He halted and gently pulled her to a stop. Bending to level with her gaze, he caught such an intoxicating whiff of her sweetness that he almost forgot what he intended to say. It took a shake of his head and a hard swallow to break her fragrance’s spell. “I dinna ken what happened in yer past, and I can do nothing to change it. But I can promise ye are safe here. Understand?”
The dark centers of her brown eyes expanded to larger pools, revealing her fear held strong. He recognized the telltale sign from battle.
He took a step back and gave her more space. Perhaps that would grant her some ease.
“Ye are safe here,” he promised again. “And if ye dinna wish to answer something, just refuse, aye? No ill will come to ye from yer refusing.” He offered an understanding smile. “Many live here who dinna wish to revisit their past. Ye will find us a somewhat unusual gathering of folk, but we have made ourselves into a proud clan just the same.”
Her tense smile still looked forced. “Mr. Abernathy has been gone a little over a year now,” she said quietly.
So she referred to her husband asMr.Interesting. It had been his experience that only elderly widows used that turn of phrase. He offered a polite bow. “My condolences, mistress.”
“Thank ye.”
He tried to take her arm again to guide her around a rough patch of cobblestones, and she jerked as though startled. “Mistress Abernathy. Please. Ye are making it appear as if I abused ye all the way here.” Her apologetic cringe made him soften his usual booming voice to gentle the teasing. “I willna hear the end of it from Vivyanne if she thinks ye have suffered while under my protection. She will skin me alive.”
At long last, she bloomed with a genuine smile that gleamed in her eyes. Her amusement lifted his heart. She held out her hand. “Here. I would hate for yer wife to be upset with ye.”
“Oh, she is not my wife,” he hurried to explain. “Vivyanne is just—here.” There was no delicate way of describing the motherly madam of the clan’s parlor of ill repute. He had brought her and several of her whores to Éirich when a rival brothel torched theirs and left the poor ladies homeless. “She is just an old friend who needed shelter.”
“Like myself and Robbie?”
“Aye,” he agreed, wondering if he would pay for that comparison at a later date.
“Éirich is a fine castle.” She studied the thickness of the skirting wall as they entered the courtyard. “Not much left to finish at all.”
“Just the arch and portcullis.” He led her around another uneven stretch of ground. “But they canna seem to get the pavers settled properly in spots, so watch yer step.”
“Probably the ground still settling where ye dug the root cellars and whisky dunnage.” She shied away and clamped her mouth shut as if regretting the words.
He made no mention of her discomfort, hoping she would relax and reveal more about herself. He did find it interesting that she knew so much about the groundwork of the place. Perhaps her husband had been one of the earlier workers. That would be strange, though. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall an Abernathy among them.
“Come back here, ye feckin’ bird!”
The screeching bellow halted their progress halfway across the bailey. “We best wait here,” he warned, wondering what had set Vivyanne’s arse on fire this time.
The red-faced madam careened around the corner of the keep. Her scarlet curls, wild and frizzy, accentuated her abundance of bosoms about to jiggle free and spill over her neckline. She brandished a hatchet overhead while struggling to catch up with her prey. “No eggs in a month means the cook pot for ye, ye bloody layabout!”
The frightened chicken flapped and fluttered out of reach, leaving a cloud of feathers in its wake.
“Leave the thing be, woman,” Teague ordered her. “Are ye that hungry for chicken?”
Vivyanne fumbled to a hard stop, chest heaving. Her eyes went wide as she noticed Mila. She swiped her forehead with the back of the hand holding the hatchet. Then used the same hand to wipe the sweat from her upper lip.
“Pardon me a moment.” He gave Mila an apologetic glance, then marched over and yanked the small ax away from the flustered woman. “Bloody hell. Give me that afore ye cut yer own throat.”
Vivyanne pointed at the chicken that was now contentedly pecking at a crack in the cobblestones. “I told Greta that one there’s not laid a single egg in nigh on a month. She said if I fetch it, she will make us a fine soup to go with supper.”
He refused to argue about the chicken’s right to live when more important matters were on the horizon. “Come meet our newest guest. And behave yerself.”
At least Mila appeared to be somewhat amused. Her eyes sparkled with mirth, and the corners of her mouth quivered with a smile trying to break free.
“Where did ye find that poor waif?” Vivyanne whispered loud enough for half the keep to hear.
Teague ignored the question. Instead, he ushered her over at a faster pace. “Mistress Mila Abernathy, meet Mistress Vivyanne Allderdice.” He shot a warning glare at the madam. “Theold friendI was telling ye about.”
“Hello.” Mila’s anxiousness thickened the air.
“Ye poor thing.” Vivyanne sidled around, standing closer to her as she graced Mila with a sympathetic up-and-down look. “Did they drag ye behind the whisky wagon in all this rain? Ye’re muddy as a pig and soaked to the bone. And where on earth did ye get those clothes, child?”
