Citadels of Fire

  Chapter 11

  England, 1546

  Taras bounded into the kitchen. He’d been riding all day. His shirt released motes of dust as he moved, and mud covered his calves. His stomach rumbled, but he felt content with the day’s work.

  “Good afternoon, Master Taras,” Charlotte said as he entered. She stirred a boiling pot on the stove, her gray hair visible beneath her bonnet. “I see you’ve been up to your usual—is that mud?” She brandished her wooden spoon at him. “What do you mean tracking mud into my kitchen? You call yourself a gentleman?”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Now, Charlotte, I didn’t do it on purpose. Consider: I can’t track through the house—it would stain the carpets. I’ve no choice but to come through the kitchen.”

  “That’s always your excuse. Off with you. And dress well. Your aunt says you have important issues to discuss over dinner.”

  “She does?”

  “She does. Now go. Be quick.” Her eyes were stern, but the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth turned upward as she waved him toward the hallway with her spoon. He ducked to avoid a swat and hurried around the corner. There he waited until she’d gone back to stirring the pot. Then he peeked around the corner.

  “Ahem. What’s for dinner?”

  Charlotte exhaled in exasperation and her wooden spoon clattered to the counter. She did not turn to look at him right away, and he would have wagered she hid a smile. When she did face him, her expression looked entirely . . . controlled.

  “Venison.”

  “My favorite. Charlotte, you shouldn’t have.” He swept around the corner, squelching mud, and kissed her on the cheek. Her eyes flew open wide, and the two younger maids doing dishes in the corner burst into laughter. Charlotte blushed and patted her hair under the bonnet.

  “Oh, Taras, you . . . you are getting mud all over my clean floor. Go get cleaned up.” She shooed him with her spoon again, smiling openly now.

  Taras obeyed this time, hurrying toward his rooms. As he left, Charlotte told the younger maids she intended to marry him off soon.

  “A wife would do him a world of good.”

  Taras chuckled as he went. When he reached carpet, he took his boots off, walking the rest of the way in his stocking feet so as not to make more of a mess.

  Charlotte liked to play matchmaker, trying to couple him with village girls and farmer’s daughters. The women she presented were pleasant enough, and most of them remarkably beautiful, but he had not taken a particular liking to any of them thus far.

  Surprisingly, his aunt Margaret was the only one who hadn’t pressed the issue of marriage yet. She possessed a quiet dignity Taras admired. He supposed it explained why the two of them were so close; she allowed him to be himself.

  “Good afternoon, Master Taras.” The voice came from a teenage girl walking toward him. Elizabeth was the daughter of one of Margaret’s closest friends and staying with them while her father attended to business in the east. She wore a low-cut satin dress. Two attendants, both her age walked behind her.

  “My lady,” Taras greeted her respectfully. He wasn’t wearing a hat, but he ducked his head to her. “You look lovely today.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice sounded as delicate as she looked. He passed her and rounded a corner. Once he did, all three girls burst into giggles. It made him smile. Elizabeth was exactly the kind of girl Charlotte wanted him to marry.

  When Taras reached his rooms, he peeled off his shirt and poured water from the pitcher on the stand into the washbasin. He scrubbed his face and neck, wondering what Margaret wanted to speak with him about.