He brushed her hair away from her neck and dropped a kiss at the spot where her jaw ended. A delicious shiver raced through her and she reached for him, uncaring that the cloth fell open.
A knock on the door made her pull back from him and gather the cloth tightly around herself once more. Tormod cursed, then marched to the door. He flung it open and stepped into the doorway.Aoife twisted her head to see who was there. Björn. Again. He made no attempt to come into the room, but she could hear every word.
“We caught the culprit,” she heard Björn say. “A boy. A Briton.”
“Where was he?”
“Håkon found him hiding in his byre,” Björn said, then added, “He’s asking for your wife.”
“Håkon?”
“The boy.”
The two men turned to stare at her. She realised they’d been talking in Brythonic. They looked at each other and then back at her.
“For me? Why? Who is he?” Aoife frowned. Why would a child be asking for her? Especially one who had done such a thing as set a field on fire.
Her breath caught as she remembered her dream.
“Well?” Tormod asked Björn.
“Well?” Björn frowned.
“Who is the boy?”
“Why does your wife not come and see for herself?”
“You didn’t ask him his name?”
There was silence. Björn waited.
Aoife’s heart sank. “You didn’t… You haven’t… Is he dead?” She stood and backed against the wall, pressing herself farther and farther into the corner. If they had killed a child… She felt sick.
“No,” Björn said. “He is not dead. He will say nothing except ‘Lady Aoife’ over and over again.”
“We will come and see him,” said Tormod. “Go and make sure nothing happens to him in the meantime.”
“It won’t. Arne is making sure of that. What do you think we are?” Björn sounded angry, although she could see guilt etched on his features. Killing the child for his crime was a thought that had occurred to them. “I’ll wait for you outside.” Tormod pulled thedoor closed, leaving Björn in the corridor. After a short pause he heard his cousin leave.
Tormod turned to stare at her. She couldn’t read his expression. “Will you come and see the boy?”
“Why?” Her heart started to beat faster.
“A field was burned last night, across Loch Garw from your father’s lands.”
The remnants of her dream crowded into her thoughts. She’d seen the flames leaping, felt the warmth on her cheeks, smelled the harsh smoke, felt it sting her eyes and cause them to water. “And… and you think this boy may have done it?”
“It is possible.”
“And my father might have ordered this?”
“You may know who he is. Be able to tell us who it is that is attacking us. Or perhaps you will not recognise him and then we will know that this is nothing to do with your father.”
She nodded, clinging desperately to the hope that Tormod might be right. “But the boy asked for me by name.”
“That’s what Björn said.”
Aoife watched Tormod, trying to discern what he might be thinking, but she could not. All that she knew was that she didn’t want him to think she was guilty of such a thing. Neither did she want her father to be guilty, although there was a sinking feeling in her heart that he was. She looked down at her hands, loosening her grip when she noticed that her knuckles were white, then back up at Tormod. “You think a child was sent to attack you?”
