Peyton shrugged, her luxurious cascade of golden-red curls shimmering in the weak light. “Whether or not you mention him, he is always on the surface of my mind. It takes very little for me to think of him.”
Ivy felt the stab of pain for her sister, remembering too well the loss of Sir James Deveraux nine months prior. The anguish still clouded Peyton’s face. She hadn’t been the same since dashing blond James was gored by a spear-tipped joust pole in full view of his fiancée.
Ivy rose, not wanting to linger on the private memories. “I shall see to sup. It is my turn, is it not?”
“It is,” Peyton nodded. “I would prefer fowl this night. Or mayhap lamb. No mutton, if you please.”
“Venison?”
“Disgusting, wretched stuff.”
Ivy smiled, her pale coloring in sharp contrast to her sister’s radiant beauty. “You used to like it well enough.”
“I have changed my mind. Nothing heavy. Or slicked with grease.”
“What gall! When it is your turn to see to meals, you serve items that are literally floating in slime.”
Peyton smiled deviously. “Because you like it that way, darling. Admit it.”
“I shall admit that you are intent on making me fat so that no man will have me.”
“I thought you did not want a husband?”
“I never said that. Stop twisting my words.”
Peyton laughed again, patting her sister’s blond head affectionately. “Stop fretting, Ivy. ’Tis out of our hands, I am afraid.”
Ivy wandered to the solar door, her fingers probing the scrubbed jamb absently. Behind her, Peyton stood staring into space, no doubt with James on her mind. The pain, although somewhat faded, still clutched at her heart. It took her months before she could right herself after his death.
“Do you think Lord Brian will choose Colin?” Ivy’s voice was faint with dread.
Peyton was jolted from her train of thought, her expression contemptuous. “Not unless he is willing to be an active party to murder, for that is what will surely happen if he betroths me to Colin Warrington. I shall kill the beast before I shall allow a marriage to take place.”
Ivy thought a moment. “Mayhap the union would ease the feud. After all, the Warringtons and the de Fluornoys have been fighting for decades, and….”
Peyton put up a hand. “Say no more. I will not even hear of the possibility. Now go order me a round of slop, sister.”
Ivy cocked a slow eyebrow. “Slop, did you say? That, darling Peyton, can be arranged.”
Peyton waved her sister on with a grin. Outside, the sun was setting over the golden-pale fields of grain that kept St. Cloven firmly established in her trade as the sisters made their way to the manor.
Dinner was an unexpectedly flavorful affair and Peyton enjoyed the rewards of her sister’s uncanny sense of table with nary a greasy dish in sight. Fowl, boiled vegetables and a pale yellow ale graced the table. And, to match the yellow ale, Ivy had instructed the cook to dye everything saffron yellow. So Peyton ate yellow meat, yellow vegetables, and only half of her bright yellow custard. In truth, she was stuffed full from the main courses and sat back in her chair, sipping her ale with satisfaction.
Across the table sat Ivy, eating everything in sight. She was a large girl, round and curvaceous with a tendency for fat. Fortunately, she fatted in all of the right places and drew many a man’s stare with her buxom profile and generous hips. Formed like their father’s side of the family, she was in sharp divergence to Peyton’s slender beauty.
Although Peyton was no fragile, delicate hybrid; average in stature and height, she was inordinately strong for a female. But her graceful limbs and creamy skin gave her a soft, dainty appearance, and her beauty was absolutely unequaled. James always told her that she reminded him of a porcelain doll, perfect and sculpted in every way.
She and Ivy were very different in appearance, but not in personality. Their father used to call them magpies, for they chattered incessantly. And fought like Lucifer and Gabriel when the mood hit them.
Aye, they missed their father terribly. For a man who had been hardy and robust all of his life, his death from a heart attack six months prior had come as a deep shock. After their mother had died when the girls were very young, Albert de Fluornoy had coddled and spoiled his children. He had been their only family with exception of the creature currently seated at the far end of the table.
Jubil de Fluornoy was an enigma of sorts. A self-proclaimed witch, she was a peculiar woman with even more peculiar habits. Bizarre did not quite encompass the exact description of Aunt Jubil; in fact, Peyton had yet to come up with the exact terms to describe her father’s younger sister. Weird certainly seemed appropriate most of the time and Peyton and Ivy spent a good deal of time ignoring their only living relation.
“There’s a cock’s foot in here,” Jubil hissed, picking at her trencher.
Ivy glanced at Peyton. “Aye, there is, Jubil, just for you,” she replied sarcastically.
“A big bloody one!” Jubil suddenly declared, although neither girl could see what she was talking about. “It’s preparing to fly away!”
