Ahead of him were the kitchen and pantries. Smoke drifted in incessant puffs from the outbuildings. He could smell the pungent aroma of mutton, and his stomach growled. A maid was carrying butter from the pantry, another trenchers from the kitchen, both converging upon the manor. A boy drew water from the well, then he too disappeared. The area was momentarily deserted, and Rolfe was about to ride past the yard. Then another serf stepped outside from the kitchens, heading toward the alehouse.
Rolfe’s heart broke its rhythm.
Unconsciously he halted his mount. There was no mistaking who it was. It was Ceidre.
He hadn’t seen her in days. This did not mean he hadn’t thought of her—often. He had tried grimly and unsuccessfully not to think of the wench, but ’twas impossible. Every time a woman entered his line of vision, he had looked, to see if it was her. It never was.
His mood these past few days had been abrupt and even foul. He had been quick to find fault with his men and equally quick to demand new, faultless effort. Guy had openly remarked upon it. Rolfe had said nothing. Guy, trying not to laugh, had suggested that he ease himself with Lettie, a peasant wench his men were most fond of. Rolfe had ignored him, although he had considered the suggestion. He usually slaked his lust at will. However, his lust had not arisen upon the sight of any of these village women in the past few days, hence he had not bothered with a tumble. But now— oh, now there was no problem!
She had not seen him. He couldn’t breathe, he was so strangled with thick, hot need at the sight of her. She was practically naked. Her wet undertunic clung to her full breasts and her lush derriere, leaving little to his imagination. ’Twas white, and opaque. He could just see a hint of her skin’s color—that unusual creamy gold. Rolfe forgot all his vows and started his mount forward.
Ceidre suddenly paused in the center of the yard and had a fit of coughing, bent over double. Rolfe leapt from the stallion and seized her, holding her upright until the spasm had passed. She was trembling and weak, leaning heavily against him. His lust had vanished; in its place was abject fear.
“I’m all right,” she said hoarsely, still allowing him to support her. She looked up. Her eyes went wide. So did his.
Her face was flushed crimson and gleaming with perspiration. There was a bruise on her jaw. He could see circles of fatigue beneath her beautiful eyes. Her hair was soaking wet, pinned in coils atop her head. She drew away from him as if repulsed. He let her go. She paled and swayed precariously.
He caught her. “You are ill!”
“Let me go.” She gasped. “I am fine.” She was panting from the slight exertion of trying to remove herself from his grasp. She was so weak, like a newborn kitten. He kept one arm around her. “Let me help you, Ceidre. You must sit down.”
Her chin lifted. “’Tis only from the smoke.”
“The smoke?”
“Within.”
Rolfe did not believe her. He was appalled at her condition, but, certain she could stand on her own, he left her and entered the kitchen. There were four serfs inside, including a naked boy stirring a cauldron. He had thought it hot outside. Here it was unbearable, dim and dark, and the smoke was so thick it was a miracle anyone could breathe at all. He returned to Ceidre grimly. “’Tis abominable in there.”
She shrugged. “’Tis how it is, how it always has been. Where there is fire there is smoke, every fool knows so.” She brushed damp wisps of hair away from her face.
Rolfe had never entered a kitchen before, and he wondered if the kitchens on the estates he had possessed in Sussex were as badly ventilated. “The smoke can be lessened.”
Ceidre regarded him warily.
“With windows and a fitting on the roof.”
“There is no such thing as windows in a kitchen.”
“There is now.” His gaze swept her. He noted the flour on her nose, the stains on her gown. And that darkening bruise on her face.
“What happened to your jaw?”
“’Twas an accident.”
“You look like any kitchen wench.”
“What do you expect? I am any kitchen wench. I work in the kitchens, after all, ’twas your decree.”
Rolfe stared, his anger increasing, roiling, like a storm. “You do not supervise?”
“Supervise?” She laughed. “Do I look like I’m supervising?” She gestured down at her soaking body. Her hand trembled slightly.
“You are exhausted.”
She raked him with her own contemptuous gaze. “I am not tired, and I’ve forgotten, dallying here with you so. I still have much to do.” She turned her back abruptly on him and began to march away.
That she would do so, leave him before he had ordered it, and in such a manner, was unbelievable. Yet this was less significant than the issue at hand— and her well-being. He caught her wrist, jerking her to a halt. “You will not go in there. And what is this nonsense—I decreed your place here?”
