Free Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion by Glynnis Campbell Page A

been folding and toddled eagerly forward, not about to question a free meal.
    “Weary of that nasty cod, are you?” the beggar asked.
    “Oh, aye.” Harold licked his lips.
    Linet would have protested the beggar’s meddling, but she was still chewing on the lamb pasty. It was admittedly delicious, the meat succulent, the crust flaky. It was far better than another meal of salted cod and hard bread. But she’d be damned if she’d tell him so.
    “Salted cod’s not much good for anything beyond Lent, I say,” the beggar confided. “Here, my good man, have a pork pie and a swig of ale to chase it down.”
    “Thank ye, m’lord.”
    M’lord? Linet choked on the pasty. Had Harold actually called the peasant m’lord ? Her eyes watered, and she began to cough.
    “Or perhaps you’d better have the first drink,” the beggar offered with a wink, clapping her on the back.
    She seized the ale from him and downed a big gulp. When she’d swallowed properly and could finally catch her breath, she returned the jack. “Harold, he is not your lord,” she scolded. Then she turned to the beggar. “My servant and I were quite content with our cod.”
    “Ah.” He was laughing at her. She could tell.
    “I won’t pay you for what my servant eats,” she informed him.
    “I won’t ask you to.”
    Fine, she thought, as long as they understood one another.
    She dusted the crumbs from her skirt and surreptitiously eyed the fruit coffyns. They looked delicious, all golden and shiny and flaky. She wondered whether they were apple or cherry. The thought of the sweet fruit within made her jaw tingle. Her tongue flicked once lightly over her lip. Apple or cherry?
    Perhaps, she considered, if she played along, if she did partake of his food, the beggar would leave willingly.
    “The only payment I ask,” he said with a shrug, interrupting her thoughts, “is a small measure of gratitude.”
    “Thank ye, m’lord…again,” Harold repeated, thinking the reminder was meant for him.
    “He is not a lord, Harold!” Line hissed, bristling. Then she turned on the beggar. “And just what do you mean by ‘gratitude’?”
    “I’ve purchased you a fine meal,” the beggar explained, “and I’ve kept the robbers from your stall. Surely that warrants—”
    “Robbers? Aye, you’ve kept the robbers away, and the lords and their mistresses and everyone else with coin in their purse! I’ve not sold enough today to keep a pauper alive since you took up residence across the lane, watching me like…like some hawk on the hunt.”
    “Really?” he drawled with that irritatingly smug smile. “Well, if you had kept your eyes on your patrons instead of letting them rove in my direction every few moments…”
    The blood rushed to her face. “My eyes!” she gasped. “I never… You were…”
    Linet could see by his knowing smirk that the beggar didn’t believe anything she said. And she knew she’d only dig herself further into that pit of shame if she continued. She shoved the half-eaten pasty at him, dusted off her hands, and, with as much dignity as she could muster, resumed her task of folding the cloth.
    The man was an arrogant fool, she thought, snapping a square of broadcloth, if he thought she’d have any interest in looking at him. He was a peasant, for heaven’s sake—a filthy, unscrupulous peasant, and she—she was a lady. Or nearly a lady. Nay, no matter what he said, he had been staring at her . She was sure of it.
    She slammed the folded broadcloth down on the counter and began with another.
    Harold continued to eat with untamed enthusiasm, licking his fingers and rolling his eyes in ecstasy. She should have made him stop as well. He was her servant, after all. She could order him to cease eating that ill-gotten food. But he looked so happy. And the pasty had been delicious. The beggar was eating the rest of hers now, but there were plenty remaining. Her stomach growled in complaint.
    She smacked the broadcloth into