Elizabet satat the little table, her face close to the candle flame, trying to finish the last stitches of the tunic she was sewing.
She had worked all day on the garment, fashioning it from the soft, fine cloth of her undertunic. She’d thought, at first, to cook for him, using the supplies he’d brought her, but they were depleted now, and she’d despaired of finding a suitable gift to show her appreciation for all he’d done for her. But then she’d recalled the needle and thread that she always carried in the hem of her dress to stitch herself back into her gown after it had been laundered, and she’d set to work trying to fashion a tunic he would be proud to wear.
At this moment she wore only the velvety surcoat, which had a slightly more revealing neckline, but it couldn’t be helped. She was warm enough, and she was thoroughly pleased with her handiwork. In truth, she had seen no finer garment on King Henry himself. Broc would look splendid in it.
Blinking with exhaustion, she sewed the last stitch and snipped the thread with her teeth, setting the needle aside. Later, she would return it to her hem. At the moment, she was far too weary even to move. She pushed the candle away from her and held up the tunic to inspect it, pleased with the finished product. She hoped it would fit him—he was so large a man!
He was beautiful, she thought wistfully.
She almost dreaded Piers’ return, because it would mean she could no longer be able to remain here with Broc. The little hovel no longer seemed such a terrible place, and the thought of leaving it made her somehow sad. She nearly regretted asking him to bring John to her now. Once her brother realized where she was, it wouldn’t be so simple a task to convince him she should remain with Broc at least until they revealed Tomas for the murdering thief he was.
Her brother would protest for propriety’s sake. She knew it wouldn’t look good to a prospective husband. This could sully her reputation beyond repair. But she couldn’t consider that right now.
She yawned, then folded the cloth, setting it down on the table. And then she laid her head down upon her arms and closed her eyes.
Broc would take care of everything, she was certain. She felt safe in his care. John would surely understand... why she must remain... with Broc.
She reached out sleepily to lay her hand upon the soft tunic and fell asleep trying to imagine Broc’s face when she presented it to him.
He hadto get rid of the hound before morning.
Tomas sat listening to the conversation at table, trying not to roll his eyes at the elaborate show of affection between Montgomerie and his wife. The woman was no more than a Highland bitch, and he treated her as though she were the Queen of England herself. He had significant doubts about Piers’ loyalties. The way he pandered to his wife and her kinsmen, he was behaving more like a backwoods Scotsman than a servitor of the Crown. He’d be damned if he’d hand over Elizabet’s purse so that Piers could squander it on his doting wife.
By God, he deserved the monies! Meager as the sum was, he sure as hell hadn’t bothered to kill two men only to lose it now. His sister would surely provide for him, but he didn’t particularly care for the notion of having to beg for every coin he received from her. Elizabet’s inheritance would see him through until Margaret’s husband favored them with his passing.
He damned well didn’t want the wench to be found. No one but he, John and Elizabet had been aware of the purse John carried, and neither did anyone else realize there was a letter intended for Piers as well. Even if he wished to let it go now, he couldn’t. Elizabet would reveal far more than he could allow.
Later, when everyone had gone to bed, he would rid himself of the hound.
“Tomas?” his hostess inquired, turning him from his reverie. Until now, they had rudely excluded him from their conversation, discussing matters that hardly interested him.
The entire table now turned to face him. Like her husband, the men seemed to hang on Meghan’s every word. “Aren’t you at all hungry?” she asked and tilted her pretty head.
For sheep’s gut?
Tomas lifted his brows as he glanced down at the food, trying not to show his revulsion for the mess on his plate. He took a sip of his ale before replying. “I find myself weary is all, my lady.”
“’Tis understandable,” she graciously conceded. “It has been a wearisome day for all.”
For an instant, Tomas thought she might dismiss him from her table as one would an unmannerly child. It left him with a sour feeling in his belly, and he suddenly no longer cared for their company—not even for the ale. As soon as he had taken care of a few unfinished details, he intended to be away from this place once and for all.
He rose from the table abruptly, raking his chair back rudely. “If you will be so kind as to excuse me,” he said, taking his leave. “I believe I shall retire for the night.”
“Pleasant dreams,” Meghan said with a smile.
Bitch.
He could see the relief flare in her expressive eyes.
“We shall see you bright and early on the morrow,” Piers charged him.
Arrogant bastard.
Tomas could hardly wait for the day when he could stop taking orders from pompous arses.
He bowed slightly with barely restrained anger, tempering his outrage. “Until tomorrow,” he said and left them, feeling their beady eyes upon his back.
The sooner he was gone from here, the better.
