Page 60 of Laird of Flint
In the next instant, he blinked. And the fire went out.
“Kin?” he croaked. “Aye.”
She lowered her gaze. Still, the heat of his regard lingered. The rest of his words went into her ear and vanished in the misty maelstrom of her brain. At the end of a long list of recited names, she said simply, “I see.”
Her father added, “’Tis a bit overwhelmin’, is it not, Carenza?” To Hew he explained, “Carenza has neither brother nor sister.”
“That may explain her good nature,” Hew said. “No battle was more fierce than those the Rivenlochs siblings waged against each other.”
“That may be true. Carenza only caused trouble a handful o’ times.”
She squirmed. She hated it when her father talked about her as if she wasn’t present.
Hew turned to her. “Only a handful. Is that true?”
She sensed his amusement. After all, he’d seen her at her worst. Disobeying her father. Skulking about in the middle of the night in crofter’s rags. Reiving cattle. Cursing.
“Once when she was very young,” her father said with a chiding cluck of his tongue, “she ‘borrowed’ the jars o’ tempera from a visitin’ artist.”
Carenza paled. He hadn’t told that tale in years. Apparently, her father still believed she’d eventually returned the jars to the artist. She hadn’t. Instead, she’d offered the man a very expensive brooch in exchange and kept the tempera. She still used it to illustrate her bestiary.
“Ah,” Hew said, saving her again from humiliation by changing the subject, “a budding artist. Do you like painting?”
She loved painting. But she wasn’t going to say so in front of her father. As far as he knew, she owned no artist’s tools.
“I do stitchery,” she said.
“She does beautiful work,” the laird said. “See the sleeves o’ my leine?”
Hew dutifully examined the ivy border she’d stitched along the wrist edges of the linen. But she was sure he wasn’t impressed. She might wield a needle against linen and silk with some skill. But his mother wielded a sword against enemy flesh.
So she was surprised when he said, “This is quite clever.”
And annoyed when her father chimed in, “I’m sure she could do somethin’ similar forye.”
“Oh, I couldn’t ask—”
“Nonsense. ’Twould be my…ourhonor. Would it not, Carenza?”
“I’d be delighted,” she lied with a delighted smile.
It seemed like an utter waste of time. After all, he’d soon be trading in his fine linen leine for a scratchy wool cassock. But she had to remain gracious.
“What figures would ye like?” she inquired. “Flowers? Axes?” Her lips twitched. “Coos?”
His eyes twinkled in return. “Perhaps flames.”
“Flames?”
“Aye. My brother Logan is e’er teasing me about my hot temper.”
“Logan?” Her ears perked up. Had he mentioned his brother before? Was he of marrying age? “Tell me about him.”
“We’re as different as night and day. I always had our mother’s quick temper. He got our father’s sense of humor. But we’ve managed to make it work, liketheydo.”
Her father leaned forward. “Ye have a hot temper? I’ve yet to see it.”
“Now that I’m no longer a child, I find ’tis less of a temper, more of an intolerance for injustice.”
