Free The Marriage Test by Betina Krahn

bacon and a knife, he cut several thick strips from the slab and looked to her. She merely glanced at the pot, and he took the hint and tossed them in. They sizzled violently as they hit the hot metal and she suppressed a smile.
    “Of course, if it were my kitchen, I’d say the pot was much too close to the flame. It will cook meat too fast and either burn it or make it tough.”
    Instantly, the men set about raising the pot and lowering the coals, looking to her until she nodded.
    “And onions in the fat and a bit of garlic sweeten and impart flavor to whatever is added next. Lots of onions for wild rabbit stew.”
    A bullnecked fellow with a wild shock of salt-and-pepper hair, called “Heureaux” by the others, seized several onions and a few cloves of garlic from the spice chest, and sliced them into the hot grease. A pleasant aroma began to waft from the pot after a few moments, and as she gave the contents a look, she casually tipped the cup of wine she held into the pot.
    “Oops.” She shrugged with a scarcely apologetic little smile. “Well, it won’t hurt those rabbits to have a bit of wine to simmer in.”
    Catching on, the men added four more cups of wine while looking to her, stirred the contents, and then looked to her again. In went the rabbit meat. Then the carrots. And some water. Then the lid went on. Parsnips were readied and added as the stew cooked. When a pleasant aroma issued from the pot, she stopped by the spice box and suggested a bit of salt, a few cracked peppercorns, a bit of cumin, and some lemon savory might improve the taste of the stew. When the spices had been added and given a chance to impart their flavor to the mix, she looked to the heat-reddened faces of the men collected around the fire.
    “I think it needs to be tasted.”
    Sir Axel eagerly volunteered. When his eyes closed and he moaned softly the others laughed and headed for the loaves of bread in the nearby basket.
    She appeared by the pot to help the first fellow slice his great round loaf in half, then she plunged her fingers in to pull out a great hunk of the soft middle and fill the opening with a cup of the stew. She repeated the process with the second half and carried it to Sister Regine, who fairly melted with longing as Julia thrust it into her hands.
    “It smells wonderful.”
    “Not so bad,” Julia said perching on the end of the cart with a mischievous grin, “considering what we had to work with.”
    Later, as dark was settling over the camp, the count reappeared and strode over to the fire, where the stew pot had been kept warm in the dying coals. He seized a hunk of bread and a cup of wine and headed for the sleeping canopy erected by his squire.
    “Here, milord,” Sir Axel said, calling after him, “we’ve saved you some of the stew.” All eyes were on the count as he halted and glanced back at the fire.
    “Bread is enough for me,” he declared.
    “Are you sure, milord?” The soldier Heureaux came up from a sitting position to his knees. Several others came alert with him.
    Griffin of Grandaise glanced hotly across the camp to where his stubborn cook and her chaperone were settling into a pallet of blankets placed over a mat of dried grasses on the cart bed.
    “I’m sure.”
    The words unleashed a scramble for the stew pot still warming in the coals. The men snatched up remnants and cuttings from the bread basket and scrambled to dunk them into the pot.
    He watched in consternation as they gobbled the contents down like greedy children. As the rush slowed, he stalked back to the fire and peered into the emptied pot. There was one streak of sauce, one small morsel of meat left at the bottom. He tore a piece from his bread and sopped it up. Studying it for a moment, he cautiously took a bite.
    It tasted of garlic and onions … bacon … salt and pepper … rabbit … and wine. His mouth defied him to water, anticipating more when there was none. When the hell did any of his men learn to cook