“You will not blame me for a missed meal, wench, nor will you miss another. I care not if you starve yourself, but you will have to wait until you no longer have my child to succor in your belly. You have little enough meat on your bones now. Do you miss another meal, I will beat you.”
She was beginning to wonder about that threat. He sounded as if he meant it, looked as if he meant it, but he said it too frequently for it to generate much fear anymore.
“I have no intention of starving myself to escape your vengeance.”
“Good, because you will find there is no escape, not for you. Now come—”
“I am going back to my own bed.”
“You are coming with me—and did I not warn you about interrupting me?”
“You did, but since you do not subscribe to that rule yourself, I did not think you would want to be thought a hypocrite as well as a monster.”
That humorless smile was back. Actually, that smile was much more intimidating than his threats, because it had so far presaged most of his punishments.
He took a step forward. She took one back.
“You would not think to run from me, would you, wench?” he taunted.
Her chin went up. “Aye, why not? You mean to punish me anyway.”And I cannot help but be quicker than you, you overgrown lout.
Before he took the step that would bring him within arm’s reach of her, she bolted past him toward the circular stairs at the end of the corridor. If she could just reach the hall, there would be countless places to hide, even among the servants sleeping there. But ’twas the storage area in the basement that she had in mind.
She raced down the stairs two at a time. She heard his curse behind her, heard the rasp of her own breath—heard the scrape of steel at the bottom of the steps. She came to a skidding halt. The man blocking her way held a candle in one hand, a sword in the other. He was no older than she, but at least a hand taller.
Rowena did not have a chance to figure out a way around that sword or the young man holding it. She was lifted off the floor from behind, and Warrick commanded, “Put that away, Bernard, and go and wake the cook.” But the moment the boy left to do as bidden, the hard voice turned softly menacing to whisper by her ear, “If you had not earned a punishment before, wench, you have now—but first I will feed you.”
Chapter 22
The kitchen was an eerie place without its blazing fire pit and many torches to chase away the shadows. The resident rat-catcher hissed in complaint before streaking off to hide behind the well. The cook was mumbling about missed sleep; Bernard was holding his candle high so the cook could see what he was doing. Rowena was still cradled in Warrick’s arms. Each time she moved the slightest bit, he interpreted it as an attempt to escape and tightened his arms around her.
When he finally set her down on a stool before the table, a fine array of food was spread out for her to choose from, all cold, but still tempting to an empty belly. The half loaf of bread would have served as a trencher on the morrow, but just now it was still soft, as was the butter to spread on it. There was a thick slice of roasted beef, jellied veal hocks, and a chunk of mackerel spiced with mint and parsley, minus the sorrel sauce it had been served with earlier. A wedge of cheese, spiced pears, and an apple tart rounded off the meal, along with a tankard of ale.
“Were there no partridges left?” Warrick asked the cook as Rowena started eating.
“One, my lord, but Lady Beatrix has requested it be served her in the morn—”
Warrick interrupted to order, “Fetch it. My daughter can eat whatever is prepared on the morrow, as will the rest of us. This wench is starving now.”
Rowena could not believe what she was hearing. Did he not realize he would be making another enemy for her? You did not take from the daughter of the house to give to a servant. To a guest, certainly, but not a servant. And the cook would have to deal with the angry Beatrix on the morrow, so there was another enemy for her—and he was husband to Mary Blouet, who had the care of her.
“This is more food than I can eat,” Rowena quickly assured them. “I do not need—”
“You need variety,” Warrick insisted.
“But I do not like partridge,” she lied.
“You do not feed only yourself,” he shot back.
That reminder made her face go hot with embarrassment, especially since it had the other two men looking at her differently, as if Warrick’s strange behavior was now quite understandable. That she was with child was likely to become common knowledge at this rate. Coupled with the undue amount of attention Warrick was giving her, ’twould not be hard for anyone to guess who the father was. Did he not mind? Nay, why should he, when he intended to keep the child himself.
Thatreminder had Rowena glaring at him. “The babeandI do not like partridge, nor willweeat it.”
He stared at her for a moment more before he conceded in a grouchy tone, “Very well,” then turned back to the relieved cook to add, “But she should have wine instead of ale, I think, and none of that soured brew. Fetch a bottle of that sweet wine I sent from Tures.”
Rowena stiffened. So did the cook, saying, “I will have to wake the butler to get the key, my lord.”
“Then do so.”
