Page 57 of Laird of Flint
“How interestin’.”
“Aye, ’tis been so for as long as I can remember.” He wondered how hard his clan would laugh when he told them about this ancient Rivenloch tradition.
“Well then, it appears this is a lucky coo indeed,” the laird said, grinning at Carenza, “and we are equally lucky to be blessed by your presence today, Sir Hew. Aren’t we, Carenza?”
Carenza hardly knew what to say. How her father could believe such a blatant fable she didn’t know. But he’d swallowed the warrior’s lie as readily as a puffin gulping down herring.
As for Sir Hew, his talent for prevarication was remarkable and more than a little unsettling. He would have to spend years in confession if he had any hope of becoming a man of the cloth.
More than anything, however, she was grateful to him for saving her beloved Hamish. He had kept his word, after all. And now that the matter was settled, she could smooth her ruffled feathers and be the polite hostess her father wished her to be.
“We are blessed andhonoredto have ye with us, Sir Hew,” she said, placing a humble hand on her bosom. “And I cannot thank ye enough for the gift. I will treasure it forever.”
Her father nodded in approval.
But the Rivenloch knave winked at her.
Her cheeks grew hot. She averted her eyes, training them on the road ahead, hoping her father wouldn’t notice how flushed she’d become.
He didn’t notice. Instead, he initiated a boring subject. “So, Sir Hew, tell us about the Lowlands. Are ye constantly battlin’ with the English?”
Sir Hew replied, but Carenza wasn’t much interested in the conversation, so she was left to her thoughts.
The warrior really was devilishly daring. It was one thing to sneak around in the middle of the night in a disguise, reiving coos. It was quite another to tell an outrageous, barefaced falsehood to a laird. And he’d done it without even blinking.
But it wasn’t only his boldness that left her blushing. It was also the glimmer of mischief in his eyes when he winked at her. His sly, one-sided, conspiratorial smile. The breathy growl of his voice. The way his freshly washed tawny hair curled around his ears. How his leine cleaved to every impressive muscle. Even the spicy scent of cinnamon that lingered on his skin.
It truly was a shame the man didn’t mean to wed.
Not for her sake, of course. He was far too wild and impetuous for her.
But another lass would certainly appreciate his boldness. His unpredictability. His intensity.
And what woman wouldn’t be thrilled by his warrior’s body? His wide shoulders. His massive hands. His chiseled jaw. His lush mane. His smoky eyes. His broad back and the way it narrowed down to his firm and muscled…
“Carenza?” her father said.
She started. “Aye?”
“I said, tell Sir Hew about your education.”
“Education?” Shite. All she could think about were the warrior’s taut buttocks. “What would ye like to know, Sir Hew?”
But her father couldn’t wait. “She can read and write,” he boasted, “and she knows her numbers. No one will pull the wool o’er Carenza’s eyes when it comes to matters o’ the household.”
Carenza had to bite her tongue. Her father was being painfully transparent, extolling her virtues to the man he hoped to snag as a bridegroom for his daughter.
“’Tis commendable,” Hew said. “What’s your favorite subject?”
She blinked. No one had ever asked her that. Most men were intimidated by her knowledge. Especially warriors, who rarely wasted time on books and study.
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She longed to tell him all about her interest in the natural world. How she studied butterflies and frogs and sparrows. How sometimes, when everyone thought she was stitching embroidery, she was actually working on her own bestiary. But that kind of conversation would trouble her father.
So she said, “I’m fond o’ readin’, I suppose.”
“Me too,” he replied, to her surprise.
“A warrior who reads,” her father marveled.
