Free The Marriage Test by Betina Krahn Page B

travelers about. It’s not safe for women to be abroad—”
    “Paris?” She suddenly began wading toward the bank. “Did you say we’re near Paris?”
    “Yes.” He blinked, dismayed to see her heading directly for him as she left the water. “We’re … just over half a day’s ride to … Paris.” He stumbled back a step as she came toward him grappling with the ties of her chemise and pulling the top of her unlaced overgown together. When she reached him, the hem of her gown was still raised and tucked in her belt and her legs were bare and wet from the knees down. He backed another step and then another, reddening with embarrassment at his instinctive retreat.
    “I have been meaning to speak to you about that, milord.” She finally yanked her hem free and let it fall, then used her shift and gown to dry the water on her legs. He suffered equal impulses of fascination and horror as she pushed the fabric over those sleek contours that had just burned themselves into his brain. “Since we are so close to such wonderful markets, I thought it would be a good time to replenish your supplies of spices and—”
    “Ohhhh, no.” He rescued enough of his wits from the heat pooling in his loins to realize that this was no time and he was in no condition to engage in such negotiations. “We are not setting foot inside Paris. And that is
final.”
    He turned back to the camp, desperate to put distance between them.
    “Not Paris proper, milord.” She came after him, holding her hem up and picking her way through the dried grass and shrubby undergrowth. “The Hot Fair held to the north of Paris this time of year. I have never been there myself, but I’ve been told that the Paris merchants bring their wares out of the city to set up stalls in the open air. Merchantmen arriving from the East stop at the fair when sailing up the Seine on their way to the Hot Fair at Troyes. It’s a grand market … everything imaginable … the freshest foods and spices … and good prices …”
    Her voice had begun to fade and, against his better judgment, he glanced over his shoulder. She was hopping up and down to keep her balance as she brushed her feet and shoved them into her slippers. Appalled by the way he had paused to watch, he wrenched his attention forward and struck off again, quickening and lengthening his stride. She soon caught up.
    “How much do you spend in a year on spices and condiments, milord? Quite a bit, I should imagine.”
    He scowled and refused to honor her with a glance.
    “My steward does the buying and keeps my household accounts. And he is under strict orders not to bother me with tallies of turnips and trenchers.”
    “In other words, you have no idea how much of your coin is spent each year to feed your household,” she charged, breathless from the effort required to match his pace.
    “In other words,
how much I spend is none of your concern.”
    “I beg to differ.” She darted past him and stopped directly in his path, causing him to arch and teeter to avoid touching her. “If I am to plan meals and bargain with local producers and purchase staples, spices, and equipment, I must know what I have to spend.”
    “Who says you will do the buying?” He tried to look through her instead of at her, but he could still see she had taken serious umbrage at that prospect.
    “All
cooks do their own buying, milord. How else can we be sure the ingredients we use are fresh and healthful? How else can we be held accountable for the safety and nourishment of the household we feed?” She yanked and tied the laces on the half-open front of her gown. “When was the last time your cook went to a spice market?”
    “I haven’t had a head cook for some time,” he replied, refusing to watch what she was doing.
    “Well then, your steward. How long ago did he attend a fair or travel to a spice market to replenish your spice chest?” When he didn’t answer, she finished the bow she was tying and tried