She ladled two generous goblets of wine from the bowl and pushed one toward Fosbury. The tavern-keeper took a long draught.
At the opposite end of the table, she set the other plate and goblet before her companion. The mystery. Time to see which of them would unravel first.
Again, she spoke to him in French. “You must be hungry.”
He stared at the plate, shrugging his shoulders to draw attention to the fact that his hands remained bound behind his back. “Am I to eat like a dog?”
“You know I can’t release you. Much less let you anywhere near a fork and knife.”
“Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to feed me.”
The stark look of hunger crossed his face. Hunger for what, she didn’t dare guess.
She folded a thin slice of ham and, holding it by the slightest edge of her fingertips, offered it to him.
“Closer,” he urged.
With a sigh, she obeyed. She stretched her arm just an inch further.
He ducked his head and kissed the underside her wrist. A little spark of heat scalded the delicate flesh, and she pulled back as if burnt.
“Wh—”
“Don’t scream,” he murmured quickly. “Don’t cry out. It’s over. It’s done. I just couldn’t resist. I’m fair starving, mon ange. I’ve scarcely tasted food in days. But still I couldn’t resist you, just the once.” He closed his eyes briefly. “It won’t happen again.”
She extended her arm, but not quite as far. He didn’t attempt any kissing or mischief this time, but caught the ham in his teeth and devoured it. She offered him a folded slice of beef, then a lobster patty—both disappeared just as quickly. He hadn’t stretched the truth on this account. He was starving—perhaps literally. Her heart twisted with fresh concern.
“Wine?” she asked, reaching for the goblet she’d filled.
He shook his head, swallowing. “Just bread, if you will.”
As she reached for a roll, she glanced down the table. Fosbury had a fork in one hand, his wine in the other, and his full attention was alternating between the two.
This was her chance.
“This is the closest to privacy I can manage. Rycliff will be returning in less than an hour. I would like to help you. But you must tell me the truth.”
He flicked a cautious glance toward Fosbury. “My name is Corentin Morvan. I am a humble farmhand.”
“But…” She couldn’t help it. She whispered, “Aren’t you Christian?”
A look of pure shock overtook his face. He swore. Then he bowed his head and muttered a steady stream of rushed words.
Violet held her breath and listened, frantic to make out his confession…until she recognized his speech. It was the standard grace Catholics recited before every meal.
“Of course I am a Christian.” With a sheepish smile, he raised his head. “Thank you, mon ange. To forget a blessing at Christmastide?” He clucked his tongue. “What will you think of me?”
“What indeed.”
Violet thought she would go mad, that’s what. There was no way she could simply blurt out, “Pardon me, but aren’t you Lord Christian Pierce, the man who grew up next door and took my virginity last winter?” Aside from being utterly mortifying, to ask such a question would have been stupid. She could hand him every slice of ham on the table, but she couldn’t feed him any more answers. Then she’d never be sure he was telling the truth.
She broke a small piece off a roll and offered it to him. “Your French is remarkable. You speak it with no trace of a Breton accent. In all my life, I only knew one man with such a gift for accents.”
No response. No word of confirmation, no knowing look. He just shrugged and chewed.
That was it, then. Violet gave up.
Once again, her trusting nature was making her a fool. Logic would argue that the simplest explanation was usually correct. In this case, the simplest explanation was that she possessed an overactive imagination. And this man was a stranger. Some sort of criminal, hoping to talk his way out of certain imprisonment by playing on a wallflower’s naïve hopes of romance.
Exasperated, she reached for the goblet of wine. If he didn’t want it, she’d drink it herself.
“Attends,” he said sharply. “Don’t.”
She lowered the goblet. “Why not?”
“It’s Christmas. You should have a toast.”
With a shrug, she lifted her glass and said wryly, “Joyeux noel.”
The cup was halfway to her lips when he interrupted yet again.
“God jul.”
She paused, confused. “That’s…’Merry Christmas’ in Norwegian?”
He nodded. “Kala Christouyenna.”
Her heart drummed in her chest. “The same, in Greek.”
“Feliz Natal.”
“Much too easy. Portuguese.”
She was smiling now. Foolishly, but she couldn’t help it.
At last, he was admitting the truth of his identity, just as surely as if he’d uttered his name. And now she understood, he’d been telling her so ever since he’d landed at her feet in the ballroom and whispered, “Nedeleg laouen.”
I have a new one for you, Violet. So obscure. You’ll never guess this one.
“I knew it.” She hastily set the wine aside. “Oh, I knew it had to be you.”
Suddenly, he was very close. “Merry Christmas, Violet.”
He kissed her. Brushed his lips over hers, in a caress every bit as sweet and intoxicating as the first kiss he’d given her, almost a year ago. And just like the first time, she couldn’t muster any will to resist.
“Oy. What’s going on?” Fosbury smacked the table with his drained wine goblet. He pushed back from the table and stood. “Get away from her.”
“I don’t think so.” Christian jumped to his feet. He slid one arm about Violet’s waist. With his right hand, he drew a large knife. “Hold right there.”
Violet gasped and stared at his fingers, curled around the knife’s glittering handle. “B-but you were tied.”
“I cut myself loose.”
“Where did you get a knife?”
“This is a kitchen. Knives abound.” Christian never turned his gaze from Fosbury, just kept waving the knife slowly back and forth. “Don’t worry, I don’t mean any harm. We’re all just going to stand here for another minute or two, whilst your friend becomes very, very sleepy. Won’t be long now.”