“A fortnight?” The shuttle clacked back and forth on the loom with growing speed as she wove. “How fortunate for you that our village is so welcoming to strangers, and you’ve a skill for spinning tales. You’ll be well-fed by the time youleave.”
Alaric draped his arms over his knees and bowed his head. Elsbeth admired his hair, the color of roasted chestnuts. Sunlight sheened his long locks with russet highlights. His wide shoulders rippled with muscle, and her fingers itched to draw swirling patterns over the smooth golden skin revealed by his sleevelessvest.
She frowned and slammed the shuttle down against the loom, wrenching the rug’s weft and warp. Too handsome by far, and he knew it. Elsbeth hoped he’d caught her not so subtle barb about leeching off the generosity of others. It might be an unfair accusation. It was customary for villages to house traveling bards, but she wanted him gone. He was far too dangerous to her senses, and she refused to feed his vanity with heradmiration.
Alaric raised his head and gazed at her with storm-cloud eyes. His smile was not so easy this time. “Aye, the women in Ney-by-the-Water are fine cooks. Your men are lucky.” He reached out to touch her arm, halting when she scooted away from him. The smile disappeared. “Your people have been kind to this traveler, Beth. All saveyou.”
Elsbeth flushed, ashamed. He didn’t exaggerate. She had purposefully avoided him and kept her replies short to the point of rudeness on those few occasions he tried talking to her. Not once had she invited him to a meal since his stay, despite Angus’s hints that it would be a fine thing having the storyteller at their table. She left any gathering he joined and did her best not to meet his gaze when it landed onher.
It was the height of discourtesy, but she had counted on Alaric’s popularity with the other villagers not to be noticed. And honestly, she never imagined he would notice, though she often caught him watching her as she ran errands in the village or visitedneighbors.
“I’m a poor cook,” she said grudgingly. “You miss nothing but burnt stew and hardbread.”
Alaric shook his head. “Untrue. I miss the company of a fine woman I’ve admired since I came here.” Her hand froze on the shuttle. “You may not reveal your true self to me, Beth, but I’ve watched you with others and heard you play your fiddle. You make magic with your music, and you’ve a smile like the sun after a gray rain.” His voice deepened, the words rolling off his tongue like a caress. “I want you to smile that way for me.” Again, that sun-browned hand reached out to touchher.
Elsbeth stiffened but didn’t move away this time, too stunned by what he said to do anything more than stare at the long finger tracing a delicate line down herarm.
“I’m not your enemy, Beth,” he said. “Invite me to yourtable.”
She jerked out of his reach and scrambled to her feet. “Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “It’s not myname.”
Alaric remained seated, eyes gone frosty. “My apologies, Mistress Weaver,” he said in a voice no longer warm, but distant and cool. “I meant nodisrespect.”
Elsbeth exhaled a long breath. She was usually good-natured, possessing a ready laugh and an appreciation for a well-told joke, but something about Alaric brought out the shrew inher.
“You’ve a smile like the sun after a grayrain.”
The man possessed a tongue coated in poisoned honey, and the sensible part of her mind warned her not to give in to such deadly charm. Still, his compliment freed the butterflies in her ribcage, and it was only fair that she and Angus feed him at leastonce.
Elsbeth ignored that internal sensible voice. It was just supper after all. “I’m serving lentils and a bit of pork tonight. There’s always more than my grandfather and I can eat.” Alaric’s gaze thawed, and his delighted smile enhanced his prominent cheekbones.” She frowned. “I’ll serve at the sixth hour. If you’re not here, we won’twait.”
He rose gracefully. Elsbeth was a tall woman, but Alaric towered over her. She caught his scent, an intriguing combination of sunlight and cool sharpness—pine or cedar or some other evergreen that grew on the shadowed slopes of Findley’s Mountain. Her nostrils flared. He smelled as good as helooked.
She moved away, warning him with a narrowed gaze that he stood too close. Alaric raised his hands in surrender and stepped back a few paces. He grinned, his eyes alight with pleasure at her invitation. “I’ll be there,” he promised. “And lentils are myfavorite.”
Elsbeth snorted and rolled her eyes. “Oh, I’m sure they are, MasterAlaric.”
He laughed then, a low, vibrant sound that caressed her ears and sent a tingle down her back. If she didn’t escape into the house soon, he’d spot the blush fast crawling up her chest to her face. She hurried to thedoor.
“Will you play your fiddle for me, Elsbeth?” he called out toher.
She halted to cast him a disapproving look over her shoulder. “Supper and music, storyteller? You ask a lot for a tale ortwo.”
The intensity of his gaze belied his casual smile. “Ah, sweet lass,” he said softly, “I’d ask for much more if I thought you were inclined to giveit.”
Heat flooded her cheeks the moment she shut the door behind her. She closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath. If this kept up, they’d have to eat in the dark so Alaric couldn’t see her redface.
The pony’swuffling shook Elsbeth out of her nostalgic musings. Tater, so named because of her rotund belly and dull brown coat, wandered closer, grazing on a thick carpet of grass next to where Elsbeth sat. The pony nudged her none too gently out of theway.
“Sorry, Tater,” she said and rose to dust the crumbs of her lunch off her hands and armor. She was being an idiot, wasting good daylight mooning over a man long gone or longdead.
She repacked her supplies and was harnessing Tater to her traces when the little mare’s ears suddenly flattened against her head. Her eyes rolled, and she stamped her hooves. Only her mistress’s firm hold on the halter kept her from bolting, and the cart rattled with herstruggles.
The hairs on Elsbeth’s nape rose. A moment earlier, a chorus of birdsong and insect chittering had risen from the fields. They’d gone silent now. From the corner of her eye, she spotted the shadow of great wings passing over the pond’s glass surface. A concussion wave of air bowed the stalks of wheat and rippled the still waters. Tater squealed and lunged in her traces, nearly jerking Elsbeth off her feet. She held onto the halter with one hand and scrabbled for her crossbow on the cart seat with the other. It wouldn’t do her much good. She couldn’t nock a bolt and hold the pony at the same time, but it calmed her rising fears just to have the weapon inhand.
She stared up but saw nothing, only a blue emptiness broken by a tattered drift of clouds. Whatever had flown above them and sent the pony into a panic was gone or turned invisible by some arcane magic. Elsbeth waited while Tater shivered and sweated. Soon, the first bird calls resumed, and the fields came alive once more withsound.
A shadow of wings and the pressing weight of air. A dragon. A dragon had flown over them, low and fast. Elsbeth was certain of it, though she had seen nothing as it flew by except shadow on the pond’s surface. Magic. Surely it was. A beast so large would be a target for every spearman in the surrounding counties. It would employ a means to camouflage itself for protection. She took a deep breath and said a heartfelt prayer. By some divine grace, the dragon hadn’t noticed them, even when the pony squealed and shook the cart to its pins. That, or it simply wasn’t very hungry at the moment. Sheshivered.
