Page 69 of Laird of Flint
Sometimes it was spoken on a sigh, an involuntary reaction to the particular arrangement of features with which she’d been blessed.
“Beautiful” had become a description with little meaning for her, like the repetitive warble of a sparrow that knew no other tune.
But she was well aware that—wrecked by fire, smelling of smoke, with her hair hopelessly snarled and her face smeared with ash—she was as far from beautiful as a boar was from a butterfly.
But he saw past all that. Hew peered into her soul and called her “beautiful.”
It took her breath away. On Hew’s lips, it became a new word. Sweet. Pure. Honest. Imbued with deeper meaning.
Normally, she responded to praise with a humble dip of her head, a smile of gratitude, and words to the effect of “How kind o’ ye to say so.”
But hearing Sir Hew offer the compliment with such gushing sincerity, she was left speechless.
It was just as well. He wouldn’t have heard her reply anyway. Thanks to the strong wine, he’d already sunk into the murky depths of ease where he was free of pain. Free of care. Free of having to answer for speech that was completely contrary to the virtuous intentions he claimed.
For Carenza, however, his words echoed in her head, tormenting her.
It could be, she reasoned, that his brain had simply been muddled by opium. That he was confused. That he’d temporarily forgotten about his monkish aspirations.
He might have imagined Carenza was someone else. A past acquaintance. Or perhaps a real angel.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that what he’d said in that moment had come from the heart. And it made something inside her quiver with delight.
What would it be like, being the “beautiful angel by his side”forever?
To be wed to a true hero who had snatched her from the jaws of death?
To be wife to a champion who would protect and defend her with his life?
To wake up to his sweet words of praise every morn?
To tuck her head into the warm and welcoming crook of his massive shoulder each night?
They could forge a beautiful future together. A future of which even her father would approve. One that had started with the bridegroom rescuing the bride, just like in the stories of old.
They could have a perfect life. A life full of bairns to raise. Precious pets for her. Grand tournaments for him. Salmon for supper every night.
Perhaps her father was right. Perhaps Sir Hew could—andshould—be dissuaded from his holy pursuits.
She climbed back into bed with a smile. She could dissuade him. If anyone knew how to use charm, it was Carenza. She’d been taught to be a perfect daughter. A perfect lady. A perfect hostess.
How much harder was it to be a perfect prospective bride?
She was too excited to sleep.
If Hew had called her a beautiful angel when she was a charred mess, what would he say when she was freshly bathed and dressed in her finest clothing?
Ordinarily, she wouldn’t wrest a servant from their bed. Especially not after the late night revels of Samhain. But these were special circumstances.
So, using the excuse of it being the Sabbath and All Saints Day, she coaxed a servant to heat water for her bath, which she would take in the solar. Then, stealing past her snoring father, who had commandeered her bedchamber in her absence, she dug through her chest to find her favorite gown. It was of silk imported from Lucca, but the best thing about it was its color. It was a rare shade of vivid blue, almost as violet as a thistle. And her father told her it matched her eyes perfectly.
By the time the lavender-scented bath was ready, the servants were up and about. A maidservant helped her bathe and scrubbed the ash from her hair. Then she fashioned it into a flattering style that swept her waist, with loops of tiny braids and white ribbons as decoration.
She finished dressing just before the bells of prime. With a smile that for once wasn’t forced, she left the solar and glided along the passage toward her father’s chamber.
She was astonished to find the door ajar.
Who had entered the chamber?
