“Oh.” In theory, a son would work just as well for her purposes, at least if what she’d heard was correct. Bayard’s voice was not promising, though. “Doesn’t he—”
“Don’t know. Didn’t have much to do with him before. He’s not in a good mood now, though. I’ll swear that.”
“I see.”
“Ah, don’t worry overmuch,” said Bayard, and patted her on the shoulder. “He did say we could stay the night, and he’s willing to talk with us tomorrow. I’d think he’d be in a much better mood for a prettier face than mine.”
Sophia reminded herself that Bayard meant well.
The people around her seemed in decent spirits, at least. Not knowing the language—it seemed to happen far back in the throat, mostly—she couldn’t tell much from the conversation, but they didn’t have the faces or the manners of people who feared their lord. She took what heart she could from that and let Bayard guide her to the high table.
“He’s treating us well, bad mood or no,” she whispered on her way.
“None of us speak Gaelic. He knows that…or has reasoned it out.”
“Ah,” said Sophia, and then she was bowing before Cathal MacAlasdair.
Up close, he was… Well, he was a soldier, and it showed. When he rose out of courtesy, he was almost a foot taller than her, his chest and shoulders broad and thick with muscle. His jaw was square; his nose had been broken at least once; and beneath the blue wool tunic he wore and the blue-and-red plaid draped across his chest, one shoulder was thick with what Sophia thought were probably bandages. Good cloth and fur trim on the tunic saidknightrather thancommon soldierbut otherwise this was a man who spent his life fighting.
His eyes were bright green, almost like new grass, a shade she’d never seen in eyes before. It was the first sign Sophia had that she might have found what she was seeking—that the rumors might have truth to them.
She caught her breath.
“You’re French as well?” he asked, using the language more easily than she’d expected, though with a rough burr of an accent.
“Yes,” Sophia said. There would be time to explain the whole truth later, if things went well. If they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. “My lord. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“You’re welcome to it. The roads are dangerous, especially in winter. Eat, pray, as you wish. When you tire, one of the maids will show you and your friend to beds.” Cathal looked her over quickly, without heat or even the curiosity his servants had displayed. Even as she sat down, he was turning back to Bayard. “You were describing your wares.”
That was that. The conversation turned to prices and supplies, leaving Sophia behind.
She didn’t mind, exactly. It was enough work figuring out what she could eat—picking out onions, turnips, herring, and bread for herself, unobtrusively slipping the beef to the dogs—that she was glad not to have to put more thought into conversation, and her brain felt half frozen anyhow. Still, it wasn’t a promising start.
“I’m not sure,” Alice murmured, passing the wine cup and leaning over, “whether he learned manners from a goat or a toad, but I don’t envy you a bit either way.”
Sophia stifled laughter. “It’s not what we’re used to.”
“Thank goodness.”
It was theI don’t envy youthat lingered. Sophia didn’t mind Cathal’s manners for themselves. As an omen of things to come, not quite so much.
A still-romantic part of her was surprised that she had an appetite. The rest, the scholar for fifteen years, would have expected nothing else, given the cold outside and the scarce rations they’d been on for the last few days. When she could eat from a dish, she helped herself generously—and wished she could have fooled herself about the meat.
Occasionally Bayard tried to redirect the conversation, to bring her and Alice in, but Cathal never made more than a cursory effort, and Bayard was a man of business. If his host and potential customer wanted to focus on the price of pepper, then the price of pepper would be the topic at hand. He alreadyhadAlice and Sophia’s money, after all. Cathal’s was less of a sure thing.
By the end of the meal, Alice was looking both vexed and bored, but she put a hand on Sophia’s shoulder as they rose and drew her aside. “Shall I come with you?”
“No. If he’ll speak at all, it’ll be in private.”
“I’m certain,” Alice said. “And if he offers you insult or grows violent—”
“Then I’ll scream.” For all the good it might do. She didn’t need to say that, and neither did Alice. They’d been walking into the lion’s den all along, and they knew it. “But he doesn’t seem the sort, and he doesn’t seem interested.”
In a way—a way that Sophia would never have said aloud, even to Alice—that had been a disappointment. She didn’t want to put that particular pawn on the board, wanted to squirm with discomfort thinking about it, and yet…it would have been another option, although a distasteful one.
“I’ll be all right,” she said.
* * *
