Page 82 of Laird of Flint
Shehadmade a fool of herself. In front of Hew.
She’d utterly lost control. She’d dished out ridiculous flattery. Uttered unmentionable things to him. Revealed her heart’s secret longings. Let ribald remarks glide across her tongue. Lord, she’d behaved like a doxy.
She’d never be able to look him in the eye again. Not after that. What kind of wanton must he think her?
She pushed up off the pallet and stared into the darkness. She could hear his rough breathing from the bed.
Dawn was several hours away yet. But she didn’t want to be here when he woke.
She quietly left the chamber and made her way down the stairs.
She was hungry. There would be bread and cheese in the pantry.
Dozing clan folk nested in the rushes on the floor of the great hall. She picked her way through them by the dim light of the banked fire. Then she climbed down the steps in the corner of the hall to the lower level, darker and chillier than the floor above. A narrow passageway cut into the stone opened onto four storage rooms.
One was the buttery where casks of ale, bottles of wine, perry, cider, and mead were kept.
The second held tallow and beeswax candles, bottles of scented oils, and spices—pepper, saffron, ginger, cinnamon, clove, cubeb, nutmeg.
The third contained her mother’s things. Things her father couldn’t bear to part with. He’d locked the room long ago and probably never revisited it. Carenza imagined it was full of rotted leines and moth-eaten arisaids.
She entered the fourth room, the pantry. On the shelves were a few day-old loaves of bread, several crocks of butter, and dozens of blocks of cheeses in neat rows. In one corner hung several hams.
She helped herself to a large chunk of bread, using her eating dagger to slather it with butter.
While she was choosing which cheese she wanted, she heard voices. The furious whispering of two men. Coming from just beyond the pantry doorway.
She hung back, pressing herself against the wall to listen.
“What the devil were ye thinkin’?”
“He’s trouble.”
“I know he’s trouble. But it can be managed.”
“That’s what I was doin’. Tryin’ to manage it.”
“By killin’ him?”
Carenza listened closer. They were talking about murder. This was something her father needed to hear.
“’Twould look like an accident.”
“Not to the laird. And not to his daughter.”
Carenza bit her lip. They were talking abouther.
“I could explain it. Say ’twas an infection. Or ’twas worse than it looked at first. They’d trust me.”
A chill shivered down Carenza’s spine. That voice. It was Peris the physician.
“Ye know the laird has plans to make the man his heir, aye?”
“He can find another,” Peris said.
“Not like this one. Have ye ne’er heard o’ the Rivenloch clan? They’re the king’s favorites, for God’s sake. They keep the border from bein’ overrun by the English. A marriage into such a clan…”
“But if he finds out—”
