Chapter Seven #2
His gaze lingered on her a moment before reaching out to take the pitcher.
A smile flickered across his lips before he downed nearly the entire contents.
Asmara watched him closely, studying everything about the man.
She was thrilled to be sitting with him, just the two of them.
There was so much she wanted to say, and wanted to know, that she hardly knew where to start.
“If you will recall,” she said as she popped a piece of cheese into her mouth, “the first time we were alone together, you tossed me into a water trough. The second time, you accused me of trying to pry information out of you on behalf of my father. I wonder how you will insult me the third time?”
He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “You said there would be no third time.”
“That is true, but here we are. If you are going to offend me, then get on with it.”
His lips twitched with a smile again; that smile that always seemed to be right on the surface. “I am afraid of what will happen if I do,” he said. “I emerged unscathed the first two times. I fear my luck will not hold out again.”
Asmara grinned, flashing that toothy smile. “I will be truthful with you,” she said. “The night before we moved on Llandarog, my father did not send me to pry information out of you. I will swear that upon my grandmother’s grave.”
He believed her. Truth was, he had always believed her.
“I was wrong to slander your honor,” he admitted.
The tone of the conversation was comfortable enough that he did not feel the need to keep his defenses up, his natural guard.
He was very anxious to speak with her. “But you must understand that I knew virtually nothing about you up to that point, and Morys has never spoken fondly of Cader.”
Her smile faded. “I know,” she said. “I can only imagine what he has said about my father. Whatever it was, it is not true. My father is a fine man.”
Blayth nodded. “He must be to have raised so fine and strong a daughter,” he said, watching her eyes widen in surprise at what was clearly a compliment.
“Some men have different ways of commanding men. Morys’ way is to shout and, at times, color the truth.
Your father’s way seems to be far quieter. ”
“Quiet and trusting,” she said, although she was still feeling a bit of a thrill from his compliment. “He tells his men what must be done and he trusts them to do it. That does not make him weak.”
“I know.”
“I am glad you do. Morys does not think that way.”
Blayth knew Morys well enough to know just how the man thought. Sometimes, it was overbearing, in truth, but he didn’t say so. He owed Morys much in life and he would not speak ill of him, not even in a private conversation.
“As I said, Morys has an aggressive manner, but it is one that men respond to,” he said.
She looked up from her cheese. “Like you?”
“I owe him a good deal.”
Asmara nodded faintly, her thoughts moving to Blayth’s mysterious background. She couldn’t help her curiosity and, somehow, now that it was just the two of them, it didn’t seem intrusive. There was no one to listen in on them, and she was genuinely interested.
“It sounds as if he owes you a good deal, too,” she said.
“Truly, you do not have to speak of it if you do not want to, but I heard Morys at Carmarthen Castle when he spoke of how the English purchased you from your mother and then tortured you for your entire life. I… I simply want to say that I think that is horrible and I am very sorry they did that. No man deserves that kind of treatment, and certainly not you. The hatred and resentment you must feel for the Saesneg is beyond my comprehension.”
They were wandering into an area that Blayth never spoke of. His past was a strictly taboo subject, except for Aeddan and Pryce and Morys. Those were the only people he ever felt comfortable discussing his limited memory with.
But Asmara… he’d only ever sensed that the woman was brave, truthful, and pure.
He’d never thought anything else. Every man who had ever fought alongside her had a very high opinion of her, and the night Llandarog Castle fell, Blayth had the opportunity to see just how brave and skilled she really was.
The woman was impressive on so many levels.
But did he trust her enough to speak of his past with her?
He was so used to avoiding the subject that he simply wasn’t certain.
“Feelings of hatred and resentment are unproductive,” he finally said. “I am not a man to waste effort on things beyond my control.”
It was a simple answer, but a truthful one. Asmara received the impression that he didn’t want to speak further of it, which was something she’d sensed that night before Llandarog fell.
“That is a sensible attitude,” she said.
“I am sorry if you do not wish to speak of it. You warned me off the night Llandarog fell and I suppose you had every right if you thought I was trying to pry but, as I said, I honestly was not. I just thought… I thought I should tell you how I felt about what happened to you. You endured a terrible thing.”
There was pity there, something he wasn’t used to in the least. It made him feel strangely adverse to her pity yet, in the same breath, welcoming it.
He’d had absolutely no comfort in his life that he could recall, although sometimes he would dream of a woman with dark hair, a woman that he held some affection for.
There was also the older woman with the Scottish accent.
But those were only dreams. In reality, Morys’ wife, Auryn, was the only women he’d spent any length of time around, and she was limited in her ability to show emotion given that she was married to a man who showed her nothing at all.
The truth was that he was to blame for his aversion to women.
What was he? A man with horrible scars, ugly to look at, and certainly not a man that any woman would want as a companion or husband.
So, he avoided women, keeping a wall up around him so that nothing and no one could break through that wall and hurt him.
It was safer that way.
But now… now, a beautiful, brave woman was showing him a measure of compassion and he had no idea how to feel about it.
All he knew was that it touched something in him, something deep that was kind and soft and wanted to be nurtured.
There was something in him that was responding to her compassion, whether or not he was comfortable with it.
As Asmara turned back to her bread and cheese, he spoke softly.
“I do not remember very much, to be truthful,” he muttered.
She looked up from her food. “You do not remember much of your captivity?”
He sighed, a long and thoughtful sound, as he leaned forward on the table, his arms resting on the tabletop and his hands folded.
“What we are to speak of does not leave this room,” he told her.
Asmara sensed his seriousness right away. “Of course not,” she said. “I would never repeat something you told me in confidence.”
“See that you do not. If I hear that you have told others of this conversation, you will not like my reaction.”
Her features stiffened. “So you have managed to offend me a third time,” she said. “I told you that I would not speak of it. I meant it. But since you clearly do not trust my word, do not speak of anything you do not wish for me to hear. Let us speak on the weather instead.”
She turned back to her food, angrily tearing at the bread and shoving it into her mouth. Blayth watched her, realizing that he had insulted the woman yet again. He couldn’t seem to not insult her. Watching her frustrated actions, he felt remorse for his behavior.
“I have spent my life, or what I remember of it, protecting myself,” he said. “I did not mean to offend you, demoiselle. Mayhap I am accustomed to dealing with unsavory characters all around and that leads me to treat everyone the same way. I… apologize.”
A surprising response. At least, Asmara thought so. She cooled somewhat, but not entirely. “If you keep insulting me and then apologizing, at some point, I am no longer going to accept your apologies. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Good.”
Her gaze lingered on him as she returned to her food, but her movements were far less angry. Blayth watched her peel apart her cheese.
“As I said, I do not remember much of anything,” he said quietly.
His tone sounded so… lost. Confused, even. Asmara pushed her food aside because she realized that she was no longer hungry. Her conversation with Blayth was taking precedence over everything. For the first time since she’d known him, Blayth the Strong sounded vulnerable.
Human.
“You mean of your captivity with the English?” she asked. “I am not surprised. I am sure it was a terrible existence.”
He shook his head. “That is not what I mean,” he said. “I do not remember anything prior to Morys finding me.”
Her brow furrowed with confusion. “Morys finding you?”
He nodded. “I awoke five years ago in Morys’ sod hut in the Vale of Brecfa, with the sounds of the River Marlais nearby,” he said. “Morys told me that I had been saved from the English and he told me who I was. What memories I have, he has given to me.”
Asmara was still confused. “But you remember nothing?” she asked. “How does Morys know so much of your past?”
“Because my father’s teulu told him,” he said. “They delivered me to Morys for safekeeping, so I could hide from the English who will capture me once again if they find me.”
That was essentially the same story Morys had told everyone that day at Carmarthen Castle but, to Asmara, it was beginning to sound strange.
Blayth had no memory of his life before he came to Morys, and it was Morys who told him of his past. But Blayth couldn’t remember any of it so he had to trust that what the man was telling him was the truth.
… but was it?
“That is a terrible story,” she said. “And… and you remember nothing prior to Morys?”