Page 10 of Her Baseborn Bridegroom

Mason didn’t have the heart to tell her fleeing form that he wasn’t a lord. Glancing back at Linnet he was annoyed to see her donning a wimple to cover her hair. “Leave your head uncovered, Linnet,” he said abruptly. At her look of surprise, he found himself adding gruffly. “I wasn’t lying earlier. I prefer you without.”

“Very well,” she sounded bewildered as she drew it back off. “As you please, Husband.”

A discreet knock this time meant their meal had arrived. Mason bellowed “Come in,” and was glad of the distraction as the table was set up and the food laid out before them.

Supper for Mason consisted of a couple of roasted capons served in a red wine sauce with a dark loaf of rye bread. Looking up he was surprised to see Linnet served with an entirely different meal. Waving away the sweet mead he asked instead for ale and pointed his knife at her bowl.

“What is that?” he asked the server with a frown.

“Milord?”

“It’s pottage,” Linnet interrupted helpfully. “Have you never had it?”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Many times.” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her it was peasant’s food, but he held back, hesitating. “Are you on a fast?”

“Plain foods are considered better for my weak constitution,” she told him with a smile, picking up her spoon.

He frowned. “So you always dine on invalid’s pap?”

She flushed at his scathing tone. “Many people eat this kind of food,” she said staunchly. “It agrees with me better than meats. Would you prefer me to eat separately from you?” she asked with dignity.

That surprised a laugh out of him. “No,” he admitted. He turned to the servant who was removing the mead from the table. “Where are you going with that?” he asked sharply “You have not served your mistress.”

“M . . . milord?”

“I only drink milk,” Linnet told him calmly.

“Milk?” he echoed sitting back.

“Yes, milk,” she said. “From a goat.” Their eyes clashed a moment and he was surprised to see amusement in her pale-green eyes.

“You just got married Linnet,” he told her drily. “You can’t drink a toast with milk.”

“Very well,” she said after a moment and turned to the startled servant. “I will join my husband in drinking a cup of ale.”

“Y . . . yes milady.” He presented her a cup with a flourish. She took it gingerly, took a sip and spluttered. “Is it supposed to taste so bitter?” she asked, sounding bewildered.

“Have you any apple or pear wine?” Mason asked the servant.

The servant looked startled. “I . . . er . . . I am not sure milord ,” he gulped.”

He was starting to feel irritated by the man’s uncertainty. Was every servant in the place a bundle of nerves?

“’Tis of no great import,” Linnet hastened to ensure him, picking up the cup of dark ale again. “I am sure I can manage a few sips of this bitter brew.”

“Pour her a goblet of mead,” Mason instructed. He turned to Linnet. “It’s made of fermented honey and fruit.”

She bit her lip. “Very well, I shall try it,” she announced heroically.

The servant shot him a nervous look as he passed her the goblet. Linnet took a sip, blinked and then smiled at the servant. “This tastes very well,” she said with a relieved look.

Mason felt an inexplicable irritation that she had not bestowed the smile on him.

The servant bowed and retreated back into the shadows.

“Would you like to try some of my pottage?” she asked sweetly.

He shot her a suspicious look.