Had she been at their wedding, Zigana had no doubt she would have dreamed of this man for months, maybe years, afterward. Brown-haired and gray-eyed, he was unremarkable at first glance, but only at first glance.
His was a face one carved into stone to commemorate heroic deeds and honor the fallen dead. Intense, inscrutable, with a gaze Zigana was sure could bore holes through rock, he paused in front of the two women. He nodded briefly at Jolen with the barest civility before settling that weighty stare on Zigana.
Jolen greeted him in the same dead tones she used when she first spotted him. “Andras.”
Still stunned by her first sight of him and uneasy at the hostility pulsing between husband and wife, Zigana bowed low. “Lord Frantisek,” she said softly. “Welcome.”
He didn’t answer for several uncomfortable moments, and Zigana’s shoulders strained beneath the heavy gaze. “The resemblance is undeniable,” he finally said. “You both have the look of your father.”
Jolen snorted, and Zigana stopped short of echoing her. With Jolen less than a year older than her, they had sometimes been mistaken as twins by strangers unfamiliar with Lord Boda’s family. Both daughters shared their father’s light hair, arched eyebrows and strong jaw, but their personalities were very different. That difference manifested in their demeanors as they grew older until no one thought them twins any longer and only as siblings when they stood together. And Zigana had no more interest in claiming familial connection with Boda than he did with her.
“We share the same sire, my lord,” she said. “But Odon Imre is my father.”
Surprise flitted across his features, and his gray eyes warmed. While his face was set in stern lines, Zigana thought, for no reason she could adequately explain, that he smiled easily and often—when not in the presence of his wife.
He inclined his head in acknowledgement of her correction. “I see. Thank you for your welcome, Mistress Imre.” He waved a hand toward the Gray. “I’ve always wanted to spend more time by the sea.”
“Don’t you have villages to visit?” Jolen asked, her question abrupt and hostile.
His indifference to it was more striking than her contempt. “I already have. I was on my way back to Banat by this path and saw you two walking.” He turned his attention back to Zigana who had to squelch the urge to slink away from them. “Your councilman, Tury, said the horse shrimpers trawl a little before low tide and a little after. I’d like my daughter to see them.”
“She has lessons then,” Jolen snapped.
“They can wait,” he replied, steel threading his previously mild tone.
“Then you can bring her,” she fired back. “I’m having tea with Lady Kinga then.”
“It’s what I intended all along.”
Jolen clenched her jaw and dismissed him with a haughty tilt of her chin. “My daughter, Tunde, loves horses. She can see Gitta if you plan to trawl with her tomorrow, Ziga.”
Zigana’s jaw dropped. Her sister had a child?
“The women trawl as well?” His lordship’s gaze warmed a fraction when it returned to Zigana. He asked the question with curiosity instead of disapproval.
She gathered together her frayed thoughts. “We do. Sometimes the men go to sea for long periods or prefer to work the fields, so the women bring in the shrimp when their men can’t or won’t. I help my father.”
Jolen interrupted. “Can you come to the castle afterwards? My staff can use the help with setting it to rights. I believe your mother is already helping.”
Andras stiffened. “For gods’ sake, wife, have you no awareness of your own arrogance?” he muttered.
Zigana didn’t need sharp hearing to catch the sound of Jolen’s spine straightening with a snap. She glared at her husband. “What are you talking about?” Her voice had gone shrill.
Zigana knew exactly what his lordship spoke of. Were she not used to her sister’s occasional blind haughtiness, she’d want to cuff her for the insult of inviting her to the house as a maid instead of a guest. Andras Frantisek was obviously far more egalitarian than others of his class, including his wife, if he was offended for her.
She intervened before an argument escalated between them. “Mama will be delighted to be there, but I can’t. This is high season for shrimping and moss harvesting when the storms roll in. Odon needs me more, but you’re welcome in our house any time.”
Jolen’s smile was pained. “We’ll see.”
Andras’s glare at his wife lessened only a fraction when Zigana addressed him. “I’ll wait on the shore. If you can be here with your daughter about an hour and half before low tide, I’ll wait for you. She can meet Gitta and see how I set up the nets.”
Instead of inclining his head when they first met, he bowed and smiled. And knocked the breath out of her chest. “Tomorrow then. A pleasure, Mistress Imre.”
That smile. Dear gods, this man must have laid waste to the Pricidian court with that smile. How many women, and no few men, had fallen before its power? Many people had nice smiles. Good teeth and charming humor could pretty up even the homeliest face. But when Andras Frantisek smiled, he did so with his entire being, his soul shining out of those gray eyes like sunrise. It wouldn’t surprise Zigana if she learned that Sangur the Lame had chosen not to execute him for that reason alone.
Zigana inhaled slowly through her nose and returned his bow with a graceless one of her own. “Lord Frantisek,” she said, nearly faint with relief at the controlled timbre of her voice.
“Do you wish to accompany me back?” he asked Jolen, smile gone, voice indifferent once more.
