Page 23 of Laird of Flint
As they drew near, the laird’s eyes widened at the sight of Hew’s axe. Hew lowered his weapon, planting it harmlessly between his feet. The laird resumed his conversation with the merchants, finally dismissing them to greet the prior.
“Prior,” the laird said, “I hear ye had a rough night at Kildunan.”
“Aye, we lost another man o’ faith,” the prior said, making the sign of the Cross, “God rest his soul.”
The laird glanced at Hew. “And who is this?”
“M’laird,” the prior intoned with a bow, “may I present Sir Hew o’ Rivenloch. He’s stayin’ at the—”
“Rivenloch,” the laird interrupted. “Ye’re a Rivenloch warrior?”
“Aye, m’laird,” Hew replied.
The laird reached out to clasp Hew’s hand in both of his. “’Tis an honor, sir.” Hew couldn’t help but remember those hands had just touched the sleeve of that beautiful angel. “Your reputation precedes ye.”
Hew belatedly realized that the prior probably shouldn’t have revealed his clan name. His presence at the monastery was supposed to be a secret.
Nonetheless, he gave the laird a polite nod. “The honor is mine, my laird.”
“Your pardon, m’laird,” the prior interjected, “can ye tell me where I might find the physician?”
“Peris? Ye’ll likely find him near the kitchens, tendin’ to John’s burns.” He shook his head. “I suppose all kitchen lads get a baptism o’ fire, aye?” He gave the prior a wink.
The prior didn’t see the humor. “Ah.” He held up the jar of honey he’d brought and said, “Shall I leave this with the cook then?”
“Is that Kildunan’s famous honey?” the laird said. “Pray do so.”
Then the prior turned to Hew. “I’ll fetch the physician for ye.”
“Ye need the physician?” the laird asked when the prior had gone.
“I just have a few questions.”
“About last night?”
Hew gave him the easy answer. “Aye.” Then he changed the subject. “’Tis a fine castle ye have, m’laird.”
“Not nearly as fine as Rivenloch, I’m certain,” the laird argued. “Is it true the armory is the size of a tournament field?”
Hew chuckled at that. “Not quite, though ’tis nearly as big as your great hall.”
The laird whistled in amazement. “How are ye kin to the laird?”
“Laird Deirdre? She’s my…” He faltered as, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the vision in green emerging again from the stairwell. But he dared not let his gaze drift to her. “My aunt.”
“So your mother is…”
Hew couldn’t think. Not while the green blur behind the laird was smiling and carrying on with the maidservants. “My mother is…” he repeated. Fierce? Hot-tempered? Deadly with a sword? What did the laird want to know? Ah, her name. “Helena.”
“So your father is…Colin?”
“Mmm.”
It took all Hew’s willpower to keep his gaze trained on the laird when he heard a trickle of gentle laughter that had to belong to the delicate lass. Laughter like a bubbling burn. The soft sprinkle of spring rain. The melodious plucking of a harp.
“…are ye not? the laird said.
Hew flushed. He hadn’t heard a word. And the swelling in his trews was proving a powerful distraction. “I’m sorry. What was that?”
