …
As they entered the great hall, it was clear that everyone who was anyone at court was present, robed in their finest garments. Voices were spirited and there was wine-warmed laughter from several quarters. The side tables had been lengthened to accommodate more people and the rushes underneath had been sweetened with dried flowers. The torches that hung on brackets along the side walls had been replaced with fresh bundles of dipped rushes, and the linen draping the head table was adorned with embroidered hangings.
The special trappings were intended to honor the queen, who arrived on the king’s arm, looking burdened by her advanced pregnancy but regal nonetheless. As the first course was brought out, officially tasted, and set before the king, he called out to Hugh and Chloe, who sat opposite each other.
“Who is responsible for this dish?”
Since Sir Hugh didn’t know and couldn’t respond, Chloe rose and spoke for them both.
“Actually, Highness, that is meant to remain a secret.”
“Why so?” Edward gestured to her sisters. “Should not the creator of the dish receive credit for her work?”
“Yes, Highness. But it is part of the test to have the husbands-to-be choose their favorite dish without knowing who sponsored it. In that way a true pairing of the senses may be achieved.”
The king studied that, then nodded and turned his scrutiny to the bowl that had been set before him. “And what is this called?”
“Lasagne, Highness. The flat noodles are covered with a sauce of ground basil and pine nuts and the oil of olives. Then a special tart cheese from Parma is sprinkled between the layers.”
“Lasagne.” He gave his taster, standing nearby, a glance. The fellow seemed hale enough. He reached for his knife and cut a portion of the wide, flat noodles. The noise in the hall dipped noticeably as all watched the king partake.
“Good. Quite excellent, in fact!” Edward declared with a smile, turning to the queen. “Here, my dear, you must try this.”
Deprived of the identity of the author of the recipe, the king’s guests quickly turned their energies to guessing which maid seemed likely to have produced it. In that, they followed the lead of the husbands-to-be, who rolled their eyes with pleasure at the piquant flavors and teased the maids about who was most likely to prefer such food.
Then the second dish came out: a Lorraine tart made of eggs and cream in pastry, and filled with bacon, leeks, and a pungent yellow cheese imported from the mountains between Italy and the German provinces. Chloe explained the list of ingredients, and again the king tasted it and shared it with the queen.
“Deceptively simple,” Lord William declared to the maids and bachelors with a grin. “Must be Margarete.”
“A refined taste for such simple ingredients,” Lord Simon ventured with a smile at Helen, who glowed. “That can only be Lady Helen.”
All around the hall, the dishes were drawing praise for being artfully seasoned and tempting to the eye as well as the palate. The meal validated the renown of the wives produced by the Brides of Virtue and heightened respect for the convent’s standards. If the duke’s lovely daughters were as knowledgeable in other household areas as they seemed to be in “cuisine,” the courtiers agreed, then the men slated to become their husbands were fortunate indeed.