Page 11 of Her Baseborn Bridegroom

“It’s very good and has both beans and peas.”

“I’ll pass,” he replied. The meat was tender and not too salty.

“The food on your campaigns can’t have been too enjoyable,” she ventured lowering her spoon.

He looked up grimly. “No, it was not,” he answered shortly. The bread was good and surely freshly-made. He broke off another piece.

“Nothing fresh I’ll wager. Dry biscuits?” she hazarded. “Flatbreads?”

He took a swig of ale. He wasn’t inclined to discuss the practicalities of warfare with her. Instead he let his eyes roam over her slight frame. “You’ll need to build yourself up if you’re to give me a son.”

Linnet flushed at his directness. “Certainly.” She inclined her head as grandly as a princess, her gaze wandering to the door where the servant stood, his eyes bulging. She cleared her throat. “Do you—that is, have you any existing children?”

“Are you asking me if I have any bastards of my own, Linnet?” he demanded lowering his knife. She was bolder than she looked, he thought narrowing his eyes.

She swallowed audibly. “Is that indiscreet? I only meant—that is—I should be happy to have them here at Cadwallader Castle with us.” She fiddled with the stem of her goblet. “After all”―she broke off her words and took a fortifying sip of mead―“is not plain speaking best between a man and wife?”

He stared at her a moment. “I wouldn’t know. And no, I do not have any existing children.”

She nodded hastily and asked brightly, “Are Roland and Oswald your only brothers?”

He tensed. For some reason, hearing the name of his youngest brother on her lips made him feel an inexplicable flash of anger. And he never liked discussing his family at the best of times. Mason ground his teeth, realizing she was trying to make polite conversation and not liking it. Small talk had never been his strong suit. He pushed his plate away and beckoned the servant forth.

“Send in Robards,” he said, naming the steward, “with the household accounts. He has had ample time to get them ready for me.”

“Yes milord,” The servant bowed and backed swiftly out of the room.

“But Cecil does not have the household accounts,” Linnet protested. “I keep them. Remember? I did tell you . . . ” She dragged back her own chair. “I shall fetch them.”

“Stay where you are, Linnet. You have servants for that.”

“But I keep them locked in my trunk,” she objected, half out of her chair.

“You can send the key with a servant.”

She flushed hotly. “But I don’t want to,” she said, raising her gaze to his mutinously. “I keep my private things in there.”

“Private things?”

“Papers, books . . . ” she tailed off. “I have a collection of pages that I am illustrating,” she confessed in a rush. “The Tales of Sir Maurency of Jorde?” She plucked nervously at the jeweled belt around her hips as if she had just made some dreadful confession.

“I see,” he said heavily. Well, he supposed she must have some occupation all day locked away in her tower. Tapestry would have been more conventional. “Fetch them then.”

She shot him a grateful look, slipped off her chair and fairly ran from the room. He wondered what precisely was meant to ail her. Clearly she was not malformed in any way, despite the rumors. He had seen no sign of a weak heart in her coloring or deportment. One of the squires in his father’s service had used to turn almost green in color and faint under duress or during exertion, but Linnet had shown no such weakness. And now she had hared off to her tower as if a pack of hounds were on her heels. It made no sense. Unless . . . there was naught that ailed her. Could her uncle’s perfidy really run that deep? A dry cough from the doorway announced the arrival of the household steward. Mason looked up with a heavy frown.

“Robards,” he said, gesturing for him to enter. He saw the fellow’s eyes dart around the room looking for his mistress.

“Lady Linnet has gone to fetch her household accounts,” he said. “Now tell me the truth of it before she returns.”

Robards gulped, turning rather pale. “It’s true that Lady Linnet keeps a scrupulous accounts ledger,” he said in a wavering voice. “But what is entered therein is what she is told by Lady Jevons and her ladies. They passed her the receipts and notes of what had been spent.” He lowered his eyes guiltily.

“And it is a piece of fiction?” asked Mason cynically.

“I . . . hardly know, my lord. I was not privy to Lord and Lady Jevonses confidence . . . ”

“But you have your suspicions?” Mason cut in.

“I—yes, my lord. I suspect she was not given the correct information.”