Though he had resigned himself to his servitude, it was harder than he’d expected. He was accustomed to giving commands, not receiving them.
“Fill this with water,” one of the older servants directed him, pushing an iron pot into his hands. Kieran nearly dropped it but caught the chieftain’s wife watching him. She, too, expected him to disobey.
Instead, he stared back at her, willing her to look away. Her mouth tightened, showing her discomfort. No man would truly command him; he had chosen this act of contrition. The other slaves seemed to sense it, for they moved away from him when he walked outside for the water. Conversations dimmed, drawing even more attention.
Kieran returned with a full pot, hanging it over the hearth. No one said anything, though one of the female slaves offered him a timid smile. At his dark look, she scuttled away and tended to the food. The others avoided him.
From that moment, he took the more strenuous tasks as his own. He moved among them, lifting stacks of peat and wishing he’d never accompanied Orin. Else he could have been back in the carver’s hut, finishing the image of Iseult.
After another hour, his shoulder ached from the continuous strain. Lifting the deer earlier, coupled with these tasks, made him aware that his wounds hadn’t healed. He kept his discomfort to himself, not letting anyone see the weakness.
As time passed, the rich aroma of venison filled the small space, and his mouth watered. The slaves revealed other dishes: puddings seasoned with onions and salt, roasted pork, and oatmeal cakes studded with fresh currants. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten foods like these. Though he knew he would not sit at their tables, at least he might have leftover portions of the food. It gave him something to look forward to.
When more people began to arrive, Neasa called him over. “Slave, you will bathe the feet of our guests.”
Kieran stopped short, taken aback. Though he knew it was a task often given over to the fudir, his mind rebelled against it. The chieftain’s wife wanted to demean him, to remind him of his place. He hadn’t cared before, but of a sudden, his skin warmed with embarrassment. The idea of kneeling before the others, humbling himself in such a way, made him grind his teeth.
He should simply walk out. Let another slave complete the task. One of the other slaves tried to hand him a basin of water and a linen cloth. Kieran ignored the man, taking a step towards the door.
He didn’t care about the punishment. But before he could leave, the door opened.
Davin entered the hut, holding hands with Iseult. She had changed her gown since he’d last seen her and had pulled part of her hair away from her face, leaving the rest to dry upon her shoulders. The reddish-gold mass offered a striking contrast to the emerald léine and matching overdress. Her cheeks glowed, as if she’d scrubbed them clean. But then her expression drew taut when she saw him. He knew she saw him as the others did—nothing more than a slave, a man beneath her notice.
She and Davin sat down upon a bench, and before he realized it, someone had given him the heavy wooden basin. For a moment he considered dropping it, letting the water spill over the earthen floor.
He found himself staring at Iseult. She didn’t deign to notice him, giving her full attention to Davin. And yet, he noticed the faint blush upon her cheeks.
Though he didn’t know why, he was tempted to provoke her. He wanted to see those rich blue eyes widen when he touched her bare feet.
He washed Davin’s feet without looking at the man, a perfunctory gesture. Davin took the linen cloth and dried his own feet, walking over to greet his parents.
Kieran waited a moment, looking into Iseult’s face. She kept her gaze averted, though he knew she was aware of him. As angry as she’d been the last time they spoke, he imagined she wouldn’t hesitate to kick water into his face.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered furiously, between her teeth.
He lifted her ankle into the basin. “Obeying my commands.”
His hand curved around the bare skin, his thumb upon the most sensitive part of her ankle. Iseult pretended not to notice, but he saw the goose flesh rising upon her skin.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working on the carving?” Not once would she look at him.
He took the sole of her foot and scooped warm water onto her bare skin. His callused palms felt rough against her softness, and he ran his thumb over the sensitive arch. She reddened, but said nothing. When his hands moved up to her calves, she inhaled sharply, as though he’d touched her intimately.
“The carving was only one of my duties.” He took his time with the other foot, bathing the dust from her bare feet, massaging them gently.
“Don’t do this,” she murmured. He glanced up at her face, and she tried to hide a shiver. His own breath felt shaky. This had been a game to him, but right now, the rules had changed. Her vulnerability cast a spell over him, until he wanted to drag her forward, kissing her and stripping her bare.
Wasn’t this what Branna had done to him, betraying him with another man? What was he doing, caressing Iseult’s skin the way a lover might?
He’d never let himself fall into that trap, no matter how beautiful she was. Iseult was the sort of woman to take a man’s breath away, and he knew better than to play with fire.
He handed her the linen towel, and she dried her own feet. Leaning close to him, she added, “I need to speak with you later. After the meal is finished.”
Not a good idea at all. “I have to work on the carving. And I don’t need you there.”
“This isn’t about the carving.”
He stared hard at her, willing her to understand that he would not let her make a fool of him. “Don’t come.”
