Page 8 of The Musician and the Monster

Drystan turned just enough in the chair to take a measure of the young women as they rushed inside. With his hooded cloak, he’d wager they could see little of him. For the best.

Mr. Kinsley rose on shaking legs and gestured to each woman in turn as they curtsied. “My daughters, Bronwyn and Ceridwen.”

Both were as lovely as any lady he had seen in some time, enough that it made him stir in the chair. But where the elder one, Bronwyn, failed to hide her shrewd assessment of him, Ceridwen was more demure, staring at his booted feet rather than the rest of him. He should be glad. He didn’t like being an object of attention in this place, his appearance mused over in local gossip. It was one reason he often stayed inside the manor and rarely invited anyone in. But in this case, he desperately wished she’d raise her blond head, if only so he could get a better look at her face.

Silence lingered. Drystan finally broke from his musings, realizing that everyone waited on his reply. “Thank you for returning so suddenly.”

The women curtsied again but said nothing more, so he continued, “I wished to apologize to the young woman who was attacked within my city.”

At that, Ceridwen’s nose wrinkled, her lips pursing. A look of disgust passed across her features and was gone, but that wasn’t the expression he expected given the attack. Weeping or swooning would have been more appropriate, but thankfully she had a better constitution than that. She’d need it.

“Ceridwen, was it?” he asked.

At the use of her name, she finally looked up. That lovely golden hair he admired framed a balanced face with pale eyes that he could see the blueness of even from across the room. An ember of warmth burned deep in his chest.Yes, her face is pleasing indeed.Not that it mattered. He needed her music and only that. There was no time for anything else, and the risk of it would be too great.

“I am glad you’re unharmed and were able to scare the monster away,” he said.

Bronwyn frowned. “You should thank our father for that.”

Jackoby sat a little straighter. Kent covered his mouth, trying to hide the grin Drystan hadn’t failed to miss. Quite the spitfire, this sister. She could be trouble.

“Just so,” Drystan said. “And Mr. Kinsley shall have my thanks, as well as payment for your family’s trouble.” He reached under his cloak and procured a small sack of coins,which he tossed to Mr. Kinsley where he sat on the sofa. The older man, caught unawares, fumbled the bag but caught it before it could spill out on the floor.

“M-My thanks, my lord,” he replied.

He didn’t open the small sack but left it sitting in his lap. How proper. Though he’d be in for quite a surprise when he did. He’d wager the man hadn’t seen that many gold pieces in some time. Plus, the offering had the added effect of relaxing both his daughters. Bronwyn’s gaze lost some of its shrewdness, her stance easing. Even Ceridwen ventured more than a half glance his way.

Drystan crossed his legs and settled back into the frame of the chair. He wasn’t here just to deliver some much-needed gold. That was only the opening act.

“While I’m here,” Drystan said, “do either of you have some art, some talent you could share with me?”

He must be sure, must confirm Jackoby’s information before he made his offer.

The women looked at one another, and he was surprised when the elder spoke first.

“I am a painter,” Bronwyn replied.

Ceridwen’s attention snapped to her sister as if she’d spilled some grave family secret. How interesting.

“Plates? Teacups?” he asked.

Ceridwen’s nose wrinkled again, and this time he didn’t miss the offense written in her pinched brows and sparkling blue eyes. She didn’t speak, but the look alone spoke volumes of the sisters’ bond.

“Landscapes on canvas,” Bronwyn responded, an edge of bitterness leaking into her tone. “And some portraits.”

“Very nice.” If the sincerity of his voice eased some of her fire, it did little to smooth the thin press of her lips. The elder sister was quite the prickly one. “And you, Ceridwen?”

“I’m a musician, my lord.” She frowned over his title, piquing his interest even more. “I play the flute.”

Good. Just what he hoped. “Would you play for us now?”

Ceridwen looked at her father, perhaps seeking his approval. Other than one hand twisting around the rough, wooden cane propped on the chair next to him, Mr. Kinsley sat almost completely still. Finally, he gave an encouraging bob of his head. “She will. Please allow her a few minutes, my lord.”

“Of course. A good song is worth waiting for.” He’d wait all day and a night if it got him what he wanted.

The young woman gave a wobbling curtsy and rushed out of the room. Only a minute later, she returned, her flute in tow. Ceridwen’s hands shook a little where she held the instrument. Could she be nervous? Surely not. The tune he heard at night always had such strength and power to it.

“Whenever you’re ready.” He waved a hand through the air.

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