Laird of Flint: A Forbidden Love Scottish Medieval Romance Adventure (The Warrior Lairds of Rivenloc

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The Laird of Dunlop believed Hew was a well-connected noble in need of a wife.

Lady Carenza believed he was a man about to devote himself to the church.

Keeping the threads of those two narratives separate required the skills of a master weaver. But Hew was accustomed to doing that. He’d had to appease cuckolded husbands and contrite mistresses enough times that he knew how to keep them from becoming an inextricable knot.

What was challenging was keeping his heart out of things.

This evening he could feel it thrumming every time he glanced down at the lovely lady supping beside him. Every time he glimpsed the delicate curve of her wrist. Heard the breathy murmur of her words. Inhaled the floral scent of her hair.

These things were impossible to ignore. And he didn’t necessarily want to ignore them. After all, if the circumstances were different, he would leap at the chance to court the laird’s daughter. And he couldn’t rule out the appealing possibility that the king would approve such a match in the future. Keeping in Dunlop’s good graces was essential.

But Hew had already declared to the lass that he was monastery-bound. What kind of scoundrel would she think he was if he made improper advances?

He was accustomed to women familiar with the reputation of the warriors of Rivenloch. Who trusted in their honor. Their loyalty. Their decency. Who took them at their word and believed what they said, simply by virtue of their clan name.

But Carenza questioned his chivalry at every turn.

For the first time in his life, he had to prove his worth to a woman, not by his reputation, but by his deeds. Beginning with being true to what he’d told her. He had to act as if he intended to become a monk. At least until he solved the monastery’s thefts. After that, he could conceivably and reasonably change his mind about the church.

Only then would he be free to pursue Lady Carenza with all his heart. And he was almost certain she would return that love in full measure. After that, all he’d need to do was get his aunt, Laird Deirdre, to secure the king’s permission for him to wed the Laird of Dunlop’s daughter. Then the two of them would live blissfully ever after.

The thought made him smile as he cut another bite from the slice of roast in his trencher.

“Ye like the boar, aye?” the laird guessed, nudging him with a companionable elbow.

“Aye,” he agreed, shoving the succulent morsel into his mouth. Then, reconsidering, he stopped mid-bite and inclined toward Carenza, muttering, “’Tisn’t one of your friends, is it?”

She smiled and shook her head.

That sweet expression instantly convinced him of two things. One, that he’d gladly give up meat and dine on peat roasts and smoked plaster if it would make her happy. And two, that the beast rousing in his braies was more starved than his belly.

“Sir Hew,” the laird said, “Pray tell us about the great battle at Darragh.”

The battle at Darragh. Hew knew that would bore Carenza. But it would appease the laird. And it would distract the rutting beast of lust.

He began with a humble, “I was but a youth at the time, so the battle was waged mostly by others of my clan.”

Carenza knew the subject of warfare thrilled her father. But aside from sword-wielding Rivenloch women, she didn’t find the discussion of battle tactics particularly engaging. Still, she listened intently for mentions of Hew’s other kin, in the event there was a man suitable for marriage.

Unfortunately, she’d already had to dismiss his cousin Gellir, the tournament champion. When it came to animals, she assumed he would stab first and ask questions later.

Gellir’s younger brother Brand sounded like a shadow of Gellir, so she was forced to reject him as well.

Another cousin, Adam, was apparently a master of disguise who’d once feigned to be a royal escort. He sounded even more dangerous than a man who’d lie about cattle reiving while standing next to a priest. So she crossed him off the list.

As Hew continued describing the warfare at Darragh, he mentioned his cousin Ian. At first, Ian sounded like a possible match. He was bright, quiet, serious, and inventive. But it turned out he was only fifteen years of age and just as much an agent of destruction as his warrior cousins. It had been his idea to fabricate and launch the mysterious and horrific flaming phoenixes that had finished the battle.

“Such a marvelous tale,” her father exclaimed.

“Marvelous,” Carenza echoed, glad it was over. “What about your other kin? Brothers? Cousins?” She licked a drop of honey from the corner of her lip.

When she glanced up at him, his gaze was fixed on her mouth. His eyes were smoky. His jaw was tense. His nostrils flickered.

There was no mistaking his thoughts.

He wanted her.

Nay, he hungered for her.

Her breath caught audibly.

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 for ye.”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask—”

“Nonsense. ’Twould be my…our honor. 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, like they do.”

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.”

“Ah,” her father said, lowering his voice to confide, “injustices like seeing the Boyle brothers get away with lyin’ about the cattle theft.”

Carenza drew in a quick breath. So her father knew they’d lied. She supposed it shouldn’t have surprised her. When it came to outsiders, her father was quite perceptive.

Hew nodded.

Her father wiped his mouth and left his linen on the table. “Now that I’m no longer a young man, I find the road to justice is sometimes windin’ and very long.”

Hew smiled and raised his cup in agreement.

“Speakin’ o’ no longer bein’ a young man…” Carenza tucked her own linen under her trencher. “I fear the wee lads are gettin’ restless to light the bonfire.”

An hour later she and her father led the Dunlop clanfolk, bundled in thick woolen plaids against the chill wind, as they climbed up the frosty hillock to the blazing bonfire. Their offerings of crops and slaughtered fowl were carefully placed on the fire to appease the spirits and guarantee a good harvest in the following year. Tongues of flame licked the black sky, keeping evil souls at bay and reminding winter that the light of spring and new life would return.

At the spring celebration of Beltane the wee lads would be allowed to run and frolic around the fire. But Samhain was a somber time, and with the wall between this world and the next so narrow, most were afraid to incur the wrath of departed spirits. So there was little chatter. Instead, the air was filled with the crackle, roar, and snap of the fire consuming everything thrown into its greedy maw.

As the heat scorched Carenza’s face, the bright flames drew her gaze upward. She saw what appeared to be the dark souls of the dead circling above the bonfire.

“Look!” a young lad cried out. “There they are!”

“Hush!” an old woman hissed. “Don’t look at them or ye’ll follow after!”

Soon the clanfolk began murmuring quiet blessings, while the wee children shivered in fear, shielding their eyes and whispering.

“As the wheel turns…”

“The veil thins…”

“Spirits o’ those departed…”

“Keep us safe from…”

“Take these gifts…”

“Till the light returns…”

“Protect us from those who would…”

“Evil spirits.”

“The souls o’ the dead.”

But Carenza knew what they were.

They were her treasured secret. Her favorite part of Samhain.

And for some curious reason, she felt compelled to share that secret with Hew. She clasped him by the forearm and nodded toward the top of the fire.

He followed her gaze in silence and then narrowed his eyes as he saw the dark forms.

She grinned. “Bats.”

He furrowed his brows.

“The firelight draws insects,” she explained in a whisper. “And the bats feast on them.”

“I won’t tell,” he promised. “Though how can you be certain they aren’t the evil souls of dead bats?”

That made her laugh, which immediately earned her a scowl from her father, standing near the bonfire.

Ashamed, she sobered at once.

Carenza only half-believed the story of Samhain. But for her father, of all the rites celebrated at Dunlop, this was the most significant. A time when the veil between the worlds was nearly transparent. A time for somber reflection. For regret and remembrance. For mourning and forgiveness. The time when he felt closest to Carenza’s departed mother.

Clasping her hands and lowering her head, she ignored the bats and peered guiltily into the flames, which danced manically now, as if to leap free of the confines of the bonfire.

Nothing was going to bring her mother back. Why did her father foolishly insist on tormenting himself with renewed grief and false hope?

Still, it had been rude of her to find levity in a moment when he was suffering in despair.

Burdened by remorse, she murmured to Hew, “I must see to my father.”

She left Hew’s side and came up behind the laird. She slipped his hand into hers and gave it a squeeze.

He closed his eyes. By the orange light of the roaring bonfire, she saw a tear seep out, rolling down his cheek and into his beard.

They stood there in silence a long while as the wild wind urged the fire higher.

Eventually, he sniffed back his anguish and gave her hand a pat.

“So what do ye think o’ this knight o’ Rivenloch?” he murmured.

She spoke cautiously. “He’s…a good man.”

“I think your mother would have liked him.”

She tensed, but managed to reply, “My mother would have said no one was as good as my father.”

He smiled, but was not deterred. “Ye could do worse. Rivenloch is one o’ the oldest and most respected clans in Scotland. Sir Hew is wealthy and powerful. Strong o’ body and clever o’ mind. Marryin’ him, ye would want for naught.”

“I told ye before, Da, he’s bound for the church.”

“’Twasn’t brotherly reverence I saw in his eyes when he looked at ye at supper tonight.”

“Da!”

“And ’tisn’t virtuous piety I see in yours when ye look at him.”

She gasped, glancing about to see if anyone else had heard his frank words. Then she spoke between clenched teeth. “Be cautious, Father, lest ye draw the evil spirits near tonight.”

He leaned toward her and whispered, “Those are bats.”

She sighed. Of course he realized they were bats. He might believe he could commune with his dead wife on Samhain. But he was as driven by truth as she was.

“Anyway,” she said, “I’m sure the monastery is keeping him busy with…” What did monks do all day? “Prayin’ and chantin’ and…and takin’ vows o’ silence.”

He made no comment on her obvious contradiction. “Ye won’t discourage him, though, will ye?”

“From the church?” she asked, intentionally misunderstanding him. “O’ course not.” She crossed herself for good measure.

“From pursuin’ ye.”

“Ye’ve seen me, Da.” She fluttered her lashes. “I’ve been nothing but gracious and welcomin’.”

That he couldn’t argue with. Mostly because he hadn’t seen her threatening to let the man fall into a crevasse to his death.

He tried once more to convince her. “He really would make a good match, Carenza. And ye know how I am about these things.”

He might be intuitive about others. But about her? He was as blind as the bats circling over the bonfire. She no more belonged with a wild and reckless warrior than a kitten belonged with a hound.

“He suits ye,” he continued. “I sense deep honor in him. Integrity. A love o’ justice. A good mind. And a good heart. He would make a fine husband. A fine father. The son your mother and I ne’er—”

His litany of praises was cut off abruptly when “the son he’d ne’er had” bowled violently into him, sending the laird tumbling away from the fire to sprawl in an undignified tangle of plaids and arisaids and clanfolk.