Fergus glanced up then. He appeared to be agitated, as seldom he was. “You know I never speak of it.”
“I do. And it is curious, to my thinking,” Duncan acknowledged. “Most with such an ability would share much of what they perceived to lie ahead, if not all. Some would do it for coin.”
Fergus shook his head with rare vehemence. “It is curse, not gift, Duncan. I seldom see what is good, only what peril lies ahead. And sometimes, it does not come to be. It is irksome how mysterious it all can be, although in hindsight, it makes perfect sense.”
Duncan considered his charge, the son of the man to whom he owed the greatest debt of all. “Did you see peril for this Anna? For Bartholomew?”
Fergus grimaced. “I have seen her, several times, but did not recognize her as the maiden in my visions until she had changed her garb. Indeed, I bought the crimson kirtle knowing full well that Isobel would never don it.” He sighed. “Her fate is bound to that of Bartholomew, this much I would swear upon my own life.”
“That is why you ceded to his request that we take this road,” Duncan guessed.
Fergus nodded. “I knew we should find her upon it. Bartholomew’s destiny.” Duncan saw the concern in the younger man’s eyes. “Whether she means him good or ill, though, is unclear.”
“And is her fate bound to yours?”
Fergus shook his head. “My heart is claimed, Duncan. You know that well. I had but a contribution to make to this tale, though whether it is good or ill has yet to be seen.”
Duncan made a jest, endeavoring to lighten the other man’s mood. “Then I shall be certain not to mention the crimson kirtle to Lady Isobel, lest she believe your affection was tested.”
Fergus forced a smile. “So speaks a man wise in the ways of women.”
“Do you see your own fate?” Duncan had to ask, for he felt a bad portent for the future of Fergus and his betrothed Isobel.
“Nay, that is the puzzle of it,” Fergus said. “My own life could end in a moment, and I would never have had a glimpse of it.” He shrugged and surveyed the hall. “I suppose I should be glad of that mercy.”
Duncan smiled and gripped the knight’s shoulder. “It means you must use your own eyes to see what is close at hand, just like the rest of us,” he said with false cheer. “It is not such a handicap as that, lad.”
*
The man tormented her at the baron’s board.
Anna was convinced that it was no accident. Bartholomew, it appeared, knew far more of amorous games than she—although his touch made her long to learn more. In the hall, amidst the company, she knew he could not take more than she offered. Such dark deeds happened in privacy, not in the bright light of a busy hall. She was safe, so long as they remained with the others, and that meant she could savor the sensations he kindled within her.
She had been bold in her first gesture, wanting only to claim his attention and knowing no other way to do as much. It was clear she had ventured out of her own depth and that Bartholomew could play such games far better than she.
She felt as if she had no defenses against his assault.
If he thought she would be an easy conquest, though, he could reconsider the matter. If he thought to seduce her in truth, after abandoning her in the company of Royce, she would delight in showing him the truth. If he thought to take what she had vowed not to share, she would ensure he regretted it.
Bartholomew was beyond attentive. He kept his thigh pressed against Anna’s own, his hand resting often on the small of her back. She was nigh in his embrace, right at the board! He leaned against her to speak to their host on her other side, ensuring she could not evade the heat of his body or the scent of his skin. His removal of that drop of wine was but the first caress. He fed her venison stew from his own fingertips like a besotted husband, granting her the most choice morsels. He ensured her cup was full and her every need satisfied.
Except the fire he had lit within her belly.
It was curious to be so aware of a man, and so desirous of more. Anna found herself thinking of the kiss he had tried to bestow upon her earlier, and her own inability to enjoy it. What if she trusted him? What if she had another chance? She resolved that she would welcome a kiss, if that was to be the sum of it, and if it was offered in such circumstance as this.
Aye, Anna wanted a kiss from Bartholomew.
Just to know what it could be like. Though her experience with intimacy had been one of violence and pain, she knew her parents had made merry together when they met abed. This man and his attention made her wonder if it were possible for her to enjoy the same pleasure with a man.
The truth was that she wanted more than a kiss.
It was unsettling, to feel her body at war with her reservations, even undermining them. Was this a kind of sorcery? Anna might have pulled away from Bartholomew, but guessed this was his means of disarming their host and hostess. Also, pulling away from Bartholomew would put her closer to Royce, which was not an enticing prospect.
Did Bartholomew know how much he distracted her? It might not be kind, but Anna could not regret that the lady of the hall was so displeased by Bartholomew showing fascination with his wife.
Had he only gone with Marie to learn the location of the stables and to check on his steed? They had been absent for a goodly amount of time, in her view, too long for such a venture. Or would any interval of time have felt like an eternity in Royce’s company?
Perhaps Bartholomew had learned the location of both Percy and Duncan’s possessions.
