Page 49 of Laird of Flint
She grinned. A man would certainly have to go to great lengths to impress her. After all, she’d been raised by a man who was clever. Kind. Honorable. Patient. It would take a special person indeed to be the sort of man her father was.
Unbidden, the image of the Rivenloch warrior’s face crowded into her thoughts. Was he that sort of person? He had definitely been clever, outwitting the Boyles. He’d also been kind, agreeing to take care of Hamish. There was no question he was honorable, the way he’d offered to take the blame for her crime.
But patient?
That he was not. She’d seen the spark of anger flash in his eyes, like a knife striking flint. Felt it rippling off of him like waves of heat off a fire. With that kind of rage boiling inside him, he seemed ill-suited to be a man of the cloth. She wondered how long he’d last at the monastery before his temper betrayed him.
“Heavens! That’s thrice in a fortnight,” her da said, shaking his head. “What is it this time?”
She hadn’t been listening. What was he talking about?
Then she realized he was addressing Peris the physician.
“One o’ the novices fell and cracked his arm,” Peris said.
The laird frowned. “Perhaps the monastery should get its own physician, save ye the trouble o’ makin’ the trek.”
“Och, ’tis no trouble,” Peris hastened to say. “I’ll be back in a wink.”
“Ye’re goin’ to Kildunan?” Carenza asked.
“Aye.”
“I need to send somethin’ with ye.”
“Oh?” her da asked. “What are ye sendin’ to the monastery?”
She was sending the coin for Hamish’s hay. But thinking quickly, she told him instead, “Ye wished to invite the Rivenloch knight to Samhain supper, aye?”
“Och, aye. Good plan. Peris can take the invitation.”
Returning to her chamber, she scribbled out a hasty missive. Her father would have found her sloppy hand atrocious, considering the small fortune he’d spent on her education. It said simply,Rivenloch – Purchase hay. Come to Samhain supper. Lady Carenza.
She squinted at the words. Would he think he was to bring hay for supper?
No matter. There wasn’t time to rewrite the note. Besides, the warrior would assume someone else had penned the missive for her. Her ability to read and write was a rare talent in a woman.
She tucked the note into a purse with the silver she’d promised him and gave it to the physician to deliver.
Aside from struggling to stay awake, the rest of Carenza’s day was fairly ordinary.
She stitched a row of daisies along the hem of a coif. Took Troye the hound out for a game of fetch the stick. Played chess with her father. Left crumbs for her usual menagerie of pets. Sent lads out to gather wood for the Samhain bonfire. And recited the tale of Beira, the goddess of winter, to a group of wee children.
By supper, she began to flag. She fought to keep her eyes open, fearful she might fall face first into her pottage.
But when Cainnech the cooherd approached the laird after supper, she grew instantly alert.
“’Tis my fault,” he said to the laird. “I should have been watchin’ o’er the fold.”
“Nay.” Her father put a hand on Cainnech’s shoulder. “’Twas a scheme by the Boyles. I’m sure of it. They’ll miraculously ‘recover’ the coo in a day or two and expect to be rewarded for their efforts.”
Carenza gulped. She’d forgotten. If Hamish never returned, poor Cainnech would hold himself accountable.
“But ye won’t do that, will ye, m’laird?” Cainnech asked, glancing pointedly at Carenza. “Ye won’t reward them?”
“Hardly,” the laird said, arching his brow at her.
“Good.”
