“That won’t be necessary.”He sat up and took the bowl in his bandaged hand, turning it so he could use the spoon with his good hand.
She leaned close and whispered, “I missed your snorin’ last night.”
He shoveled frumenty into his mouth to avoid having to reply.It was warm and sweet.But not as warm and sweet as her kiss.
She murmured, “I had a dream about ye.”
He almost choked on the frumenty.He’d heard that phrase before from lasses’ lips.Usually in the privacy of a bedchamber.It was always followed by an arousing account of her dream coupling.Andthatwas always followed by an actual coupling.
“Ye were in my bedchamber,” she began.
The anticipatory tingling in his ballocks didn’t bode well.
“Lookin’ all bold and menacin’ with your axe across your shoulders.”
Was this going to be a plundering Viking dream where he seized the woman, tore off her clothes, and forced her to his will?He didn’t much care for those.
“I had brought the rat-catcher in, as my father requested.”
He stopped chewing the frumenty.The tingling had gone away.A rat-catcher?Where was this going?
“And sure enough,” she said, “Twinkle made an appearance.”
“Twinkle?”
“My pet rat.”
He grunted.He dished up another spoonful of frumenty, not sure he wanted to hear a romantic fantasy that included a rat.
“Just as the rat-catcher was about to trap my poor Twinkle in his bucket, ye said, ‘Allow me,’ and ye raised your axe.”
He furrowed worried brows and lowered his spoon.This had turned grim.Also, it didn’t seem the best tale for breaking one’s fast.
“And then ye turned it round backwards,” she said with a grin, “and knocked the rat-catcher’s bucket right out the window.”
Her laughter was delightful and contagious.Even if her dream was the silliest thing he’d ever heard.
After she was done laughing, she gazed at him with adoring eyes.“Ye came to my rescue and saved my precious Twinkle.”
Hew had never felt more like someone’s hero.The way she looked at him.With warmth.And humor.And companionship.It was far more attractive—and dangerous—than the voracious glances women usually sent his way.
But how long would she look at him like that?Would her affection fade with time?
“For that, my brave knight,” she murmured, “I shall someday reward ye.”Her violet eyes simultaneously sparkled with amusement and shone with sultry promise.
Already he could feel his heart softening and melting and becoming vulnerable.She held it in the palm of her hand, like a fragile egg.If he wasn’t careful, when she ultimately broke it, there would be nothing left but the shattered shell of a man languishing in a puddle of despair.
Carenza couldn’t stop singing this morn.She rose at dawn and flitted from task to task like a happy butterfly visiting primroses.
After her curious dream, she’d given Twinkle an extra portion of her frumenty and reassured him that the rat-catcher wouldn’t be visiting.
Then she’d brought Hew his breakfast.
Gazing down at him as he slept—with his mussed hair, his closed eyes, his open mouth—she’d imagined waking to that face each morn.And decided she liked the idea.Nay, shelovedthe idea.His was a countenance she’d never tire of admiring, even if it was accompanied by a snore loud enough to wake the dead.
She’d been tempted to stop that snore with a kiss.
But here in the great hall of Dunlop, she was the laird’s daughter.Demure.Polite.Respectable.
