Bride for a Knight. Margaret Moore

little experience of husbands and wives,” Roland admitted, albeit with cool dispassion. “My mother died giving me birth, and the women who took her place in my father’s bed were not wives.”

      Although this wasn’t pleasant information, Mavis was glad to hear it nonetheless, because Roland chose to share it. “My mother died when I was little, too. I don’t remember her at all. And my father, for all his faults, never brought his mistresses into the household.”

      If Roland was going to reply to that, he never got the chance, for the innkeeper returned with their wine, and he was not nearly so merry. “Forgive me, my lord, but my wife fears that we aren’t going to have enough stew for all your men.”

      Mavis didn’t want to be the cause of a quarrel, nor did she wish to travel any more that day, so she rose from the bench. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, and if you don’t mind, innkeeper—”

      “Elrod’s the name,” the innkeeper blurted, then flushed even more.

      “Elrod, I will have a word with your good wife. Perhaps I can offer some suggestions to help with the meal.”

      Elrod’s eyes grew as round as a wagon wheel. “Thank you, my lady, but I don’t think—”

      “I’m sure there’s something that can be done, and I’ll try not to upset her,” Mavis assured him as she swept her skirts behind her and headed for the kitchen.

      The innkeeper, half aghast, half impressed, looked warily at the tall, grim knight sitting in front of him.

      The man might have been made of wood for all the emotion he displayed.

      “I’ll, um, I’ll get more ale. It’s in the buttery,” Elrod stammered before hurrying away through another door.

      * * *

      Roland would willingly have laid out good coin to see what was happening in the kitchen, although he would never admit it. This had truly been a day of surprises, and finding out his wife was willing to offer her aid in the kitchen of an inn was the least of them.

      Far more interesting was her assertion that she hadn’t married him out of duty, but because she wished to.

      It seemed Gerrard had been wrong, and he had found a woman who wanted him...if her words and her smiles and her passion were to be believed.

      Yet how had he responded? Like some lust-addled oaf, taking her with no more gentleness than if she’d been a camp follower on a long campaign.

      He had been ashamed ever since—too ashamed to even ride beside her. He should have shown more restraint and dignity. They were nobles, after all, not peasants. Worse, he had behaved as if he were as incapable of self-control as his father or his brothers.

      He was not his father. He wasn’t Broderick. He could control his base urges. He understood denial, knew how to suffer in silence and betray no hint of what he was actually feeling.

      So until he could be sure that she was being honest and sincere, he would keep his distance.

      And be safe.

      * * *

      Meanwhile, Mavis discovered chaos in the kitchen. A pot containing what appeared to be soup or stew was bubbling over into the fire in the hearth. A harried-looking woman likely in her late twenties, her face long and narrow, her hands sinewy and work worn, was desperately chopping leeks. At a small, rickety table near the washing trough was a serving girl kneading a mass of sticky dough. Baskets of peas and beans were on the floor, and there was a stack of wood near the back door.

      “Close the door, Elrod, for God’s sake!” the woman exclaimed without looking up from her task. “And send that lazy, good-for-nothing stable boy to the village to see if he can get more bread. There’s barely a loaf left and what Ylda’s making won’t have time to rise before—”

      She glanced up, saw Mavis in the doorway and nearly took off a finger. “Oh, my...my lady!” she cried, swiftly setting down the knife and wiping her hands on her apron. “What are you...? Can I do...?”

      “I came to see if I could be of any assistance, since we’re such a large party.”

      “There’s enough for you and his lordship, of course!” the woman replied. “We can make more soup for the men. But we don’t have enough bread, I’m sorry to say.”

      Mavis ventured farther into the room, which was, she noted with relief, clean. “You could make lumplings. That is what we do at DeLac when there isn’t enough bread.”

      The woman regarded her warily. “Lumplings? What are they, my lady?”

      “You make them out of flour and water,” Mavis said, starting to roll back her cuffs. “Then you put them on top of the stew or soup when it’s nearly done cooking and cover it all with the lid for a short time.”

      “If you’ll tell me what to do, I’ll be glad to try, my lady, and thank you!” the innkeeper’s wife said with genuine gratitude and not a little shock as Mavis took down an apron hanging on a peg beside the door and began to put it on.

      “There’s no need for you to do anything, my lady,” the woman protested. She nodded at the girl who was staring at Mavis as if she’d offered to buy the entire establishment. “Ylda and I can make them, if you’ll tell us what to do.”

      “I don’t mind,” Mavis replied. “And you are?”

      “Polly, my lady. My name’s Polly and this is Ylda,” she added, gesturing at the girl, who was still staring, eyes wide, mouth agape.

      “Polly, Ylda,” Mavis acknowledged with a smile. “After a long day in the saddle, I’m happy to stand a bit.”

      What she did not say, but certainly felt, was that it was a delight to be in the kitchen. At home, Tamsin had managed the household so thoroughly, she had had little to do and plenty of time on her hands. While she could sew and embroider and did so often, she most enjoyed helping in the kitchen. She had a knack for pastries, and the cook had let her create several special dainties for her uncle’s feasts when Tamsin was otherwise occupied.

      Indeed, being in a kitchen and working with flour, even if it was only for something as simple as lumplings, was like being back home, happy and busy and peaceful, if only for a little while.

       Chapter Three

      Later that evening, Roland strode across the muddy yard to the stable. His wife had retired after an excellent meal of beef stew with warm, soft rolls of dough floating atop that she called “lumplings.” Apparently she had shown Elrod’s wife how to make them, and they did indeed help to stretch out the portions of stew.

      Not that he had said anything to Mavis about the lumplings, or the meal. He saw at once how tired she was and felt guilty that he hadn’t prevented her from wearying herself even more in the kitchen. However, he had not, and there was nothing to be done except eat as swiftly as possible, so she could retire all the sooner, as she had. And that meant without conversing.

      He pushed open the door to the stable and went to the stall holding Hephaestus. His horse neighed a greeting, while nearby, Mavis’s mare shifted nervously. Sweetling was indeed a pretty creature, a fitting mount for such a beautiful woman.

      An exciting, passionate woman who could make him forget everything except desire when he held her in his arms.

      “Oh, it’s you, my lord!” the leader of the escort cried, popping up like a hound on the scent from behind the wall of the stall. Roland suspected he’d been sleeping there. “All’s well, my lord,” he assured Roland, who hadn’t asked.

      Roland stroked his stallion’s soft muzzle. The animal nudged his hand, making him shake his head. “No, I don’t have an apple for you now.”

      “Greedy, is he?” the soldier whose name, Roland thought, was Arnhelm, replied with a broad grin. “My lady’s