“Sir Hew,” the laird said, “Pray tell us about the great battle at Darragh.”
The battle at Darragh.Hew knew that would bore Carenza.But it would appease the laird.And it would distract the rutting beast of lust.
He began with a humble, “I was but a youth at the time, so the battle was waged mostly by others of my clan.”
Carenza knew the subject of warfare thrilled her father.But aside from sword-wielding Rivenloch women, she didn’t find the discussion of battle tactics particularly engaging.Still, she listened intently for mentions of Hew’s other kin, in the event there was a man suitable for marriage.
Unfortunately, she’d already had to dismiss his cousin Gellir, the tournament champion.When it came to animals, she assumed he would stab first and ask questions later.
Gellir’s younger brother Brand sounded like a shadow of Gellir, so she was forced to reject him as well.
Another cousin, Adam, was apparently a master of disguise who’d once feigned to be a royal escort.He sounded even more dangerous than a man who’d lie about cattle reiving while standing next to a priest.So she crossed him off the list.
As Hew continued describing the warfare at Darragh, he mentioned his cousin Ian.At first, Ian sounded like a possible match.He was bright, quiet, serious, and inventive.But it turned out he was only fifteen years of age and just as much an agent of destruction as his warrior cousins.It had been his idea to fabricate and launch the mysterious and horrific flaming phoenixes that had finished the battle.
“Such a marvelous tale,” her father exclaimed.
“Marvelous,” Carenza echoed, glad it was over.“What about your other kin?Brothers?Cousins?”She licked a drop of honey from the corner of her lip.
When she glanced up at him, his gaze was fixed on her mouth.His eyes were smoky.His jaw was tense.His nostrils flickered.
There was no mistaking his thoughts.
He wanted her.
Nay, he hungered for her.
Her breath caught audibly.
In the next instant, he blinked.And the fire went out.
“Kin?”he croaked.“Aye.”
She lowered her gaze.Still, the heat of his regard lingered.The rest of his words went into her ear and vanished in the misty maelstrom of her brain.At the end of a long list of recited names, she said simply, “I see.”
Her father added, “’Tis a bit overwhelmin’, is it not, Carenza?”To Hew he explained, “Carenza has neither brother nor sister.”
“That may explain her good nature,” Hew said.“No battle was more fierce than those the Rivenlochs siblings waged against each other.”
“That may be true.Carenza only caused trouble a handful o’ times.”
She squirmed.She hated it when her father talked about her as if she wasn’t present.
Hew turned to her.“Only a handful.Is that true?”
She sensed his amusement.After all, he’d seen her at her worst.Disobeying her father.Skulking about in the middle of the night in crofter’s rags.Reiving cattle.Cursing.
“Once when she was very young,” her father said with a chiding cluck of his tongue, “she ‘borrowed’ the jars o’ tempera from a visitin’ artist.”
Carenza paled.He hadn’t told that tale in years.Apparently, her father still believed she’d eventually returned the jars to the artist.She hadn’t.Instead, she’d offered the man a very expensive brooch in exchange and kept the tempera.She still used it to illustrate her bestiary.
“Ah,” Hew said, saving her again from humiliation by changing the subject, “a budding artist.Do you like painting?”
She loved painting.But she wasn’t going to say so in front of her father.As far as he knew, she owned no artist’s tools.
“I do stitchery,” she said.
“She does beautiful work,” the laird said.“See the sleeves o’ my leine?”
