Page 75 of Laird of Flint
Hew was still dozing.
His bare arms, atop the coverlet, looked less red now. Perhaps they were healing.
Below the coverlet, his chest rose and fell. His breath cut through the silence like a carpenter sawing through wood.
A smile tugged at her lips. She wondered if he always snored like that or if it was only the medicine making him sleep so deeply.
She almost hated to wake him. But it was time for another portion of wine. He should eat something as well. And most important, Carenza needed to find out if she was a suspect in the Kildunan crime.
She placed the bundle of oatcakes on the table. Crossing to the hearth, she stirred the embers to life and placed several more chunks of peat on top.
By the time the fire was blazing cheerily along, Hew had roused.
“Good morn,” she said as she mixed his opium-laced wine.
He grunted.
She could see he was in a foul mood. It would be best to placate him first before diving into the deep waters of interrogation.
“Your arms look better already.” They looked magnificent, if she were being honest, though she wasn’t going to say that. “But ye need to break your fast. Ye haven’t eaten enough to keep a flea alive.” She loosened the knot on the bundle of oatcakes.
He winced. “I need—”
“I know. Ye need your medicine. But ’tis best taken on a full belly.” She offered him an oatcake.
“Nay,” he said, turning his head away. “First I need—”
“Come, be a good lad,” she said, waving the oatcake in front of his face like a taunt. “I promise I’ll give ye the wine as soon as ye—”
“Nay.” He pushed the oatcake aside and threw back the coverlet.
“What are ye doin’?”
He sat up on the edge of the bed and arched a brow at her. “I need to piss.”
Mortified, she bit her lip, lowered her head, and took a meek step backwards.
When she stole a glance at him, he was shaking his head in amusement as he rose to visit the garderobe.
Meanwhile, she threw open the shutters to let in the morning light, then spread honey-butter on an oatcake for herself.
She was mid-bite when he emerged again with a frown.
“You,” he proclaimed, “are a wicked thief.”
She half-choked on the oatcake. Snapping up the cup of wine, she took several gulps to wash down the crumbs.
So Hewdidsuspect her.
And he wasn’t mincing words.
He’d come straight out with a bold accusation.
Then he shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Pilfering my healing balm to sweeten your oatcakes.” He picked up the bowl of the honey-butter concoction. “Well, I won’t turn you in,” he said with a wink, “as long as you share.”
Somehow she regained her composure. Somehow her heartbeat resumed its normal pace. She even managed to imbue her gaze with a twinkle of amusement she didn’t feel.
Then she rasped out, “O’ course.”
