“Master Boyd,” she replied. “Have you forgotten your lesson with Sir Lucanthis morning?”
“I’ve nae,” he said. “I was…ah…just asking Searrach about the people in the portraits. Do you know who they are? Besides the Hargraves, obviously.”
“I’m sorry, I can only point out the portraits of Lady Euphemia,” she said stiffly. “Lord and Lady Hargrave’s niece. I never met her, though, of course.”
“Lots of her,” Padraig said, looking back up and mentally counting the portraits he recognized as the young woman.
“Yes, she was very much adored,” Beryl said.
“Searrach said I have English eyes.” Padraig didn’t know what had prompted him to confess it, but now that he had, he turned his head to look at the beautiful maid, and to offer them up for herown inspection.
Beryl’s porcelain features cocked thoughtfully, and Padraig thought he saw her own gray eyes widen the tiniest bit, perhaps in surprise.
“Perhaps,” she admitted, but then her lovely pink lips pressed together like some of the grandmothers’ he’d known on Caedmaray. “Although I don’t know that I would place much value in Searrach’s opinion. Shall we meet Sir Lucan?”
Was she jealous of Searrach? The very notion of it caused a warmth in his stomach, but he marked himself as nothing more than a hopeful fool—he’d no business speculating on his value to the enchanting woman when he couldn’t even find his wayto the bailey.
Then Padraig remembered a queer habit his da had always kept with Padraig’s mother.
“O’ course,” he said, gesturing toward the open area of the entry with a palm. “After you.”
Beryl’s thin lips softened and she inclined her head. “Thank you, Master Boyd.” She turned with a swirlof gray skirts.
Padraig blew out a silent breath of relief as he followed her from the chamber.
* * * *
Iris felt Padraig Boyd’s gaze touching her the entire way through the corridor. He at last came to her side as they passed into the courtyard, but neither of them said anything and the silence was awkward.
Had Searrach spent the night with him? He’d only just arrived at Darlyrede.
He is a handsome man, she told herself reasonably.And if he succeeds, he could bea powerful man.
Regardless, whoever Padraig Boyd chose to spend his time with was absolutely none of her business.
Lucan was waiting for them, along with the captain of the guard, when they arrived outside the barracks, but rather than pause to talk, Lucan only motioned them to follow. The captain accompanied them with a sort of long quiver strapped to his back, and Iris thought she saw at least one sword hilt from beneath the soft flap of the bag.
Their small party departed through a postern gate in the wall, then trekked down the steep slope away from the hold, and the sun’s bright rays warmed the air in a welcome change from the recent cold weather. Iris was wearing her sturdy servant’s cape and was glad for its protection from the breeze, but Padraig Boyd seemed quite comfortable in nothing more than his—now clean—shirt and trousers, his old plaid across his chest.
“This will do,” Lucan said abruptly, coming to a stop at the bottom of the hill, where a trickling brook coursed through the narrow valley toward the river on the north side of the grounds. The captain swung the bag from his back, laying it on the ground with a clatter, then kneeling at once and flippingopen the flap.
“Master Boyd,” Lucan continued, “this is the king’s captain, Ulric.”
The captain glanced up witha curt, “Lord.”
“He shall give you your first combat lesson,” Lucan continued.
“Combat lesson?” Padraig repeated, just catching the wooden sword Ulric tossed to him as he gained his feet, wielding asimilar weapon.
“Yes,” Lucan said. “A lord must be ready and able to defend himself and his hold. In any case, I don’t think it would hurt to familiarize yourself with a weapon in case you are again attacked.”
“With a wooden sword?” Padraig said, looking down at the thing with disdain.
“So I don’t inadvertently injure you, lord,” Ulric said apologetically, and then handed him a metal helm. “At Sir Lucan’s insistence.”
“Then he can wear it,” Padraig muttered, and flung the helm to Lucan. The corners of his fine mouth pulled down, he spun the smooth, wooden handle in his palm and then raised his gaze to Ulric. “Come on.”
The captain hesitated. “Prepare yourself, lord.”
