Page 73 of Laird of Flint
Eventually the opium began to work. Soon he couldn’t recall why he was so concerned. In fact, he felt very calm. Pleasant. Delighted.
“Is the pain gone now?” she asked.
He smiled. Her voice sounded like bells.
“Aye.”
“’Tis my fault,” she said. “I should have given ye the wine sooner.”
“Nay, y’re not t’ blame.” The relief in her face made him happy, so he added, “Y’re…perfec’.”
She blushed at that. But he could tell the compliment pleased her. And suddenly he wanted to please her more.
“Y’r gown matches y’r eyes. Did y’ know that?” He could tell his words weren’t as smooth and polished as usual. But he wasn’t sure it mattered.
“So I’ve been told.”
“And y’r hair,” he murmured, gesturing with his uninjured hand. “How’d y’ get it in such wee braids…an’ coils…an’ loops?”
“’Tis my maid’s handiwork.”
“Ah.” He took a deep breath. “I like the way y’ smell. Like…roses?”
Her eyes twinkled. “Lavender from my bath.”
He nodded. “Y’r eyes look like stars.” Then he hesitated. “Did I already mention y’r eyes?”
“Ye did. But now I have a question o’ my own.” As it turned out, the wily lass hadn’t been distracted at all. “Whywereye skulkin’ about Dunlop that night?”
“I wasn’t skulking.” It came out like the voice of a petulant child.
“What were ye doin’?”
“I was… I was…” He scowled, trying to remember. Whathadhe been doing? Oh aye, he’d been following someone from the monastery. But he wasn’t supposed to tell her that, was he?
Why? Why wasn’t he supposed to tell her?
He let out a long sigh. It seemed pointless to keep secrets from Carenza. After all, they already shared secrets. They were already accomplices in crime, weren’t they?
“I’ll tell y’,” he decided. “But y’ mustn’t tell anyone. C’n I trust y’?”
“Aye.”
“D’ y’ swear it on y’r honor as a knight? Y’ won’t tell a soul?”
“I’m not a knight.”
He rattled his head. “Argh.” Of course she wasn’t. “D’ y’ swear on y’r honor as a lady?”
“Aye.”
Checking the corners of the chamber just to be sure there were no witnesses lurking about, he beckoned her near.
She came close, and for a moment he was distracted by the sublime perfume of her skin.
Then he whispered, “At the request o’ the abbot o’ Kildunan, I’m investigatin’ a series o’ thefts from the monastery.”
Up until now, Carenza had mostly been amusing herself with Hew’s intoxication. The opium wine had worked quickly to ease his pain. But it had also made him a bit daft. He was indulging in wild conspiracies. Garbling his words. Spewing awkward compliments.
