Tori Phillips - Lady Of The Knight

“Where do ye want me to lie down, my lord?” she murmured.

Sir Andrew’s smile broadened, making him look even more handsome than before. “Tis not yet time for bed, Rosie, but for supper, if it would please you to join me.”

With a great sigh of relief, she jumped up so quickly, she knocked over her stool. Andrew restrained her before she could lunge for the food.

He tucked her hand firmly within his. “A lady does not charge the groaning board like a battering ram,” he admonished her.

Jeremy smirked, though he was wise enough not to look Rosie straight in the eye.

Anger mixed with her hunger. “Haint a lady! And I am perishing for want of food. Is it your cruel jest to make me grovel for your pleasure?”

Sir Andrew chuckled in the back of his throat, though he still held her tight within his grasp. “My pleasure is to escort you to the table.”

Rosie tugged at her pinioned arm and shot him a frustrated look. “I can get there well enough on my own. In sooth, I can get there a good deal faster than ye, my lord. Tis but two short steps away.” The aroma of the roasted fowl enveloped her. “Let me go, for sweet charity’s sake!”

Andrew checked her second lunge. “A lady is led in a docile and demure fashion with downcast looks.”

She blew a damp curl out of her eyes and glared at the pigheaded gentleman. “Told ye afore, haint a lady.”

He planted his feet on his red-and-blue patterned rug, and gripped her arms. She lifted her chin and glared at him.

The laugh lines around his eyes crinkled in a maddeningly delightful way. “Attend upon this most important point, my dear. If you desire to partake of the delectable victuals that my good squire has procured for our enjoyment, you will act like a lady. That is my pleasure. Tis what I paid good coin for. Now, what say you?”

Rosie suppressed her immediate inclination to tell him exactly what she thought of his delusions. Instead, she decided to humor his whims while the food was still warm. She drew herself up and tossed her wild hair over her shoulders. “Then lead me to yon table, my lord, if that’s what pleases ye. But, prithee, do it quicklike.”

Sir Andrew beamed at her as if she had just said something clever. “Your dulcet voice is a delight to my ears, even if your words are a bit rough around the edges. Let us repair to our feast— my lady.” He cocked his head and grinned at her.

Rosie almost corrected him again, but she closed her mouth at the last split second. This stubborn lord would only argue the matter further while the food congealed in its sauces. Andrew led her to a folding chair, then he stepped behind it and gestured for her to sit. Rosie eyed the sway-bottom leather seat and wondered if it would fold up with her inside of it.

She twisted her fingers behind her back. “I do not know what ye want me to do.” She eyed the tempting dishes arrayed before her.

He gave her another one of those melting smiles. “You thank me very prettily, and allow me to push the chair closer to the table.”

Rosie cleared her throat. “Thank ye kindly, my lord.” She didn’t move. Her mouth watered.

Behind her, Jeremy snickered.

Andrew leaned over the back of the chair and whispered, “Rosie, you are supposed to slide in front of it and sit down when you feel the seat touch the back of your knees.”

Rosie wiggled her nose as she regarded the flimsylooking thing. She didn’t trust Sir Andrew. This could be a daft prank. He would pull the chair out from under her and laugh when she landed on her bum. She didn’t trust him an inch. He grinned at her and waited. No one uttered a word. The lure of the tantalizing supper grew stronger. Rosie’s stomach growled out loud.

“Trust me,” his lips mouthed the words.

Flinging her usual caution to the wind, Rosie took a deep breath and did as he had instructed. To her surprised delight, he seated her exactly as he had said he would. Once she was in place, he went around to the other side of the table where Jeremy seated his master in similar fashion. Rosie reached out to wrench a plump leg off the golden chicken, but Sir Andrew clasped her hand in midair.

He clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. “We say grace first and thank the good Lord for this bounty.”

Rosie snorted. “Why? He never did cook it.”

Jeremy gasped while Sir Andrew merely raised his brows at this bit of blasphemy. She curled her fingers into a fist to keep herself from attacking the chicken.

“Have you never prayed before a meal, Rosie?” her patron asked.

She decided to tell the truth. This peacock of a gentleman should learn something about poverty. “Twas more like a-praying for a meal, and the Lord did not see fit to listen much to me.”

Sir Andrew’s face lost some of its mirth. His eyes glistened. “Then we shall make our thanksgiving mercifully brief.” He folded his hands and bowed his head without waiting to see if Rosie did the same. “Lord God, we thank you for this food and for the good company who share it. Amen,” he murmured quickly.

“Amen,” Rosie breathed with relief. She reached for the chicken leg again, but Sir Andrew caught her hand once more. Rosie nearly swore at him, but bit her tongue instead.

“A lady is always served her food,” he instructed with a grin.

She wanted to scream the tent down. “Haint ever been a lady and haint ever been served!”

The frustrating lord nodded as if she had spoken a grain of pure wisdom. “Then Jeremy will serve only me and you can watch me eat.” With his free hand, he snapped his fingers. The squire lifted the roasted chicken out of Rosie’s reach, carved several large portions and heaped half of it on his master’s plate.

Her lower lip quivered. “Ye said I could eat if I sat like ye wanted me to and if I said grace,” she muttered. “Ye are no better than any other deceiving man even if ye do wear finer clothes.”

He caressed her hand. The action warmed her despite her anger. “If a lady desires to partake of a meal, she is served,” he repeated with the tenacity of a billy goat.

Rosie swallowed her last shred of pride. “So serve me then.”

Sir Andrew smiled, then leaned over his mound of food. His lips brushed against the back of her hand. Rosie inhaled sharply at the contact. Her pulse quickened. She felt she might swoon. With a gentle squeeze, he released her. She hid her hand in her lap. Her skin burned with the imprint of his lips. When she glanced at him, she was startled to see a smoldering intensity darken the hazel of his eyes. Then the raw look disappeared and his usual smile returned.

Rosie was only dimly aware that Jeremy had spoken to her. Having no idea what he had asked, she merely nodded. All the while she stared at her host as if she had never seen him before. What spell had he cast upon her with such a simple gesture that it made her forget her hunger—except for more of his touch?

Sir Andrew’s mouth twitched. “Eat your supper, my dear,” he suggested in a husky whisper.

The poor girl gasped when she looked down at her plate. Jeremy had piled it high with the other half of the roasted capon, a wedge of cold mutton pie, a large slice of soft white cheese over which he had spooned the honey-mustard sauce and a side dish of spiced peaches. Rosie lost the disturbing pallor in her face as she fell to eating with both hands. The capon’s lemon glaze ran down her bare arms to nearly her elbow before she stopped its journey with a quick lick of her dainty pink tongue.

Andrew opened his mouth to instruct her in the proper use of her untouched napkin and the pearl-handled fork that lay by her plate. Then he checked himself. Plainly, the child was starving. Etiquette lessons could wait. He cursed himself for teasing her. He should have realized that the whoremaster would not have wasted his own coin to feed his wenches when there were rich gentlemen like Andrew to do it for him.