"Oh," he then said. "I have something for you."
"You do?" The droop she had felt leaped taut again. "For me?"
"Such astonishment." His mouth twitched. "Surely you expect a bauble from your grateful lover."
Grateful lover. She liked that. He was grateful. Even better, he was a lover. She gave a trembly smile. "What do you have?"
Emile put a hand to his belt while Lucy wondered what gift he could have acquired out here in the woods. A flower, perhaps? Her heart tripped. A flower would be passing romantic.
It was in consternation, then, that she watched him untie his purse.
Emile gave it a little toss in the air. There was a chink of coin as he caught it again. After a brief, almost invisible hesitation, he bowed and handed it to her.
"For you," he declared. "On condition."
Appalled, Lucy felt the purse drop into her hands. This was not romantic at all. Then the full weight of the thing nearly had it slipping through her fingers. Her jaw dropped. "Emile," she whispered.
"Go ahead. Look inside."
Fingers awkward, she tugged at the mouth. Two coins spilled into her palm. Her breath rushed in at their color. Gold.
"Honestly got." Emile's tone was dry. "Legitimate gambling winnings."
Lucy poured more coins onto her palm, in no mood to quibble over the legitimacy of gambling winnings. She saw more gold. "Oh, Emile. If you only knew how much I needed this."
He snorted. "As I said, there's a condition."
She came out of her daze enough to blink up at him. "What?"
"A condition." Emile inclined his head toward the purse. "You have to spend it all."
Lucy's fingers convulsed over the sack.
"Tonight," Emile added.
"What?" Lucy clutched the purse tight. "All of it? Tonight! Emile, I could make this last—"
"A month, I am sure." One side of his mouth curved down in a peculiar smile. "If you want to keep the money, that is the condition. You have to spend all of it tonight."
Lucy stared at him. She knew the weight of the coin in her hands—half-crowns. "I would not even know how to spend so much."
He laughed. "You do, forsooth. I saw you do it in Bonham, prepared a great feast for your father. Do it again."
"A feast? But—?"
"Go to market," he commanded. "Buy the best, buy a lot. Let us enjoy life for a change."
Enjoy life. Lucy felt her head shaking no. They were in dire need of money—to subsist upon. "But why buy so much? It does not make any sense."
"It does." He put a finger against her lips. Amber eyes gazed gravely into hers. "It makes sense. Trust me."
Trust him. Trust him, when she did not even know him. Lucy wanted to cry at the injustice of his request. She wanted to argue and resist. But he stood there looking at her, the man who had so recently sent her soaring. With shame, she remembered how she'd thought he'd been bedding Moll.
He rubbed his finger across her lips. "Trust," he whispered.
A shiver went through Lucy. It was desire, but also something more than desire. A yearning. Aye, she yearned for closeness. She yearned for them indeed to trust each other.
"All right, Emile." Her voice was small and meek. "For you, I will make a great feast. I will spend every penny."
He tilted his head. "Will you?"
Lucy tried to smile. He should not disbelieve. She would do it, waste every coin, if it would preserve this fragile goodness between them. Oh, he stood there, hair sparkling in the sun, chest bare and strong, a picture of all she had ever wanted or desired.
Lucy blinked and took a step back. Not that she was in love with the man. Oh no, now that would be foolish. She did not even know him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It had been a while since the smell of roast beef had wafted beneath the rafters of the large tavern kitchen. Now the aroma of beef was accompanied by the smells of boiled capon, leg of mutton, and sole. Lucy scurried from a hen boiling with leeks to a rabbit glistening on a spit.
It was a banquet fit for royalty—or at least for the lord who lived in the big manse on the hill, not that Lucy had ever seen the fellow. She turned the spit and then lifted the corner of her apron to her forehead. The movement served two purposes: to wipe the perspiration from her brow and to hide, for a brief moment, the disbelieving stares of her staff.
She had not even tried to have a feast ready in time for dinner, but now the hour was long past supper. The feast was ready...and waiting.
Yawning behind the back of her hand, Moll looked toward the stairs.
Leaning beside a window, Gawain tapped his fingers on the sill.
Lucy pretended not to notice. But she knew she was keeping them from their beds and for no apparent reason. There were no people to whom to serve all this food. Restless, Lucy raised the top off a pot of veal.
"It will make a fine stew," Gawain remarked. Having come to the other side of the pot, he lifted his gaze to Lucy's. "Tomorrow."
"Perhaps." Lucy pressed her lips together. "If there is any left over." She closed the lid over the heavy aroma.
Letting out a long breath, Gawain turned away.
Moll simply sat with her hands wrapped in her apron.
Lucy rubbed her forehead again. Why on earth had she prepared all this food? And where was Emile?
Probably at the King's Head.
Lucy's chin came up. "Who said that?"
"Pardon me?" Moll looked over, innocent.
Gawain stopped and turned. "Who said what?"
Flushing, Lucy rubbed her hands on her apron. "I forgot a dessert. Surely we need something sweet." She looked around the cluttered kitchen. "Where is the sugar?"
"Lucy," groaned Gawain.
"Lucy," Moll echoed, standing and stretching.
"A blanch mange," Lucy insisted. Her flush deepened as she hauled up a sack of flour. "Moll, do fetch me the sugar."
Moll yawned again. "I will not."
Lucy found an empty spot on the table and dumped the flour sack on top of it. "Then I will get it myself."
"This is ridiculous," Gawain grumbled.
"'Tis my will," Lucy returned. She marched to the cupboard and scanned the shelves for sugar.
"No," Gawain corrected. "It is Emile's will."
Lucy whirled on him. "Yes. It is Emile's." For one blessed moment, her worry receded. She looked directly into Gawain's disapproving eyes. "This is Emile's request, and, by God, I will carry it out." Recalling her previous, ugly suspicions of her husband, Lucy threw an arm into the air, indicating their surroundings. Pots simmered and spits sizzled. The aroma of good food filled the air. "I am going to trust him this time even if I end up throwing every crumb to the pigs."
Moll simply stared at her.
Gawain closed his eyes.
Lucy was just imagining tossing two shillings' worth of tender veal to the bow-legged old sow when the doors of the tavern suddenly burst open.
From the kitchen Lucy saw them fairly fly and hit the walls. The resulting slam sent a shudder up to the rafters.
"We're here!" a familiar voice shouted, followed by the jaunty sound of a flute.
Then the crowd poured in.
Emile paused just beyond the threshold. He was wearing an emerald velvet doublet, easy to spot among the humanity flowing to either side of him. "Food!" he bellowed, lowering his flute. "Food and drink. By God, we have worked up a hunger!"
Lucy's gaze swept from the people swarming into seats at the long tables over to Moll.
The maid stared back at her with eyes as wide as saucers.
"Food!" a big man with spiky black hair shouted.
"An ale!" cried another.
Moll jumped, making for the trenchers.
Gawain whirled and sprang for the barrel.
As for herself, Lucy grabbed a ladle and lifted the top off the veal. She was just in time to drop a serving onto Moll's outstretched trencher.
There were more cries for food, for bread, meat, and ale, but L
ucy stopped a moment to look through the kitchen door and across the crowded room.
Emile was sitting on a table, tuning a lute. He lifted his head and turned. Catching Lucy's eye, he gave her a wink.
She nearly dropped a precious serving of veal onto the floor. Emotion filled her, sweeping to the brim. He'd lived up to her trust, oh, beyond her wildest imaginings. He'd told her to prepare a feast, and now he'd supplied the mouths to eat it—probably the crowd from the King's Head.
"Mistress?" Moll held up another trencher. "We had better step lively."
"Yes." Lucy cleared her throat and filled Moll's plate. But the full sensation would not leave her chest. It overwhelmed. She dared not steal another glance at Emile. She thought she might burst. Instead, Lucy concentrated on heaping meat onto another trencher.
Had Emile done all this—for her? Such a wildly romantic act? It did not seem possible. No, it simply could not be. For her?
~~~
Emile stayed last. Alone in the tavern room with the candles sputtering low, he strolled between the tables. With a tsking sound, he stopped before a crust of bread on the floor. He picked it up, executed a full circle pivot, and sailed it toward the sack Lucy had started for slops. The crust bounced off the mouth of the sack and rolled under a table. A miss.
Yet Emile's smile only grew, and it was already wide enough to hurt.
The evening had been a success. A stunning success, a rousing success, better than he had ever anticipated. Emile's eyes turned ceiling-ward, in the direction of the bedchambers.
Lucy had been floored, utterly demolished.
Best of all, she had trusted him.
For once, Emile did indeed feel like a hero.
Throwing an imaginary cape over his shoulder, he started for the stairs. It was time to collect his hero's reward.
All that blocked his way was Gawain.
Emile scuffed to a halt.
Gawain did not appear about to swing—not yet, anyway. The tall man stood on the second step up. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. "Going somewhere?"
Emile rolled his shoulders. "You know where I'm going."
"Yes. Yes, I do." Gawain nodded solemnly. Then he sucked in his lips. "You promised not to hurt Lucy."
An arrow winged through Emile's heart. He had indeed promised that. He was not supposed to have gotten involved with Lucy. He certainly was not supposed to have made love to her.
But still, Gawain did not swing a fist. "Remember that," was all he said. Then he turned and went up the stairs.
Emile could only stand there, staring at the wall where Gawain had been. He was not supposed to have made love to Lucy. He was not supposed to have taken a husband's portion as if that is what he were, a real husband. He had promised not to hurt her.
Not a blow had Gawain landed, but the joy of success began to spill from Emile nonetheless, like sand out of a frayed sack.
He was not a real husband.
~~~
The fire crackled on the hearth as Lucy sat in her chamber and brushed her hair. She brushed very slowly while little animals jumped up and down in her stomach. She still could not believe what had happened tonight, that Emile had brought such a crowd to her tavern.
She knew she had lived up to the crowd's expectations, if not surpassed them. Her food and drink were better than any to be had at the King's Head. Tonight, finally, she had succeeded as a tavernkeep.
But was she going to succeed as a woman?
With her hand trembling, Lucy set down her brush. Oh, she was fairly certain she had pleased Emile physically by the riverbank, but she strongly suspected physical pleasure was not all it took to keep a man.
Did Emile care for her? On the one hand, it seemed stupid to wonder. Why else had he brought the crowd to her tavern? Why had he stayed with her all this time instead of haring off? On the other hand, maybe the gesture of bringing the crowd was a 'bauble from a grateful lover,' a mere token of thanks. And maybe he'd only stayed with her for this very purpose—to make sure of her financial situation.
Emile had not chosen this marriage. He'd made it very clear to her that his freedom was what he desired—more even than the twenty percent of her dowry she'd once offered him.
Meanwhile, he would come upstairs any minute now. For the first time since he had brought the hungry, thirsty crowd to her tavern, they would face each other, speak alone.
Lucy flowed up from her stool. She had no idea how to act, how to behave. Should she be cool? Grateful? Passionate? Would he want to make love, or would he want to cuddle tiredly to sleep? She knew so little about romance. She had no idea.
With a quiet snick, the latch lifted on the outer door, the one opening onto the stair. Lucy whirled. As the inner door creaked open, she straightened. Cool, she decided. She would play it safe: act cool, calm, and collected. She took a step back and smoothed the gown she had not had the courage to exchange for a night rail.
Emile came to a stand in the door opening. The flickering firelight struggled to illuminate the planes of his face.
Lucy felt her heart twist into a knot in her chest. She certainly did not feel cool. She felt...overwhelmed. Oh, God, how did he feel about her?
Emile stepped into the room.
Now Lucy could see his face. He looked very solemn...almost grim.
Her heart pounded hard. Why grim?
Emile stepped closer and then stopped.
Lucy's heart beat like a trapped bird. If only he would touch her, give some sign. Smile.
Instead of doing any of those things, he pressed both palms together, bringing his fingertips to his lips. Then, abruptly, he brought his hands down. "He's right, Lucy. I need to know."
Lucy blinked rapidly. "You need to know what?"
Emile turned away. "I need to know about your 'next husband.'"
Lucy's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
With his back to her, Emile continued. "You said you were saving your virtue for your 'next husband.'" He lifted a shoulder. "Now I need to know— Are you sorry I took a husband's portion of you?"
Lucy closed her opened mouth. Inside her, dismay fell like a cascade. She was indeed an utter disaster when it came to romance. "Oh, Emile. I did not really mean— That is..." Her voice trailed off as she floundered for a decent explanation.
He turned to face her, wrapping an arm around the bedpost. "You obviously meant something. You must know those words kept me out of your bed for three weeks."
Lucy put both hands to her cheeks. She had hoped somehow she'd be allowed to skate past her ugly suspicions and her uglier behavior. But apparently not. "It was just a stupid thing I said."
His frown told her this was not going to satisfy.
Slowly, she lowered her hands. "I said it to hurt you."
He went still as a stone.
Grimacing, Lucy realized she'd just made things worse. "I thought you were sleeping with Moll."
If she'd hit him with a musket ball, he could not have looked more shocked. "What?"
With her grimace deepening, Lucy swiveled toward the window.
"Lucy." She heard the bed creak as he pushed away from it. "You thought— How on earth did you get such an idea?"
She lifted her hands. "You left every morning. I did not know where you went. And Moll leaves, too, every morning the same as you."
"And so you suspected me. On the basis of that. That I happened to leave at the same time as the maid."
Lucy bit her lip hard and battled back the desire to weep. He was upset with her. He had every right to be furious.
"Lucy." Emile's voice was stern. His hands were firm as they turned her about. "Lucy, look at me."
She kept her nose pointed toward the floor.
But he took a good grasp of her chin and lifted her face.
Lucy blinked back enough moisture from her eyes to be able to see his expression. Her heart sank even further
He looked utterly forbidding. And then, unbelievably, one corner of his
mouth twitched. "Lucy."
Baffled, Lucy watched as the other side of his mouth jerked. Both sides then pulled back into a wide grin.
"Why, Lucy," Emile crowed. "You care for me."
Gasping at his audacity, Lucy automatically denied it. "I do not!"
Emile only grinned wider. "You do, too."
Growling, she gave him a good shove. "Arrogant popinjay! I am completely indifferent to you."
Lucy's shove did not move Emile an inch. His grin was like a half moon. "You imagine that I'm sleeping with the maid, and on the flimsiest of evidence—"
"That evidence was sound!"
"—which means you give a damn where I sleep."
"I could not care less." Lucy stumbled back a step and glared. How dare he crow over her vulnerability?
Emile dared. Hands on his hips, he actually laughed. "You care," he argued. "And you do not want to share me."
Lucy tossed her head. "I will share you—with all of England, if they please." Trembling, she started to stride away from him.
He caught her arm. "Half of England," he chuckled.
"Let me go."
"Liar," he whispered. His breath was warm against her nape.
Lucy stiffened against the sensation. He would make her weak and crow over her, and she would have no way to defend herself.
Emile kneaded one of her shoulders. His voice gentled. "You are no more willing to share me, Lucy, than I am to share you and for the same reason. I care for you, too, you know."
She stopped pulling. In fact, she did not move an inch. His words went through her like hot shafts. Could he possibly mean them?
Slowly, tenderly, Emile turned her to face him. His triumphant grin softened to something purely earnest as he took her face between his hands. "I have never bedded Moll."
Lucy's gaze fluttered downward. "I supposed as much."
He chucked her chin to bring her gaze up again. "I don't think you understand. There is only one woman who interests me. You. It has been so ever since I first laid eyes on you."
His face started to blur before her. The words were both unexpected and unbelievable.
"No," Lucy protested. Tension gripped her throat. "You wanted to make me a widow. You wanted to leave."
Emile made a choking noise, and his hold tightened on her shoulders. "But I didn't leave, did I?"
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