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Page 68
"Congratulations," said a deep, masculine voice from behind her.
She rose swiftly. He'd done it again! Thorn had crept, unnoticed, into the room.
She didn't react, only continued to smile smugly. "It's a fine fire, isn't it?"
He had removed his fringed jacket and now wore a plain woven shirt above his breeches. Its looseness did nothing to hide the fact that the man beneath was brawny, for it hung from wide shoulders, bulged at his thick chest, and flowed toward the narrowing at the waistband of his pants. "Yes," he agreed, "a fine fire. Now, come. I will show you another of your responsibilities."
She wanted to ignore him. He didn't own her!
But, in a way, he did. If she was truly in the time she suspected, servants were practically chattels of their masters.
With a sigh, she followed.
His stride was quick and sure as he led her through a door in the kitchen and outside toward the stable. She bet he was going to have her muck the stalls.
Instead, he took her to a tiny stone building she had not noticed before. "This," he said, "is where I cure meat." He opened the doorand a gust of heat hit Mariah in the face. She peered in, and the perfectly delicious, salty aroma of the cured meat hanging from the ceiling and stretched out on rows of metal racks reminded her she was hungry.
A small wooden barrel of what appeared to be salt sat in one corner. Mariah immediately noticed a small fire burning in a pit in the center of the room. "This fire," Thorn said, "never goes out. We all keep an eye on it. You will see to it, too. And you can always bring a faggot from here to light other fires at the compound, should they die."
Mariah's fists balled in frustration. Damn the man! Why hadn't he shown her this in the first place? It would have saved her an hour of back-straining labor, playing with that fool tinderbox and straw.
She opened her mouth to complainand noticed the twinkle in those enigmatic brown eyes. "Have you a problem, Miss Walker?"

 
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