Page 38 of The Handfasting
“A what?”
No?l furrowed his brows. What had made him say that? “Highland, a great Highland warrior.”
Ysenda’s eyes were moist. He could see his praise of her brother meant a lot to her. But the longer he looked at her, the more miserable he felt. Standing beside her was torture when he knew he couldn’t keep her.
He had find an excuse to get away, if only for a moment.
There was a keg of ale at the opposite side of the hall.
“I’m goin’ to fetch myself a drink from the well. Would ye like me to get one for ye?”
She gave him a quizzical look. “From the well?”
“What?”
“Ye said ye were fetchin’ a drink from the well.”
“Nae, I didn’t.”
“Aye, ye did.”
Had he said that? What was wrong with him? “I’m fetchin’ a drink from the keg there, on the far…wall. Aye, that’s what I said, from the wall.”
That wasn’t what he’d said, and he knew it. But he couldn’t explain why his mind was fixated on that damned Viking well. And he didn’t want to try.
Without waiting to see if she wanted a drink, he left to fill two cups.
By the time he brought her ale back, he’d forgotten all about the well. He nodded toward her father. The laird was speaking to three of the de Ware knights and Caimbeul.
“It looks like your father has new respect for his son.”
“Aye,” she replied, taking a sip, “at least while he’s surrounded by your men.”
The reminder of No?l’s imminent departure brought a scowl to his face.
Just then, Cathalin breezed down the stairs and into the great hall. Not a hair was out of place. Not a wrinkle creased her gown. Even his own men, accustomed to the great beauties of France, turned their heads as she entered the room.
But looking at her only made No?l’s heart sink. A weight descended on his shoulders. And he knew he had to do something about it.
“We need to talk,” he told Ysenda.
“I know.”
“We need to decide what to do. I planned to leave today, and—”
“Today?”
“Waitin’ any longer won’t make it easier.”
“I know.”
She was trying to be brave. He could see that. But her eyes were wet. And it was making his throat ache.
A tendril of her hair fell forward against her cheek, and he brushed it back, tucking it behind her ear. But his gaze locked on it in speculation.
A lock of her hair and a lock of his, tied together with a ribbon.
He frowned. He wasnotgoing to do it. It was a silly ritual. A waste of time.
