Page 53 of Laird of Flint
It had taken all Carenza’s willpower not to rush up to Hamish this morn and rest her cheek against his shaggy head. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss him. But she was grateful he was at least safe. And alive.
She still couldn’t believe how the Rivenloch warrior had explained his way out of an impossible situation. He’d not only emerged the hero of the story, but he’d silenced the smug Boyles as well. He definitely had a gift for deception.
Of course, if he wished to join the monastic order, he’d have to curb his deceitful ways.
She took another bite of salmon and leeks. It was her favorite meal, and there was always an abundance of salmon in the nearby river. Why the clan couldn’t do without roasts made of her four-legged friends when fish was freely available, she didn’t understand.
Her father suddenly narrowed critical eyes at her. He used the corner of his table linen to wipe a spot of sauce from her chin.
“Can’t have ye dribblin’ like a bairn at supper on the morrow, aye?” he chided. “Not with a warrior o’ Rivenloch at the table.”
She managed to give him a gracious smile, despite his lighthearted ribbing. He smiled back, unaware of how his penchant for perfectionism affected her.
It didn’t matter anyway. The Rivenloch warrior didn’t intend to court her. She could spill frumenty down her leine, dip her braids in her pottage, and lick her fingers, and, as a monk, he’d be obliged to overlook her sins.
“’Twas generous o’ the man to buy our coo,” her father said.
“Aye.”
“Though if he’d waited, I might have given it to him as a dowry,” he added.
“Da!” she scolded.
He chuckled.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid ye’re in for a disappointment. He’s not interested in me.”
Her father laughed so hard at that, he choked on a leek and had to take a sip of ale. “Och, darlin’, the day a man isn’t interested in ye will be the day the sun rises in the west.”
She sighed. Her father truly did believe she was flawless. “He plans to take his vows, Da. That’s why he’s at the monastery.”
Her father narrowed thoughtful eyes at her. “We’ll see.”
His confidence gave her pause, because the laird was usually right, at least when it came to human nature. He always knew which way the royal winds blew. He could sense when clan conflict was brewing. He could tell when a man was lying to him.
Indeed, his only blind spot was where Carenza was concerned. He never suspected his sweet, obedient daughter was in truth a perverse and headstrong wench who’d resort to reiving cattle to save her beloved pets. It would break his heart to know who she really was.
But what if he was right?
What if the Rivenloch warrior did take an interest in her?
The idea gave her a strange feeling.
She’d always known she’d marry someone of her father’s choosing. It was naive to think otherwise. After all, she was the daughter of a laird.
But somehow she’d imagined her husband would be a stable, quiet, boring man. A man who would satisfy her father’s requirements for protecting her. A man who would keep her well supplied with servants, gowns, trinkets, and bairns. A man who would busy himself with manly pursuits—hunting, hawking, sparring, riding, fishing—and leave her to her own pastimes.
The idea of being wed to a man like the Rivenloch warrior made her breath quicken and her heart pound. He seemed dangerous. Unpredictable. Far too exciting. Too interested in her affairs. Too willing to insert himself into her life. Faith, she would have no life of her own, anchored to such a man.
Still, she would never have to doubt his loyalty or his dedication to her. He’d already proved he was a man of his word.
And to wake up to him each morn?
She blushed the color of her salmon as she recalled his handsome face.
She hadn’t seen his features well on the night they met, just an impression of a chiseled jaw, deep-set eyes, and long blond hair.
But this morn at the monastery, she’d beheld the stern furrow between his brows. The grim set of his mouth. The flinty gray of his eyes, sparking with fire as he charged across the cloister, axe in hand.
