Chapter Seven
They stopped outsidethe city, both of them mounted and ready to part ways.
Torin knew he should bid her good day and let her go home, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to spend the afternoon with her…the night. What the hell was the matter with him? He was supposed to be making friends with the guards, with Bennett himself, finding out the garrison’s weaknesses, the list went on—and here he was, wanting to make an English lass smile for the rest of the day.
“I was thinking of riding to Wetheral for some supplies,” he said, trying to settle down an impatient and mayhap a tad jealous Avalon between his thighs. He didn’t need any supplies in Wetheral, but he wanted to spend more time with her. “I would enjoy your company.”
Braya smiled, which pleased him—which also made him scowl.
“What does a village have that a city does not?” she put to him.
“A waterfall.
Her eyes widened and sparked with interest. “I know one that is closer.” But then she looked off into the distance, toward her village, and shook her head. “We have spent too much time together already.” She breathed out a wilting sigh, as if this were the last thing she wanted to hear herself say. Then, vanquishing the melancholy that had overtaken her, she smiled again, flashing her dimple and making him doubt everything he believed.
The English deserved to die. But no. Not her. He didn’t want her around for any fighting. They weren’t on the same side.
“I had a lovely day with you, Sir Torin. Thank you.”
He smiled at her. He didn’t want to. He wanted to turn and go. Avalon wanted him to go as well.
She could have killed him this morn. She had moved her arm slowly, so he could stop her. “I will be here tomorrow—tonight,” he added under his breath.
She laughed and he grew enchanted by her dimple, the sight of her, the sound of her.
“Farewell,” she said, sobering.
She left him looking after her, wanting to charge Avalon forward and bring Braya back.
“Ye wouldna budge, would ye?” he asked his horse while he turned for the keep. He didn’t wait for any answer. He knew what it would be. “What are ye jealous of anyway? I dinna feel anythin’ fer her.”
But what did he know of feeling anything for anyone? He hadn’t cared for anyone since he was seven. He honestly didn’t want to care now. It was too distracting. It could get him killed. What kind of charms did Braya possess to scatter his thoughts? There could never be anything between them. His secret was too great. His past was too dark and his heart was too consumed by the darkness to make a lass happy.
He had to stay with his plan and not deviate, keep his thoughts on what he’d come here to do. Bring war. He’d been driven by a single desire since he was a young lad. Use the skills he’d learned to kill them all, take them down, make them pay.
“’Twill be over soon,” he told his horse. “And then…”
What? What would he do? Where would he go? After Carlisle, there were no more strongholds to take down. Mayhap he could settle down somewhere…with…someone. He almost laughed at himself and his foolish musings. It was too late for love and a family, though it was something a deep part of him had always desired. Why was he allowing Miss Hetherington to stir that desire? He had his family, he reminded himself, and reached under his cloak to touch his fingers to his brooch. He had Avalon. It was enough.
He didn’t know why he had shared anything about his life with her. No one had ever tempted him to be so honest. He wasn’t sure yet if it had done him any good. His skill was in making the other person tell all their secrets while he kept his own hidden. But he felt at ease with her from the moment he sat with her yesterday in the woods, and today in the tavern. When she had risen to leave, angry about his stance on killing, he hadn’t wanted her to go, so he’d told her a little about that day.
But he hadn’t shared his true self with her, or with anyone else. He was a boy, ashamed and filled with guilt for running away, for escaping when his brothers had not. For not killing those soldiers. He wanted others to see a confident, in-control soldier, not an emotional, scarred child whose purpose in still living was to avenge his family.
He rode Avalon over the stone bridge and through the large outer gatehouse. He noted the time of day and how many men were looking out over the ramparts for any sign of enemies from the north.
He greeted some of the soldiers on his way to the stables, where he handed over Avalon’s reins to a stable hand with a warning not to touch her.
“I understand I’m to plead the forgiveness of Rowley Hetherington.”
Torin turned on his way toward the keep and saw Rob Adams coming up behind him. He was coming from the practice field in the inner ward. He wore a sleeveless léine tucked into his belt. His arms glistened with sweat. He’d been practicing.
Torin almost smiled and stopped to wait for him to catch up. “And the father of the man you killed.”
“Why are we apologizing for defending ourselves?”
Looking at him, Torin couldn’t help but wonder how many battles Adams had been in. He was even missing an earlobe. “Rowley Hetherington has promised to bring war here if we do not do as he asks.”
“He is no fool,” Adams huffed. “There are only two things that would make him bring war: his daughter being hurt or his wife being hurt. Otherwise, he is all bark and little bite.”
