Page 57 of Bride of Fire
Jenefer nodded. That made sense. The man had just buried his wife.
“Does Miles look like his mother?”
Bethac dusted off her hands. “A bit. Lady Alicia came from Catalonia. She had a frail, fey look about her, peat black hair and eyes and fair skin. Miles is far bonnier, to my mind, and more hale, thank God, but he has the heartlike shape o’ her face.”
“That must be difficult for his father.”
“Aye, I think ’tis.”
If Miles was a painful reminder of his father’s lost love, was it possible that when the Highlanders were forced to return home, he’d be grateful to be rid of the child?
The thought pleased her.
For the first time, she tried to imagine herself as a mother. What would it be like to raise a babe like Miles to manhood? To mold him into a warrior without peer? An able commander? A leader of men?
She envisioned teaching the lad knightly courtesy. And archery. And how to wield a sword.
Telling him the Norse legends of her forefathers. Sharing the stories of her clan. Teaching him how to read and write and keep accounts.
She smiled and lowered her head to breathe in Miles’ unique sweet scent. It seemed she may have found a way to not only win a holding for herself, but also to avoid the pesky business of taking a husband to get an heir.
Chapter 29
Morgan scowled and scratched at the back of his neck. Where were the Campbell brothers? The last time he’d seen his four knights, they were patrolling the perimeter of the woods, searching for signs of the missing Colban while keeping an eye out for Rivenloch scouts.
He checked the armory. Twice.
He scanned the great hall, where tables were being assembled for the final meal of the day.
He scoured the stables.
On his second turn through the courtyard, he heard the clash of steel. Following the sound, he found the Campbells sparring on the sward beneath his bedchamber window. They were wielding strange implements. A slender, curved sword. A pair of pointed daggers. A lady’s fan.
Feiyan’s weapons.
Ordinarily, he would have no qualms with his men confiscating the weapons of fallen foes. But the lasses were neither fallen nor foes. Not exactly. He might not be quite ready toreturntheir arms to them yet. But neither would he condone his men stealing them.
He marched toward the Campbells. But before he could demand they turn the scavenged weapons over to him, to his amazement, he heard the lass herself shouting down commands from his window.
“Aye, Davey, that’s it! Sweep the fan beneath your elbow. But take care not to—”
“What the bloody hell is goin’ on?” Morgan bellowed.
His knights froze, looking as guilty as priests in a brothel. No one spoke.
“Ye,” he barked, stabbing a finger at the dark-haired sprite at the window. “What do ye think ye’re doin’, orderin’ my men about?” Before she could answer, he glared at his men, adding, “And ye. Why are ye takin’ orders from a lass?”
The Campbells looked shamefaced.
“M’laird, I can explain,” Davey, the oldest, said.
Before Feiyan could reply, Jenefer appeared at the nursery window to defend her cousin. “’That lass’ happens to know how to wield those weapons, you big oaf.”
Morgan’s blood boiled at the insult.
She added, “They might well have chopped off a hand without her instruction.”
“My men need no instruction,” he ground out. “Men, return these weapons to the armory. And ye two,” he said, skewering the lasses with a hard stare, “get away from the win—”
