Page 59 of Laird of Flint
Lady Carenza believed he was a man about to devote himself to the church.
Keeping the threads of those two narratives separate required the skills of a master weaver. But Hew was accustomed to doing that. He’d had to appease cuckolded husbands and contrite mistresses enough times that he knew how to keep them from becoming an inextricable knot.
What was challenging was keeping his heart out of things.
This evening he could feel it thrumming every time he glanced down at the lovely lady supping beside him. Every time he glimpsed the delicate curve of her wrist. Heard the breathy murmur of her words. Inhaled the floral scent of her hair.
These things were impossible to ignore. And he didn’t necessarily want to ignore them. After all, if the circumstances were different, he would leap at the chance to court the laird’s daughter. And he couldn’t rule out the appealing possibility that the king would approve such a match in the future. Keeping in Dunlop’s good graces was essential.
But Hew had already declared to the lass that he was monastery-bound. What kind of scoundrel would she think he was if he made improper advances?
He was accustomed to women familiar with the reputation of the warriors of Rivenloch. Who trusted in their honor. Their loyalty. Their decency. Who took them at their word and believed what they said, simply by virtue of their clan name.
But Carenza questioned his chivalry at every turn.
For the first time in his life, he had to prove his worth to a woman, not by his reputation, but by his deeds. Beginning with being true to what he’d told her. He had to act as if he intended to become a monk. At least until he solved the monastery’s thefts. After that, he could conceivably and reasonably change his mind about the church.
Only then would he be free to pursue Lady Carenza with all his heart. And he was almost certain she would return that love in full measure. After that, all he’d need to do was get his aunt, Laird Deirdre, to secure the king’s permission for him to wed the Laird of Dunlop’s daughter. Then the two of them would live blissfully ever after.
The thought made him smile as he cut another bite from the slice of roast in his trencher.
“Ye like the boar, aye?” the laird guessed, nudging him with a companionable elbow.
“Aye,” he agreed, shoving the succulent morsel into his mouth. Then, reconsidering, he stopped mid-bite and inclined toward Carenza, muttering, “’Tisn’t one of your friends, is it?”
She smiled and shook her head.
That sweet expression instantly convinced him of two things. One, that he’d gladly give up meat and dine on peat roasts and smoked plaster if it would make her happy. And two, that the beast rousing in his braies was more starved than his belly.
“Sir Hew,” the laird said, “Pray tell us about the great battle at Darragh.”
The battle at Darragh. Hew knew that would bore Carenza. But it would appease the laird. And it would distract the rutting beast of lust.
He began with a humble, “I was but a youth at the time, so the battle was waged mostly by others of my clan.”
Carenza knew the subject of warfare thrilled her father. But aside from sword-wielding Rivenloch women, she didn’t find the discussion of battle tactics particularly engaging. Still, she listened intently for mentions of Hew’s other kin, in the event there was a man suitable for marriage.
Unfortunately, she’d already had to dismiss his cousin Gellir, the tournament champion. When it came to animals, she assumed he would stab first and ask questions later.
Gellir’s younger brother Brand sounded like a shadow of Gellir, so she was forced to reject him as well.
Another cousin, Adam, was apparently a master of disguise who’d once feigned to be a royal escort. He sounded even more dangerous than a man who’d lie about cattle reiving while standing next to a priest. So she crossed him off the list.
As Hew continued describing the warfare at Darragh, he mentioned his cousin Ian. At first, Ian sounded like a possible match. He was bright, quiet, serious, and inventive. But it turned out he was only fifteen years of age and just as much an agent of destruction as his warrior cousins. It had been his idea to fabricate and launch the mysterious and horrific flaming phoenixes that had finished the battle.
“Such a marvelous tale,” her father exclaimed.
“Marvelous,” Carenza echoed, glad it was over. “What about your other kin? Brothers? Cousins?” She licked a drop of honey from the corner of her lip.
When she glanced up at him, his gaze was fixed on her mouth. His eyes were smoky. His jaw was tense. His nostrils flickered.
There was no mistaking his thoughts.
He wanted her.
Nay, he hungered for her.
Her breath caught audibly.
