Chapter 4: Where is the Meat (Part 2 of 2)

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Thanks for all the supportive comments that pushed me to continue writing after this point! Dedicated to a randomly selected commenter, thank you @lene5714 :)

Chapter 4: Where is the Meat (Part 2 of 2)

An arrow whizzed through the air, lodging itself in the trunk of an old pine. The frightened hare reacted out of instinct, bounding off into the distance as fast as its four legs could carry it.

Henry's hearty laughter rang through the woods, sending a flock of birds scattering into the summer sky. "There goes your supper," he teased.

Drake muttered a curse. The damnable witch had made him restless with frustration. So much so that the only targets he had hit all morning were trees and earth. What kind of woman struck her husband at their wedding ceremony, then lit firecrackers in the house on their wedding night? Not the kind he wanted anything to do with, that was for sure.

Witch. Even in her absence she'd ruined his morning hunt. Whereas Henry had already had men carry two fat pigeons, one deer and two boars' worth of loot back to the manor, he remained sorely empty-handed. Slinging the bow over his shoulder with more force than necessary, Drake turned to leave before he allowed himself further embarrassment.

Henry followed swiftly, his footsteps light in comparison to the heaviness of Drake's stomps. "Your wife is a very... amusing woman," he commented, residual laughter evident in his eyes.

"Clearly, we do not share the same tastes in women." And many other things, Drake added silently, thinking of the many oddities that oft amused his friend.

"You did not like the firecrackers?" Henry grinned in response to the deepening scowl on Drake's face. "It was a nice touch, I thought. Better than the entertainment you organised."

Drake almost rolled his eyes. When had Henry ever visited anywhere outside of his own home without complaining of the lack of playthings? "Speak to William if my home bores you so."

"Ah. Every man who has a steward blames his steward. Shouldn't you be glad your wife is more creative than you and that old fart?"

If Amelia was creative and amusing, he'd much rather have uncreative and boring. "If you like her so much,"—he nudged Henry in the ribs—"I'll trade her for your sister," he said with a wink.

"Speaking of my sister..." Henry drawled as he dragged an arm over the back of his friend's neck. Suddenly, Drake was pulled into a headlock, before Henry proceeded to beat playfully at him with his free hand and legs.

Drake wrestled back with a groan, grabbing a handful of Henry's sandy curls and fighting the attacking legs with his own.

The men stumbled, laughed, and fought their way to the edge of the woods. Two horses lifted their heads and neighed in harmony with the odd grunts and chuckles from their masters' play-fighting.

"I did not... Isabella... We did not..." Drake sought to explain through his ragged breaths as he prepared to lunge at his friend again.

Henry held up his hands in mock surrender. "I know, I know... I know Bell. Well, I mean... I don't know what she ever saw in you—Whoa!" He leapt back just in time to avoid another incoming swing. "No, no, I take it back, I take it back!" he screamed.

Drake gave Henry another threatening glare before running to his horse. He nimbly untied its reins from the tree and hoisted himself into the saddle. The great beast reared once before charging into the open field at Drake's command. He'd lost the confrontation against his wife. He'd lost miserably against every animal he attempted to hunt. He refused to lose again this morn, especially when he cheated for a head start. "Race you to the manor!" he shouted to Henry behind him.


And, he lost again. Aye, he should have known. Henry's Windshaft was by far the swiftest horse of the Northern realm, and Henry was the leaner man. Still, when Henry leered proudly like that, it reminded him so much of Amelia that Drake couldn't help but throw another punch in his direction.

Henry ducked easily with a laugh. "I should be the one punching you! Bell came crying to me, you know. She told me you almost..." He cleared his throat. "But, er, you left her and went to your wife, apparently."

Curse women and their long tongues. Leaving a stablehand to take his horse away, Drake headed towards the Great Hall at a brisk pace. He was tired and hungry—nay, ravenous—and in no mood to hear his friend relay womanly complaints from Isabella.

Henry fell in beside him. "I know how tempting my sister is, Drake," he spoke in a tone that was unusually serious for him, "but you are married to another now. You would not want to make an enemy of the Jarl of Penshaw." Henry's hatred for his father was obvious, not only through the way he gritted the Jarl's name through his teeth, but through his insistent refusal to take the Digby name. "Looks like your wife saved you. With those firecrackers," he added with a smirk.

Drake turned Henry's words over in his head. He wasn't sure if his rational senses might have kicked in in time had it not been for the firecrackers. Mayhap Henry was right. Mayhap the witch did save his ass, inadvertently.

By the time they reached the Great Hall, he had a new plan: to start his relationship with Amelia on a clean slate.

* * *

Amelia eyed her husband warily as he strode up to meet her at the high table with a dazzling smile that could shatter a thousand hearts. His shirt may be dirt-stained, ripped almost to his navel, yet it was also thanks to this poor state of attire that she now had her first glimpse of the thick muscles of his chest and abdomen.

And the sight was... Rude. Improper. Downright disgraceful. That's what it was. But for reasons she couldn't explain, that disgracefulness rendered her speechless.

She was vaguely aware of him calling her name, raising her hand and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. But it wasn't until he turned away from her to signal the start of the midday meal that she finally stopped gawking at the tanned lines of his body; the lines that moved and pulsed with each word he uttered.

"Amelia?" Drake laid a hand on her arm to get her attention. She pulled away, but he flashed her a smile that displayed the whites of his teeth. "How has your morning been? Not too busy with your 'responsibilities', I hope?" His voice was unexpectedly kind, without a trace of mockery.

Gods, what is he doing? She had heard of his lack of hunting success. He was supposed to be angry, like this morning—no, angrier even. He was supposed to growl and glare at her more. What was he doing smiling and being nice?

Drake leant in closer. The scent of pine wood and dried grass attacked her senses, making her toes tingle with the desire to run bare and wild. "Cat got your tongue, my dear?"

She opened her mouth for a retort, only to find that something had indeed gotten her tongue. Not a cat, but the sensual curve of Drake's lips and the glint in his dark eyes.

Luckily for Amelia, her dumbfounded state did not last long. Booming footsteps diverted their attention; wooden benches vibrated and people scuttled out of the way as Tom walked down the aisle of the hall and up the dais, bearing a silver-lidded bowl. He set the bowl down before Drake, in a delicate manner so at odds with his tremendous size.

A serving maid came forth and placed a similar bowl before Amelia. Mm, even the lid was incapable of covering the aroma of a beautiful beef stew.

Drake arched a questioning brow as he glanced from the cook to his bowl, then back to the cook. "To what do I owe the honour of my cook's personal service?"

Tom bent slightly at the knees, his face lined with deep concern as he squinted to examine closely at something on Drake's face. "Green... blue..." he muttered to himself.

Amelia stifled a giggle as Drake lifted a hand to wipe self-consciously at his face. "Tom. What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Uh, s'rry sir." Tom stepped back with a look of embarrassment. "'Tis ma 'Cook's Special', sir, lady." He nodded at Amelia. She smiled back. "Uh, long life, good health t' ya, sir. Fer the good of Steersberg." Tom bowed his head and descended the steps of the dais.

Down below, the meal had already begun. Tables of hungry men and women tore into the freshly baked bread and dipped them in the thick stew of beef, carrots and potatoes. From the side doors, servants continued to carry out trays of roast meats and hot pies. Even Drake, in all his confusion, could not resist the smells that wafted around them.

"For the good of Steersberg..." Drake repeated Tom's words in a baffled murmur as he lifted the silver lid.

Amelia bit into a chunk of tender, slow-cooked meat and watched with satisfaction as Drake pulled a long face at his stew of carrots, potatoes and onions. He dipped a silver spoon into the stew, stirring and looking for pieces of meat like the one she was savouring.

Moments later, he raised his gaze to meet hers, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

She responded with a shrug. He should be glad she had the decency to toss him a sympathetic look. And, at least he got onions in lieu.

Much to her surprise, Drake only whispered in a humoured voice with a slight shake of his head, "You little wench."

Even as Amelia pondered the drastic change in her husband, it did not stop her from enjoying the meal for what it was. She hadn't lied when she told Tom he was a good cook. Obviously, Drake knew it too, for he continued to dart envious glances at her plate.

As soon as Drake bit into what he thought was a lamb pie and received a mouthful of spinach and cheese, his face darkened. "Amelia..." Ah, the growling has returned. "I. Want. My. Meat."

She looked right at him and smiled widely. "Aye, tonight," she promised.

With a last warning glare from Drake, they continued the meal in silence.

* * *

The Emir of Steersberg, resorting to stealing two leftover legs of chicken from his own kitchen? Oh, the irony. He had become a laughing stock for Henry, Skar and even his steward, all of whom had preferred seeing him starve than spare him even a slice of ham.

There was no question who was behind this. By having Tom personally present the 'Cook's Special' before the entire hall, she'd ensured that he could not simply descend from the high table and join the others for a share in their delicacies. He could not even express his distaste for the dishes before him, lest he wished to subject Tom and his skills in the kitchen to humiliation.

How she managed to get one of his most loyal servants to do her bidding was beyond him. Normally, when Tom wasn't cooking, he was drinking; when he wasn't cooking or drinking, he was sleeping. Yet this evening, he guarded the entrance to the kitchen with all his seven-foot, three-hundred-pound mass, just to make sure his lord Emir Rohan did not do what Tom referred to as "contrary ta the good of Steersberg". Hence, it was only when Tom finally fell asleep at midnight that Drake managed to sneak past him for a snack.

Evil, evil witch, he thought as he angrily tore off a mouthful of chicken with his teeth. 'Tonight'? Lying wench. All he got for dinner was corn soup and roasted carrots. He should have known it was too unlike her to be so agreeable. Only a day in marriage, yet he felt he already knew this wench inside out. Full of wickedness, this one.

As Drake came to the hallway to his chambers, a young guard greeted, "Evening, sir."

He nodded back in greeting. "No firecrackers tonight, I take it?"

The guard grinned. "No, not firecrackers tonight, sir."

"Not firecrackers?" he asked sternly with a quirk of his brow.

"Uh, n-no," the guard stammered. "I-I meant, no firecrackers, s-sir. No firecrackers."

Under the flickering torchlight and the scrutiny of Drake's eagle eyes, the guard visibly blanched. "What is your name?" he demanded.

"L-Lucas, sir."

"Lucas, you'll tell me if something is up, won't you?"

Lucas lowered his head. "Of-of course. I was just tired, sir. N-no firecrackers."

Drake relaxed. Aye, he felt exhausted. Why wouldn't his men be, too, after the long night yestereve and the witchy screams early this morning? He gave Lucas a light pat on his shoulder before taking another bite of chicken and continuing his way to his bedchamber.

As Drake inserted the iron key into the lock on his door, he heard a noise. He whipped around to survey both sides of the hallway. It was empty, the only movement the dancing shadows that the fire torches cast on the whitestone walls.

He closed his eyes, listening for it. Nothing except the sound of his own breathing and the rustling of leaves outside—

Thud.

There it was again, coming from his own bedchamber!

Creak.

He dropped the legs of chicken and pulled a dagger out of his boot in one swift motion. Only a colt made so much noise, but no untrained thief could steal past his people and break into his chamber unnoticed. Carelessness could kill, he reminded himself. Slowly, so as to not alert the intruder, he turned the key. The lock released with a small 'click'.

A grunt.

There was no time to lose. Holding his dagger arm in front, he swung the door open.

Something charged at his feet. He stepped to the side and spun at once. The bastard would not escape—

Oink.

Drake looked down. A small, pink pig munched greedily on the chicken he had dropped on the floor. What in the name of

Baaaaaa.

He turned to see a dark figure lying atop his bed. He edged closer, until he found himself staring into the elongated face of a sheep. It looked back at him. Baaaaaa.

Oink. Quack.

Suddenly, he understood what his wife had meant when she promised him meat tonight. Amelia Weston, you little...

Cluck-cluck. Quack. Baaaaaaa.

He let out a roar of outrage that shook the house.

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