Page 11 of Laird of Flint
Because she couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her father with her strange interests, she was careful not to let him see too much.
She also worked exceptionally hard in the hours she wasn’t tending to her fauna to ensure she was as well-educated as her noble peers. As well-mannered as her father expected. Skilled with a needle. Accomplished at the lute. Softspoken. Kindhearted. Everything one could wish for in a lady and a daughter.
Perfect.
She glanced in the mirror again and brushed a stray eyelash from her cheek. Then she set the steel square down on the table beside her ivory comb. Holding her head high and smoothing the wrinkles from her pale yellow skirts, she pasted on a brilliant smile and left her chamber to greet her father for supper.
The clan’s chatter lowered to murmurs as Carenza entered the great hall. Her father turned to her, and approval shone in his eyes. Breathing a sigh of relief, she smiled and sat beside him.
“Ye look lovely, as always,” her father murmured.
“Och, Da,” she teased, “ye’re still blind as a bat.”
He laughed.
She liked making him laugh. Laughter kept his grief at bay.
The new kitchen lad approached with oatcakes and ruayn cheese, setting them down before her with shaking hands.
“Thank ye, John,” she said.
He seemed surprised she knew him. But he’d soon realize she knew all the servants by name. After all, being considerate was the hallmark of a proper lady, and there was nothing more considerate than remembering a person’s name.
She spread cheese on an oatcake and took a tiny bite.
“How fares the midwife?” her father asked.
“The midwife?” She took a moment to swallow. And think.
“Aye. Ye said ye rode out to visit her this morn?”
“Och aye.” She’d told him that when he’d asked where she was riding. It had been the first thing she’d thought of. But she hated lying. It was unladylike. And there was always a risk of getting caught. “I must have missed her. Maybe she was deliverin’ a bairn somewhere. Or sleepin’.” Then, to throw him off her scent, she asked, “How was your day?” She took another bite of oatcake.
“Good,” he said proudly. “We got the last o’ the cider into barrels today. We’ll be smokin’ eels o’er the next few days. Then ’twill be near time for the cullin’.”
The oatcake abruptly congealed in her throat. She couldn’t seem to swallow it or reply. She could only nod.
“Not a moment too soon,” he added, shaking his head. “The Boyle lads are up to their usual antics, reivin’ cattle.”
Her heart caught. What if the Boyle brothers stole Hamish? “Do ye think they’ll come after ours?”
“Not if what I heard from their da is true.”
“What did ye hear?”
“He said the lads are lookin’ to catch your gaze, Lady Carenza,” he confided.
“Mine?”
Her eyes widened. The Boyle brothers? Gilbert and Herbert Boyle were a pair of dimwitted bullies who had terrorized her since she was a wee lass. Throwing chestnuts at her. Pulling her braids. Chasing away the birds she tried to tame.
“Don’t fret,” he assured her. “Neither o’ them are fit to kiss the ground ye tread on. But as long as their da thinks they have a chance, they’ll leave our cattle alone.”
She forced a conspiratorial grin to her face. Her father was clever. Too clever. She took a measured sip of ale.
“So ye’ll bring the fold to the close soon?” she asked with casual indifference.
“Aye, in a sennight or so, when the grass is gone.”
