Page 17 of Viking in Love

Why would she ask that after looking at my crotch? Ah, the red-haired tongue flapper must have been here afore me. “Yea, I am Larkspur, but I am not a lord,” he said with more rudeness than warranted. “Did you say ‘widow’? I had not heard of Lord Havenshire’s death.”

“I meant that he disappeared, though his death is almost a certainty by now,” she mumbled, ducking her head. Then, raising her head as if with resolve, she added, “By your leave, m’lord…I mean, Sir Caedmon, my sisters and I seek welcome here for a short time,” Vana said hopefully.

Of a sudden, he took note of her right eye, framed by dark and yellowing bruises. Her cracked lip. One arm in a sling. And the way her free hand kept going to her ribs. That must be the reason for the wimple, to hide finger marks on her neck…or worse.

“Who beat you?” he demanded to know.

Her face bloomed with color. “I fell off a horse.”

And I am a eunuch.

Without turning to face him, a man in Arab garb surrounded by children made a snorting sound.

“Pfff!” He snorted as well. “And I have a Scots castle I can sell you!”

“Really?”

“Nay! Not really.” He exhaled with disgust. Oh, Lord, spare me from lackwitted women. “It was a jest.”

“Oh.” Her voice trilled into a ludicrous attempt at laughter.

His eyes crossed with frustration at one more boulder being placed in the path of his life. A boulder with breasts.

The Arab was standing now. Tall, dark-skinned, wearing a long robe with hooded cowl as Caedmon had seen in the Eastern deserts.

“And who might you be?”

“I am Ibn Rashid al Mustafa, your humble servant.”

There was not a single thing humble about this man.

“You may call me Rashid. I am assistant to Adam the Healer, a far-famed physician.”

“Hmmm. We could use a healer here at Larkspur.”

“A thousand pardons, m’lord, but I am here only as a companion to my master’s wife, Princess Tyra. I leave when she leaves.”

Soon, I hope. “As you wish.”

Turning his attention back to the beehive of activity in his great hall, he saw Gerard rushing up to him. “Gerard! What in bloody hell is going on?”

“Master, the wench…I mean, the princess Vana…is supervising the cleaning of the hall. New rushes, scrubbing the tables…”

“Did I order that to be done?” Mayhap he had been further into the alehead than he had realized.

“Nay, but it needed doing,” the impudent lady interjected.

“I have been remiss,” Gerard said, ducking his head with embarrassment.

He patted the old man on the shoulder. “You have done your best in trying times.” And, after all, you have given me a castle filled with big-breasted women.

“One thing, though, m’lord.”

“Please, Gerard, stop calling me ‘Lord.’”

“Please, Master…”

He groaned. “You have known me since I was in swaddling clothes. Just call me Caedmon.”