Page 54 of Laird of Flint
He had been magnificent, like a fearless Viking come to conquer.
Then, after the conflict was over—after his jaw relaxed and his lips softened—he’d turned to her, and the tender affection in his misty eyes had left her breathless.
What would it be like to be wed to such a man?
What would it be like tobedsuch a man?
“…don’t ye think, Carenza?” her father said.
Startled, she dropped her knife onto the table. “I’m sorry. What?”
“I said, don’t ye think ’twas generous o’ Sir Hew to keep the monastery in beef this year?”
“What?” Her head was still spinning. “Beef?”
“’Tis about time someone fattened up those monks.”
Her heart plunged. She felt sick. Was that true? Had the warrior changed his mind? Had he broken his oath to her? Did he mean to butcher Hamish to feed the monastery? Or was that only an assumption on her father’s part?
She managed to give him a feeble smile in return.
Then she looked down at her supper. The normally tempting fare now turned her stomach. She wiped her mouth and asked to be excused.
“Do ye feel well?” her father asked. “Ye look a bit pale.”
“I’m fine,” she lied. “But I’d like to retire early this eve. There’s much to do for Samhain supper on the morrow.”
“O’ course.”
Surreptitiously tearing off a small crumb of her trencher, she left the table.
She managed to make it to her chamber without losing her supper. But she still felt sick inside.
When she opened the door, Twinkle was waiting for his crumb. She gave him a fond greeting, but as she fed the sweet little rat his morsel of bread, her eyes filled with tears. Tears of pain and despair, anger and frustration.
She’d been a fool.
Ofcoursehe meant to butcher Hamish. It was probably how he was paying for his stay at Kildunan.
To imagine a fierce warrior like Hew of Rivenloch would care a whit about her beloved coo was ridiculous. Men like him slew other men without a second thought. How much less could he care for a coo?
Twinkle finished his meal, then washed his face and scampered off to his home in the crack of the wall.
Carenza palmed away her tears. Then she began to pace, winding one braid around her finger.
She couldn’t allow Hamish to be slaughtered.
What could she do?
It was too late for another midnight raid to rescue the animal. She couldn’t fortify the guard’s ale again. Her costume was in tatters. Besides, the monastery would be locked up tight.
As she undressed and climbed into bed, she vowed she would muster her courage on the morrow. She’d stand up to the Rivenloch warrior. She’d remind him of his promise in no uncertain terms. And refresh his memory about his debt to Hamish.
She’d have to confront him when he first arrived. Alone. Where her father couldn’t see the venomous fire in his gentle daughter’s eyes. Or hear the sharp edge in her sweet voice.
At least it wasn’t raining, Hew thought as he traveled along the rutted road to Dunlop the next morn. He’d bathed at dawn and dressed in the finest clothing he’d brought—a fresh white leine with dark gray trews and a gray and black plaid over it all.
It was appropriate attire, he thought, for a Samhain supper.
