Page 55 of Laird of Flint
It was not so suitable for leading a shaggy coo down the road.
But he didn’t intend to let Lady Carenza fret another day over her animal. He knew she likely suffered every moment she was away from him.
“I suppose I look like a simpleton, eh, Hamish, dressed in my best to deliver a coo?”
Hamish had no reply.
“Well, it might surprise you to know, it wouldn’t be the first time I made a fool of myself for love.”
That stopped him abruptly in his tracks.
Love?
What the devil was he saying?
This wasn’t love. He’d sworn off love.
Hamish mooed, then plodded forward again, pulling him along.
“Oh aye, I know your mistress is a beauty. She’s also kind. Gentle. Sweet. Bright. Sensitive. Generous. The kind of woman any man would be proud to have by his side. But I don’t need to tell you that, do I, Hamish?”
He gave the beast a fond pat.
“Nay, ’tis only that I’m through with women. Oh, they seem innocent enough, luring a man in with their honeyed words and their soft bodies. But they ultimately only break a man’s heart.”
Hamish seemed disinterested.
Hew murmured, “I told your mistress I mean to take my vows at the monastery. ’Tisn’t true. But I do mean to keep my vow of chastity.”
He shuddered. When he said it aloud like that, it sounded so stark. So severe. So final.
Carenza had nearly paced a rut in the wall walk, watching for the warrior’s arrival.
Her father was in the northern field, supervising the lads stacking wood for the great bonfires to be lit tonight. Cainnech was driving the cattle down from the hill into the close. Servants crisscrossed the courtyard, carrying baskets of barley, cabbages, leeks, and neeps, offerings that would be left at the castle doorways to appease the spirits.
The scents of roasting boar, baking oatcakes, stewing apples, and brewing ale wafted through the keep. Tonight the tables would creak under the weight of the year’s final harvest. On the morrow, the culling of the cattle would begin.
Carenza didn’t want to think about it. She narrowed her eyes at the spot where the road emerged from the woods. Was that movement? A figure approaching?
She straightened.
Then her heart plunged to the bottom of her stomach.
Hamish.
The warrior had brought Hamishhere.
There was only one reason to bring an animal to a Samhain celebration.
Her father was wrong. The man didn’t mean to kill Hamish to feed the monastery.
He meant to offer him as a Samhain sacrifice.
Horror filled her veins.
She began shaking.
Gathering her skirts, she flew down the steps. She dodged through the milling clan folk in the courtyard and burst out through the gates.
