Page 27 of Laird of Flint
She hated disappointing him. “Why? What’s happened?”
“Ye missed our guest.”
“Guest? What guest?” She’d been too busy feeding her squirrels to notice anyone’s arrival.
He gave her a smug grin. “None other than a warrior o’ Rivenloch.”
Rivenloch. She thought she knew the name. But not as well as her father apparently did. She pretended to be impressed. “Rivenloch? Really? Here?”
“I know,” her father said, his eyes gleaming. “And he’s stayin’ at the monastery.”
“Ah.” Why a warrior would be staying at a monastery, she couldn’t guess.
“But ye’ll be glad to know I’ve invited him to supper.”
“Tonight?” She was absolutely not glad to know that. First, his timing was awful. She had to finalize her plans tonight. And second, why was it men always expected a woman could whip up a special supper for guests with a snap of her fingers?
“Nay, not tonight,” he said. “Sadly, he had to return to the monastery.”
Sadly for her father. Carenza was relieved. “Another time then.”
“As soon as possible.”
Carenza smiled, but she was doing calculations in her head. She needed to be sure nothing conflicted with her scheme. And a supper guest sounded like a conflict.
“He’s cousin to Sir Gellir, the tournament champion,” he told her.
“Ah.” That name sounded familiar. Her father may have mentioned it before. But he followed tournament contestants. She did not.
“And a nephew o’ the laird.”
Her smile grew brittle. Why was he going on and on about this Rivenloch man? A man who was the cousin of a champion and the nephew of a laird, yet somehow resided at a monastery?
“I think ye’d be quite impressed,” he said with a knowing lift of his brow.
Then she understood. He wanted her to meet him because he thought the man might make a suitable suitor.
Part of her wanted to scream. She had far too much on her mind to feign fascination with a possible future husband.
But part of her felt a tender admiration for her father. It must be difficult for him to consider marrying her off. In vulnerable moments, he’d often said she was all he had. The idea of giving her up to another man couldn’t be easy.
“Ye know,” he continued, “the Rivenlochs are one o’ the oldest border clans in service o’ the king. The oldest and the richest. Plenty o’ land. A formidable keep. And the warriors…well, if ye’d seen this one…” He shook his head in wonder.
A border warrior sounded like the sort of man Carenza despised. Violent. Overbearing. Heartless. That kind of man certainly would have no patience for a maid who rescued spiders and fed squirrels and saved coos.
Her father continued. “Ye could see the Norse in his blood. Tall he was. Golden-haired. And broad o’ shoulder. With a great battle axe that had runes carved into—”
“An axe?” she choked out.
It couldn’t be. Could it? Was this Rivenloch warrior the man she’d seen on the road?
“Aye, just like a Vikin’.”
“What was he doin’ here?”
“He and the prior had some questions for the physician.”
“What kind o’ questions?” She wondered if he’d asked Peris how best to preserve the head he was carrying about in a sack.
