“Thank you,” Lyla called after her and pulled in a deep breath and blew it out.
With the babies fed and in the capable care of their auntie, the nanny, and Besseta, she rushed outside and hurried along the wall to the smithy. As she scurried along, she stole glances at the open double doors of the keep, watching for Grant. He needed to stay inside. It would be much easier toallowhim to find her in their private chambers if he was already nearby.
The rhythmic ping of a hammer hitting metal revealed that Mr. Allan was at the front of the forge. She hoped that meant he had finished her request. As she rounded the roaring furnace of stone, she paused and waved to ensure the smithy saw her. Poor man didn’t hear well at all. Too many years enduring the loud ring of steel as he worked the metal. Words were almost useless with him. Sometimes he read lips, but usually hand gestures communicated best.
He didn’t look her way, just kept bouncing the hammer along the strip of glowing red iron his tongs held on the andiron.
She moved farther into his peripheral vision and fluttered both hands.
This time, he looked up and smiled. “Good day to ye, m’lady.”
“Good day,” she said, enunciating the words and exaggerating the movement of her mouth. She cupped one hand and made a grinding motion over it with her fist. “Did it work?”
He bobbed his sweaty, bald head and set his current project aside. “Aye, m’lady. I’ve a bag of dust ready as well as a bag of shavings. I didna ken which might work better for ye.” He ambled over to his worktable and scooped up two small leather pouches. “Here they be.”
The soft, brown leather bags almost disappeared in the man’s large hands. Lyla hoped she had brought him enough silver to eradicate their murderous bogle. She accepted the pouches, loosened the drawstrings, and peered inside. “Well done,” she said, forgetting to look up so he could read her lips.
“Eh?” He cupped a hand to his ear and angled it her way.
She smiled and repeated, “Well done!”
He clapped his hands. “Good.” He tapped the pouch on the left. “I gots this one good and fine. The other I left a bit larger, but still good enough, I reckon.”
She gave him a thumbs up, then reached into her pocket and drew out a silver coin and held it out.
“More?” He wrinkled his large, bulbous nose, obviously not relishing another day of grinding metal.
With a shake of her head, she closed his hand around the coin, then pointed at him. “Yours.”
That won her a toothy smile as he bobbed his head again while pocketing his payment. “Thank ye, m’lady. Too generous, ye be. Too generous, indeed.”
She gave a polite bow while hugging the pouches to her chest. Then she waved goodbye, relieved the transaction was over. Mr. Allan was a gentle giant and as nice as could be, but communicating with the man became exhausting after a while. She tucked the packets of ghost poison into her pockets and hurried inside the keep.
The great hall remained in disarray. Cluttered with materials, sawdust, stone dust, and debris in general. The long tables and benches had survived the upper level’s fire but were now used as worktables to cut planks and blocks to size. The rooftops of both the main keep and the barrack’s tower were gone. Completely destroyed. Portions of the third floor, the level closest to the roof, had collapsed to the second. While the lingering tang of wood smoke filled the hall, Lyla detected a hint of the yeasty, mouthwatering aroma of baking bread. It was baking day, and thankfully, the kitchens had suffered no damage at all. That scent symbolized home and gave everyone hope to keep going.
She headed for the stairwell, but only climbed to the first floor. She laughed at herself. Grant had finally trained her to count the floors the same way he did. Ground level was the main hall, kitchens, and Abby’s infirmary. Next floor up was the first floor instead of being known as the second. They’d had several long discussions about that. Mainly because Grant delighted in goading her just because he knew it irritated her.
A poke about the relocated chief’s solar and bedchambers came first. Since most of the third floor was still a work in progress, Grant had ordered their new private quarters moved to the first floor. He had finally confessed to her that was the solar’s original location when he and Merideth married. Lyla wondered if that would make the wraith return.
As she pushed open the door, she lifted her nose and sniffed. The servants had scoured away all hints of the fire. The only scents greeting her were lavender and rosemary. No carpets or weaves covered the hardwood floors. Those had not survived. Something gritty beneath her shoes caught her attention. It couldn’t be grime. Everything gleamed as if new. She bent and looked closer. Salt. Scattered across the threshold and around the perimeter of the room.
She also noticed silver coins hanging in front of each bedchamber door. “But not one between the sitting room and the hallway. How odd.” They had put everything salvaged and cleaned in the place. She liked these quarters better. More bedchambers so the children could stay close rather than be across the keep and up two levels in the nursery. Of course, she doubted the nursery had survived.
“What the devil are ye doing in here?”
She clapped a hand to her chest, then faced her glowering husband. “You scared the life out of me!”
“Better me than the wraith.” His face was dark as thunder as he waved her toward him. “Come. We must go lest the thing stirs.”
“For how long, Grant?” Time to face the truth. She went to him and rested a hand on his chest. “I want our life back. Don’t you?”
He took hold of her shoulders and squeezed. His eyes were stormy yet filled with love. “I want ye safe. And the bairns, too.” With a toss of his chin, he cast a dismissive glance around the room. “None of this matters without ye. Can ye not see that? I must have ye by my side all of my days. The thought of losing ye—” Overwrought, he bowed his head. “I canna bear it,” he whispered.
Tears pricking her eyes, she nudged his chin up and framed his face in her hands. “I will always be with you,” she promised softly. “Always.” She brushed a gentle kiss across his mouth, breathing in his familiar, comforting scent. Manly musk, a hint of sweat from the day’s labors, and the balsam infused soap he used when shaving. The stubble had already returned, welcoming her touch. “Our love is timeless. Remember?”
He groaned and pulled her closer. “Ye know I canna resist ye.”
“Then why try?” She arched against him, molding herself to him. Perfect fit. As always.
