Free Trapped by Scandal by Jane Feather Page A

holland apron. “They’re not new, of course, but clean and well darned in places.”
    Hero examined the petticoat and laced bodice, which would go over her own chemise. There were no stockings, but then, most of the peasant women went bare-legged, and her wooden sabots would be fine, as would her red bonnet. “I’d better go and put them on.” She gathered up the garments and hurried upstairs to the little bedchamber. When she came down the stairs again, she could hear voices from the kitchen. It sounded as if most of the men were back, judging by the level of noise. She pushed open the door, feeling suddenly shy.
    â€œAh, there you are.” William turned from the dresser with a foaming ale tankard. He took in her appearance with an assessing frown before pronouncing, “That should do well enough . . . much more suitable.”
    â€œIt feels strange after all this time in britches,” she observed, smoothing down the apron. “Rather restrictive.”
    â€œYou’ll become accustomed soon enough.” He tipped his head back and drained his tankard. Hero found her eyes riveted to his sun-browned throat, the steady movement of his Adam’s apple as he drank. Everything about the man set her skin on fire. And it was beginning to beinconvenient, she decided. It was getting in the way of clear thinking.
    â€œLet’s go and test the new Hero on the street.” William set down his empty tankard. “Fetch your bonnet, and we’ll go to market.”
    â€œMarket?” she exclaimed. It seemed such a mundane activity in the circumstances.
    â€œWe have to eat,” he said matter-of-factly. “Let’s see how you fare as a Parisian femme de ménage .” He unhooked a shopping basket from behind the door and, with an exaggerated bow, offered his arm. “ Citoyenne, allons-y .”
    There seemed no help for it. The man appeared to sweep all before him. Hero shook her head, laughing, and put her hand on his arm. “My thanks for your escort, sir.”
    They went out into the street, walking briskly to the food market in the square at the bottom of the steep street. The farmers and peasants had driven their laden carts into the city from the countryside at dawn and would leave before the city gates closed at curfew, but for now, the stalls, although depleted, still had produce, and Hero found to her surprise that she was enjoying herself. The sense of threat she had lived with for so many days was no longer with her. Was it because she was not in such an extreme disguise and so had little to hide? Or was it just the reassuring presence of her companion? She was aware that he was on guard; she could feel it in the tension of his supple frame as he walked close beside her. He had his hand resting casually on the hilt of the knife in his belt, and his eyes were everywhere.
    â€œMeat?” he suggested, pausing in front of a butcher’s stall.
    â€œDoes anyone know how to cook it?” she asked, looking in bemusement at the bloody piles of flesh. “I don’t even know what any of it is. I could recognize a chicken, but what’s the rest of it?”
    â€œThen it had best be chicken.” He steered her in the direction of a poultry stall, where chickens clucked mournfully from baskets piled high.
    â€œBut we have to kill them.” Hero was aghast. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to kill a chicken, let alone pluck it. In her experience, chickens came to the table carved and lapped with some delicate sauce.
    â€œIf the poulterer won’t do it for us, I can wring a chicken’s neck,” William said firmly. “We can roast it on a spit over the fire.”
    Tentatively, Hero asked the poulterer for three chickens. The man looked astounded and then suspicious, and she realized belatedly that peasant women did not buy chickens in bulk. One bird would have to go a long way to feed a large family.