“I intend to,” he said. “If she’ll have me. I don’t think she’s ready yet.”
As much as she wanted to argue, Louvaen had to agree. Cinnia adored Gavin; that was obvious—but enough to marry him? His idea of courtship through the winter was a sound one. He had no competition from other suitors, no distractions from threats like Jimenin and plenty of time to show her his worth, not only in possessions but also in character. Another girl might not wait and leap at the chance to wed such a fine example of manhood as Gavin de Lovet. He was handsome—almost equal in male beauty to Cinnia’s feminine charms. Cinnia, however, had been raised with the guarded Louvaen, and despite a lapse or two, wasn’t hasty with her decisions. Gavin would have to work to win her.
Louvaen spun the new line, watching as it filled the spool. “I’m a merchant’s daughter, so let me put this in merchant’s terms. If I discover you’ve sampled the wares before you’ve bought, I will kill you with my bare hands.” She ceased spinning and turned her full focus on him. “And now you know where you stand.”
His expression solemn, Gavin nodded once. “I’ve always known, Mistress Duenda, and I believe you.” He stropped the knife a few more times before gathering it and the strop together. He stood and bowed. “Mistress, I bid you good night.” He passed Ballard on his way out. “Father,” he said, “I’ll meet you in the morning for sparring. He eyed Louvaen. “I need the practice.”
Ballard watched him leave before entering the room. “Did you two have a good conversation?”
Her foot never broke rhythm on the treadle. “We did. I threatened to kill him if he compromised Cinnia.” She tried not to smile as his eyebrows rose, and he dropped into the chair across from her.
“Ah, you’re getting to know each other better; excellent.”
She did laugh then. “You’ve no regard for your son’s continued health?”
Ballard stretched his legs out in his usual pose and folded his hands across his midriff. “His health is of great concern to me. I also have great faith in his ability to look out for himself.” His gaze sharpened. “Something I think you lack with your sister.”
Louvaen snapped a second line but this time gave up the spinning altogether. “What do you know of it?” she muttered, affronted by his observation.
“Enough to know Cinnia Hallis is as intelligent and sensible as she is beautiful. There’s not a person in this castle who doesn’t believe she can make sound decisions if given the chance—except you.”
“That is not true.” Louvaen stood and shoved the spinning wheel aside hard enough it almost toppled.
Ballard remained in his relaxed position, his expression calm. “Isn’t it? I’ve had bitch hounds guard pups with less ferocity than you do that girl.”
She almost trod on his toes, forcing him to straighten and draw in his legs until she stood at his knees, hands fisted on her hips. “When did protection become a bad thing, de Sauveterre?” Louvaen wanted to strike him, crack his nose a second time for his criticism. At the same time, she wanted to weep at the idea he was probably right.
“When it smothers the one you’re trying to protect.” A pale hand reached out and gently stroked one of the folds of her dress before drawing away. Ballard’s eyes had turned so dark, Louvaen could no longer discern his pupils from his irises. “I can tell you from bitter experience, mistress, if you don’t let her go you’ll lose her altogether.”
Louvaen swallowed hard and willed away the tears. “She terrifies me. All that could happen...”
“But hasn’t.”
“Because I protect her.”
He shook his head. “No, because you taught her well. She told us you raised her since she was five. Acknowledge her judgment and credit yourself for strengthening it so she can hold her own without you holding her hand.”
Louvaen bowed her head before meeting Ballard’s gaze. “I’m not saying you’re right, but I’ll take your words into consideration.”
The familiar tight smile curved his mouth. “Fair enough. Besides, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for you bursting into flame because you acknowledged I might be right.”
She harrumphed. “Very funny.” The offer to read to him hovered on the tip of her tongue and faded as she watched the black vine that had rested below his eye suddenly move. It climbed the outer curve of the eyelid, bisected his eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline. She inhaled a tight breath.
“What’s wrong?” The creases between Ballard’s brow were of his own making, etched from years of habitual frowning or concentration. Louvaen focused on them instead of the serpentine scar that moved of its own free will.
“One of those black marks just slid across your face and into your scalp. You didn’t feel it?”
A hand reached up and touched the spot where her gaze had rested. “No.” He shrugged and his grim expression told her this was nothing new.
The markings were grotesque, macabre and Louvaen wondered how Ballard kept from flaying himself in a bid to dig them out of his body. “They don’t cause you any pain?”
“Not now.” For the first time since she met him, he turned his face away from her. “Only during the flux’s high tide. Then each one makes its presence known.”
She shuddered and fought to suppress the urge to scratch at the crawling sensation that traveled down her arms and legs. No wonder the man howled in his cell like some poor beast being hacked to bits.
“Now you fear to look at me.”
She had a good view of his profile. A hard jaw and long nose, the compressed mouth and high curve of his cheekbone, marred by the deep broadhead scars and raised spirals at his temples. He reminded her of the hermetic monks who lived at Andagora Skete. Austere, reclusive, he would have made a fine monk. Louvaen discarded the notion. The walls of the great hall gleamed from the polished steel of numerous weapons. At one time this man had been a devotee of war, not prayer.
