getting at.
“Well then, even does she argue that if yer no’ in a bed ’tis still bedding, ye can order her to allow it. After all, she vowed before God, the priest and her family to obey ye.”
Ross frowned at that. He would not order her to allow it. He’d rather try seduction and convincing. He wanted a true partnership with his bride as his own parents had enjoyed, not a bitter resentful wife who lived under his thumb. He didn’t say as much though, but simply turned away and headed for the keep. As he went, his mind was planning how to handle the matter. He would take her on a picnic in the woods outside the wall and seduce her on a blanket under the trees, Ross decided. And if she had the presence of mind to protest before he kissed her silly, he’d point out that there was no bed about, so technically it was not bedding.
Nodding to himself, Ross pulled open the keep doors, stepped inside and paused abruptly as he noted the noise and activity around the trestle tables. A large crowd had gathered and was protesting loudly over something.
Curious, Ross approached the table as someone said, “What are ye thinking? Ye can no’ waste good uisge beatha like that.”
The crowd immediately murmured in agreement.
“I told you. The whiskey will clean the wound and help prevent infection.” Annabel’s voice was clear as a bell and obviously exasperated as Ross reached the edge of the group and peered over the heads before him to where his wife presently knelt over a man on the trestle table. She was scowling at the cook, Angus, and as he watched, she held out her hand, a determined expression on her face. “Now give it over, Angus. I am your lady, and I order it. I need to stitch his wound ere he bleeds to death on me.”
The surly old cook tsked with disgust, but handed her a goblet apparently filled with whiskey, muttering, “Aye fine, clean his wound then. But next ye’ll be cleaning the great hall floor with it.”
“I will not,” Annabel assured him dryly, and then glanced down with a start as the man lying on the table suddenly sat up, snatched the goblet from her and gulped down the liquid. Eyes wide with amazement, she snatched the goblet away, peered into what Ross guessed was the empty container and then scowled at the man and asked, “Why the devil did you do that? Now I need more whiskey.”
“I thought I was supposed to drink it to clean my wound,” the man spoke the obvious lie with a straight face. His accent, Ross noted, was English.
“Drinking it will not clean your wound, and well you know it,” Annabel said on a sigh, and then glanced to Angus and held out the goblet. “I need more.”
Angus crossed his arms, eyes narrowing, and lips pursing and Ross could see he was about to rebel. Scowling, he started to move through the crowd, intending to set the man straight on the matter of obeying or disobeying his lady, but he needn’t have bothered. His sweet, chatty magpie of a wife, Annabel, suddenly leaned across the man to snatch the cook by the front of his apron and dragged him closer to the table as she hissed, “I am your lady, Angus. Fetch me the bloody whiskey or you shall be searching for a new position elsewhere. I will not let this man die because you are a stubborn cuss too used to having your own way. Understood?”
Angus nodded wildly. “Aye, m’lady. At once, m’lady.”
Annabel nodded and released him, and then watched the man hurry away with a sigh and an expression that suggested to Ross that she regretted what she’d had to do to get the man to obey her.
Movement under his wife drew Ross’s gaze from Annabel to the man she was leaning over and his surprise turned to a scowl of displeasure as he noted that her position had placed her chest over the injured man’s face, and apparently his injury was not so bad that he was not enjoying the view. Seeing how grand the view was did not improve his disposition any and Ross continued through the crowd, traveling
“Well then, even does she argue that if yer no’ in a bed ’tis still bedding, ye can order her to allow it. After all, she vowed before God, the priest and her family to obey ye.”
Ross frowned at that. He would not order her to allow it. He’d rather try seduction and convincing. He wanted a true partnership with his bride as his own parents had enjoyed, not a bitter resentful wife who lived under his thumb. He didn’t say as much though, but simply turned away and headed for the keep. As he went, his mind was planning how to handle the matter. He would take her on a picnic in the woods outside the wall and seduce her on a blanket under the trees, Ross decided. And if she had the presence of mind to protest before he kissed her silly, he’d point out that there was no bed about, so technically it was not bedding.
Nodding to himself, Ross pulled open the keep doors, stepped inside and paused abruptly as he noted the noise and activity around the trestle tables. A large crowd had gathered and was protesting loudly over something.
Curious, Ross approached the table as someone said, “What are ye thinking? Ye can no’ waste good uisge beatha like that.”
The crowd immediately murmured in agreement.
“I told you. The whiskey will clean the wound and help prevent infection.” Annabel’s voice was clear as a bell and obviously exasperated as Ross reached the edge of the group and peered over the heads before him to where his wife presently knelt over a man on the trestle table. She was scowling at the cook, Angus, and as he watched, she held out her hand, a determined expression on her face. “Now give it over, Angus. I am your lady, and I order it. I need to stitch his wound ere he bleeds to death on me.”
The surly old cook tsked with disgust, but handed her a goblet apparently filled with whiskey, muttering, “Aye fine, clean his wound then. But next ye’ll be cleaning the great hall floor with it.”
“I will not,” Annabel assured him dryly, and then glanced down with a start as the man lying on the table suddenly sat up, snatched the goblet from her and gulped down the liquid. Eyes wide with amazement, she snatched the goblet away, peered into what Ross guessed was the empty container and then scowled at the man and asked, “Why the devil did you do that? Now I need more whiskey.”
“I thought I was supposed to drink it to clean my wound,” the man spoke the obvious lie with a straight face. His accent, Ross noted, was English.
“Drinking it will not clean your wound, and well you know it,” Annabel said on a sigh, and then glanced to Angus and held out the goblet. “I need more.”
Angus crossed his arms, eyes narrowing, and lips pursing and Ross could see he was about to rebel. Scowling, he started to move through the crowd, intending to set the man straight on the matter of obeying or disobeying his lady, but he needn’t have bothered. His sweet, chatty magpie of a wife, Annabel, suddenly leaned across the man to snatch the cook by the front of his apron and dragged him closer to the table as she hissed, “I am your lady, Angus. Fetch me the bloody whiskey or you shall be searching for a new position elsewhere. I will not let this man die because you are a stubborn cuss too used to having your own way. Understood?”
Angus nodded wildly. “Aye, m’lady. At once, m’lady.”
Annabel nodded and released him, and then watched the man hurry away with a sigh and an expression that suggested to Ross that she regretted what she’d had to do to get the man to obey her.
Movement under his wife drew Ross’s gaze from Annabel to the man she was leaning over and his surprise turned to a scowl of displeasure as he noted that her position had placed her chest over the injured man’s face, and apparently his injury was not so bad that he was not enjoying the view. Seeing how grand the view was did not improve his disposition any and Ross continued through the crowd, traveling
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