“Why, you look like a proper lord, Master Boyd,” Rynn said witha cheeky smile.
“Well done, Marta, Rynn.” Lucan stepped to the fore of the gathering. “How does itfeel, Padraig?”
“Bloody good,” Padraig admitted with a nod. He was especially pleased that Marta had managed to incorporate Padraig’s Scots heritage in his new costume, cutting a square of the best portion of his da’s plaid and pleating it to be fastened to the breast of his tunic by the now oiled and polished wooden pin. He thought the burgundy color suited him, and his new boots made him feel properly outfitted to take on the whole of the English army himself, especially with the sword with which Ulrichad gifted him.
“All right, everyone,” Lucan began, but his announcement was cut off as the chamber door opened. Padraig didn’t turn his head until he noticed Lucan’s surprised expression.
Beryl entered the room and closed the door behind her, but it was not the Beryl Padraig had grown used to seeing every day in his chamber for the past two months, with her somber gray gown and her crisp white coif. This Beryl was wearing a fitted, peacock-blue kirtle with a saffron veil over loops of braids all around her head.
She stopped her approach halfway across the floor as her gaze met Padraig’s, and he realized she was taking his measure just as fully as he was taking hers. He’d never imagined her like this—her clothing matching her demeanor—and he was suddenly hesitant to speak to her.
And yet it was expected of him. Beryl herself had taughthim that much.
And so he gave her a bow. “Good evening, Beryl.”
She dipped at once into a curtsy, inclining her head slightly. The gown seemed an extension of her grace, the veil a heralding banner of her exquisite presence.
“Good evening, Master Boyd. If it will not inconvenience you, I thought perhaps we might take the evening meal together. Lady Hargrave prefers me to sit elsewhere tonight.”
Get it right, get it right, Padraig told himself.
“It would honor me to receive you at my table,” he said, and her smile was all the answer he needed.
“Well done,” she said quietly. “You’ve surprised me again.”
“Wait ’til you see me with thesalt cellar.”
“Very good,” Lucan interrupted, rather rudely in Padraig’s opinion. “Beryl shall be continuing her instruction of Master Boyd at the meal. Grand idea, although it is rather ill-mannered of her to invite herself. Actually—Rynn, Peter, Marta; I think all of you who have worked so closely with Master Boyd these past days shall join him. You’ve no other duties for the feast, and Master Boyd has a table of stations to fill. And Cletus—where is Cletus?”
“Here,” the sullen voice proclaimed from behind the screened corner where the chamber pot resided.
“Cletus, you shall be Master Boyd’s taster. Anything he desires for his trencher shall be first put to your tongue.”
“Aye, Sir Lucan.”
“The rest of you are dismissed until your evening duties.”
Padraig had heard the orders, had heard the other servants leaving the chamber, but he had been unable to tear his gaze from the vision standing in his chamber. She was so perfect—like apainted figure.
“You look lovely,” Padraig said without hesitation.
Was that a blush?
“That’s forward, Master Boyd.But thank you.”
“The gown?”
“Prying,” she answered in asingsong tone.
“It suits you,” he said, and it sounded so pitifully inadequate to describe her beauty.
She hesitated. “Your costume as well,” she said, and he thought there was genuine admiration in her voice. “Red is astrong color.”
“If I werena a strong man, I wouldna be here.” Did she perhaps think him handsome?
Lucan cleared his throat. “Beryl, a word, if you don’t mind?”
Padraig frowned and turned to face Lucan. “I’d nae have you speak to my staff without my presence, Lucan. I mean you nae offense. You have done me a great service, and I thank you. But unless this is a private matter between you and Beryl, would that you speak your mind before me. Her welfare is my responsibility, is it nae?”
