Embarrassed by the fanciful direction of her thoughts, Anna dropped her gaze. Envisioning possible offspring with a man she barely knew was definitely something new for her.
"Rock her a little," she encouraged, feeling a bit sorry for him. "She likes that. We won't be long."
And with that she followed Beth to the far end of the room, where the kitchen stood.
And Cate, bless the wee angel, did her part. Her soft cries and progressively louder wails covered up their quick exchange.
By the time Beth returned to claim her baby, Sir Arthur looked as if he'd just been dragged through hell behind Satan's chariot.
"Now that wasn't so bad, was it?" she said as they were leaving the small cottage.
His eyes narrowed dangerously. He looked as though he very much wanted to throttle her. Dragging a reaction from him was certainly proving enjoyable.
Anna said goodbye to the children, promising to return soon. Robby had brought the horses, and it wasn't long before they were on their way.
She knew she should try to use the opportunity to learn more about him, but she was tired from her long day at the village, and, if she were truthful, not in the mood to be rejected.
That strange moment at Beth's had made her feel ... vulnerable. She didn't want to think of him that way. She didn't want her heart to wander. She was merely keeping an eye on him for her father, not pursuing him in truth.
They rode single-file for the first few miles, but when the road widened, Sir Arthur dropped back from his position in the lead and pulled alongside her.
She was surprised when he spoke. Initiating conversation? This was a first.
"Why do you do it?" She looked at him uncertainly, and he explained, "Surround yourself with such ..." He struggled to find the word. "Things."
"You mean the fruits of war?" she challenged.
She wasn't surprised that he didn't know how to speak of what he'd seen. Warriors focused on the glory, on the honor of the battlefield, not on what happened when it went wrong. Missing limbs and fatherless children weren't something a man wanted to go into battle thinking about. She understood blocking out such thoughts was necessary, but it didn't mean it wasn't the reality.
"I thought you didn't like it, yet ..." He shrugged.
"I hate war," she said harshly. "And I can't wait for it to be over, but it doesn't mean I don't want to do my part. This is what I can do. If a few songs and stories, or holding a child for a while so her mother can have a moment of peace, bring a few moments of cheer, then that's what I'll do."
He gave her a hard, assessing look. "You have a soft heart." It didn't sound as if he thought that was a good thing. "The soldier was not deserving of your time. He's killing himself with drink."
She heard the disgust in his voice. She suspected he thought the man weak. "Perhaps," she admitted. "But Malcolm fought for my father with honor and loyalty for years. Does he not deserve a few moments of my time for his sacrifice?"
"It's his duty."
"As this is mine."
"You make it your duty."
This time it was she who shrugged.
He frowned at her again. "You're exhausted."
She realized she must be getting used to those forbidding looks, because she merely laughed. "I am."
"What were you and your friend whispering about?"
The sudden change of topic caught her off guard. She startled but composed herself quickly. "Women's things."
"What kind of women's things?"
Her eyes twinkled as she gave him a pointed look. "Do you really want to know?" she dared.
He turned away quickly. "Perhaps not."
