The Wife Test by Betina Krahn

here-below!
    In spite of that inner theological debate, he found himself gravitating closer to her and turning his head to meet her gaze.
    Fire-kissed locks were threatening to escape the thick braid lying on her shoulder. His throat tightened. Her throat was so slender and soft … skin delicate as lily petals. His jaw clenched. The sun had caused her cheeks to bloom with becoming color—
    “Where do you want these?” Sir Graham’s voice broke over them and caused them to lurch apart. Chloe bumped into the table, whirled, and looked up to find him holding a small trunk and leading a contingent of men in habits carrying other baggage.
    “Here, by the door.” She busied herself with settling the trunks and missed the amusement in Sir Graham’s face and the anger in Sir Hugh’s.
    “I’ll be seeing to the horses,” Hugh declared. “The rest of you get back to the damned beach and get out of those damnable women’s weeds!”
    With her cheeks aflame, Chloe watched him stride away.
    “That is the most profane man I’ve ever seen,” she said irritably.
    Sir Graham, who was bending toward a sizable crack in the rough cottage door, snapped upright and looked at her in surprise.
    “Hugh? Not hardly.” He strolled over, bent to take a sniff at the stuff she was concocting, and then straightened and followed her frown to his friend’s back. “The man’s as close to a monk as can be found at Edward’s court.”
    That jolted Chloe.
    “A monk? His every other word is a condemnation of someone or something to everlasting torment. What order would permit such blasphemy?”
    “He isn’t always like this.” Graham smiled ruefully. “Ordinarily he is the sanest, most rational man I know. He has the king’s full trust and richly deserves it. It’s just that … he doesn’t exactly …”
    “Want to be here. Escorting us,” she said, seeing Sir Hugh’s contempt in a new light. “He hates women.”
    “Oh, no. That is, I don’t believe he personally bears women any ill will.” Graham extended a hand for hers and led her to a bench by the cottage door. “He has associated with too few actual females to be able to judge. Mostly the ladies of Edward’s household—who, admittedly, are not always the highest and best representatives of their sex—and the serving women he must deal with in the ordinary course of days.”
    “Has he no mother or sisters? No kinswomen?”
    Graham raised his eyes overhead as if looking for guidance in answering.
    “His mother died early. She bore only the three sons. Hugh was the third, and not required for assuring succession to the title, so he was sent to a monastery to be trained for a life in holy service.”
    “He was raised in a monastery?” She looked with surprise toward the place where Sir Hugh had disappeared. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t shaved his head and donned a hair shirt.”
    “Not for lack of trying.” He chuckled. “Growing up, he wanted nothing more than to take vows and spend his life in scholarly bliss among the books and illuminations in the abbey library. I was sent to the abbey for a time and was tutored along with him. He was a quick and able student. But the abbot had other plans. He insisted Hugh be trained additionally in languages and the arts of diplomacy and war … made him into a warrior-monk, like the Templars. Then he handed him over to the king … a gift, as it were. A very
useful
gift. One that would constantly remind the king of the abbot’s loyalty.”
    “A tool,” she said quietly, her mood suddenly sober.
    Graham nodded. “He still believes he will one day be dismissed from court to enter the monastery and take vows. But I doubt that will ever happen.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “His eldest brother was killed five years ago in a border skirmish. His second brother was killed at Crecy. Like it or not, when his father dies, Hugh will succeed him as Earl of Sennett.”
    The irony of it struck her to the very core. Both she and