Love at First Sight by Sandra Lee

devil. Though the roast goose had been well prepared, it had been impossible to enjoy the fare where Golde had sat with the boys directly below the dais. Not with the rancorous stirrings that clamored in her belly.
    ’Twas bad enough that Nicolette thought Gavarnie had killed her mother. Worse was that the boys hated their sister, if in fact she was their sister. But all withered in comparison to the evil that emanated from De- lamaure’s two guests. “Lord and Lady de Warrenne,” Alory had informed her.
    There was an air about the Baron of Adurford and his wife that affected her like rancid, maggot-infested meat. Not that they smelled. Indeed, Lady de Warrenne applied lavender with such abandon that Golde could smell it despite her distance from the woman.
    Nay. ’Twas not an odor. Rather, it was a putrid feeling that made her flesh crawl. Lord de Warrenne’s small, close-set eyes and sweating, rotund countenance made her feel sick inside. His wife’s avaricious blue eyes and blood-colored lips did naught but add to the feeling.
    Chilled despite the hot bath she had just taken, Golde reached for her drawers and pulled them over her hips, tying the drawstring.
    From her vantage point below the dais, it had been clear that Sir Gavarnie had not enjoyed his guests’ company either. Yet the visiting lord appeared to savor the meal, as befitted his size, even though his wife, Lady Gundrada, had appeared sullen. She’d sat brooding while Gavarnie and her husband talked around and over her.
    Golde frowned. ’Twas almost as if the baron and the woman had argued. A lover’s spat?
    Anger rose in her breast. ’Od rot the whoremonger. While he dallied with sluts, his children . . .
    Good lack! She was doing it again. How often must she remind herself of her vow? She would not involve herself in the baron or his children’s affairs. And that was that. The moment she was dressed, she would seek out the muckraking Sir Gavarnie and tell him she was taking immediate leave.
    Pulling her chainse over her head, she inhaled its scent of cedar and dried heather, which still clung from her storage chest. The smells suddenly reminded her of Mimskin.
    She sighed, glancing out the narrow window near the bed to the orange-hued sunset. At this very moment, Mimskin would be mixing pounded leaves of green marche with white of egg for old man Ansel’s gout. Even the stinging odor of verjuice that pervaded Mimskin’s cluttered cottage during the salve’s weekly preparation would be welcome.
    Her throat grew constricted and she realized she was staring at her tunic. Compared to the shimmering, scarlet bedcover, her homespun green tunic appeared comfortably familiar. She plucked the drying cloth from the bed and rubbed her wet hair.
    Mayhap she should set matters to rights concerning the baron’s children before leaving Skyenvic.
    She paused in drying her hair. Aye. Just this once, she would do something of which Mimskin could be proud. She would see to the welfare of those less fortunate than herself.
    Aye. His lordship should be made accountable for the misery that racked his children’s tender imaginings.
    Abruptly the door to the chamber swung inward and she jerked the cloth to her chest.
    “I cannot think how I will manage with that whoreson underfoot for an entire month,” the baron grumbled as he entered the room assisted by Spindleshanks.
    Before Golde could notify them of her presence, the chamberlain spotted her. His eyes grew round and he quickly reversed direction, drawing Sir Gavarnie with him.
    “What—” Caught unaware, the lord stumbled over his feet as he was pulled backward.
    “Come away,” Sperville croaked, and steadied him.
    The baron drew his sword, his eyes shifting in all directions as he backed toward the door. Golde raised a brow. Obviously, he believed himself endangered.
    Sperville pulled the door shut and she grabbed her tunic. She’d just managed to settle the material down around her ankles when she