Chapter 13
Carenza had been called “beautiful” hundreds of times.
Sometimes the word was used as a sort of currency by suitors and flatterers who wanted something for their efforts.
Sometimes it was spoken on a sigh, an involuntary reaction to the particular arrangement of features with which she’d been blessed.
“Beautiful” had become a description with little meaning for her, like the repetitive warble of a sparrow that knew no other tune.
But she was well aware that—wrecked by fire, smelling of smoke, with her hair hopelessly snarled and her face smeared with ash—she was as far from beautiful as a boar was from a butterfly.
But he saw past all that. Hew peered into her soul and called her “beautiful.”
It took her breath away. On Hew’s lips, it became a new word. Sweet. Pure. Honest. Imbued with deeper meaning.
Normally, she responded to praise with a humble dip of her head, a smile of gratitude, and words to the effect of “How kind o’ ye to say so.”
But hearing Sir Hew offer the compliment with such gushing sincerity, she was left speechless.
It was just as well. He wouldn’t have heard her reply anyway. Thanks to the strong wine, he’d already sunk into the murky depths of ease where he was free of pain. Free of care. Free of having to answer for speech that was completely contrary to the virtuous intentions he claimed.
For Carenza, however, his words echoed in her head, tormenting her.
It could be, she reasoned, that his brain had simply been muddled by opium. That he was confused. That he’d temporarily forgotten about his monkish aspirations.
He might have imagined Carenza was someone else. A past acquaintance. Or perhaps a real angel.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that what he’d said in that moment had come from the heart. And it made something inside her quiver with delight.
What would it be like, being the “beautiful angel by his side” forever?
To be wed to a true hero who had snatched her from the jaws of death?
To be wife to a champion who would protect and defend her with his life?
To wake up to his sweet words of praise every morn?
To tuck her head into the warm and welcoming crook of his massive shoulder each night?
They could forge a beautiful future together. A future of which even her father would approve. One that had started with the bridegroom rescuing the bride, just like in the stories of old.
They could have a perfect life. A life full of bairns to raise. Precious pets for her. Grand tournaments for him. Salmon for supper every night.
Perhaps her father was right. Perhaps Sir Hew could—and should—be dissuaded from his holy pursuits.
She climbed back into bed with a smile. She could dissuade him. If anyone knew how to use charm, it was Carenza. She’d been taught to be a perfect daughter. A perfect lady. A perfect hostess.
How much harder was it to be a perfect prospective bride?
She was too excited to sleep.
If Hew had called her a beautiful angel when she was a charred mess, what would he say when she was freshly bathed and dressed in her finest clothing?
Ordinarily, she wouldn’t wrest a servant from their bed. Especially not after the late night revels of Samhain. But these were special circumstances.
So, using the excuse of it being the Sabbath and All Saints Day, she coaxed a servant to heat water for her bath, which she would take in the solar.
Then, stealing past her snoring father, who had commandeered her bedchamber in her absence, she dug through her chest to find her favorite gown.
It was of silk imported from Lucca, but the best thing about it was its color.
It was a rare shade of vivid blue, almost as violet as a thistle.
And her father told her it matched her eyes perfectly.
By the time the lavender-scented bath was ready, the servants were up and about. A maidservant helped her bathe and scrubbed the ash from her hair. Then she fashioned it into a flattering style that swept her waist, with loops of tiny braids and white ribbons as decoration.
She finished dressing just before the bells of prime. With a smile that for once wasn’t forced, she left the solar and glided along the passage toward her father’s chamber.
She was astonished to find the door ajar.
Who had entered the chamber?
Peering through the crack of the door, she saw Peris, hovering at Hew’s bedside. Hew was still asleep. The physician was putting drops of opium into a cup of wine for him. She didn’t want Peris to think she’d abandoned Hew. But she didn’t want to disturb his critical measurements. So she hesitated.
He slipped in one drop. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
Her jaw dropped. She accidentally leaned against the door, pushing it open.
Startled, Peris quickly righted the vial of opium tincture and swirled the cup of wine as if nothing was wrong. But he reddened and scowled.
“There ye are,” he said, refusing to meet her eyes. “I didn’t know if ye were comin’ back.”
“O’ course.”
She didn’t want to alarm him. Maybe he’d miscounted or drifted off while putting in the opium drops. Maybe it had been an honest mistake. She didn’t want to embarrass the physician. But she had to make sure Hew didn’t drink the deadly wine. And for that, she had to put Peris at ease.
“Was the man in the infirmary hurt badly?”
He stoppered the vial and replied snappishly, “He fell from a gallopin’ horse, so aye.” Then he put the empty Bordeaux bottle on the table. “He’ll likely die on the morrow or the next day.”
She lifted her brows. “But ye’re a skilled physician. How can ye be so sure?”
“I always do the best I can,” he grumbled. “But ’tis God’s will who lives and who dies.”
“O’ course.”
She wondered if he thought it was God’s will to put extra opium into Hew’s wine.
“Ye must be tired,” she said. “Ye can’t have had much sleep.” She stepped forward and reached for the cup. “I can take o’er if you like. Ye can rest.”
The bells of prime rang out then. Peris, startled, snatched back the cup before she could wrap her hand around it.
Hew began to rouse. Peris shot a sharp glance at him.
“Och, ye’re awake,” he said in a rush. “Time for your wine.”
Carenza had no intention of letting him poison Hew, even if she had to take drastic measures. Acting on instinct, she stepped forward as if to help.
“Would ye like me to—”
Then she pretended to trip over her skirts. She gasped and knocked the cup aside with the back of her hand.
The clay shattered on the floor, splattering wine everywhere. Including in a dark red splotch on the front of her favorite blue-violet gown.
“Lucifer’s ballocks!” Peris cursed as drops of dark wine rolled down his beard and onto his leine.
“Och nay,” she lamented, looking down at her gown. Her despair was only half feigned. That stain would never come out of the Lucca silk.
Awakened by the crash, Hew lifted his head and narrowed groggy eyes at her. “What happened?”
“Just a wee spill,” she said.
He closed his eyes and sank back onto the pallet.
Peris was shaking, whether with rage or fear, she wasn’t sure.
“Don’t fret, Peris,” she said sweetly. “I’ll clean this up and mix another cup for Sir Hew. Ye go on and find your pallet. After all ye’ve been through, ye deserve a rest.”
He couldn’t argue with her. Instead he used a linen to dry his beard and groused, “’Tis only that there’s always so much to do. The hours. The responsibility. The travel. The sickness. The death.”
“Ye know, Sir Hew was remarkin’ that Kildunan might be better off hirin’ their own physician.”
“Nay!” Peris erupted, then thought better of his outburst. “Nay. I can manage. ’Tis an act o’ service and a labor o’ love.”
“One for which God will surely reward ye,” she cooed.
“Reward?” he scoffed, then added in a mutter, “Och aye, I’m certain of it.”
Carenza quickly ushered him out of the chamber. “Will ye send someone up with a bottle o’ wine and a cup?”
He grunted in reply.
After the door closed, Hew opened his eyes. “Peris seems…ill-at-ease.”
“Ye were awake?”
“Enough to hear the edge in his voice.”
“’Tis likely exhaustion. He was in the infirmary again all night.”
“The hunting accident?”
“Aye. Peris fears the man will die.”
“That’s two in a sennight.”
“Aye.” She started picking up the shards of the cup. “By the way, we’re even now.”
“Even?”
“I saved your life again.”
“You did?”
“Aye.” She placed the broken pieces on the table. “When I came in, Peris was addin’ a deadly amount of opium to your wine.”
“What?” Hew glowered in outrage. “Did he mean to poison me?”
“I’m not sure. It may have been an accident. But I couldn’t let ye drink it.”
“Did you knock the cup out of his hand?”
“I did.”
His mouth curved slowly up into a heart-melting, delicious, conspiratorial smile. And she found there was something liberating about not having to keep up appearances for Sir Hew. Something thrilling about sharing her mischief with him. So she couldn’t help but grin back.
Lady Carenza’s charming innocence was going to get her into trouble. The lovely lass had no idea how her smile lit up a room, plucked heartstrings, and made a man grow hard with longing.
Hew felt that way now.
Sometime last night, she’d bathed and dressed.
Aside from the garish wine stain marring her skirts, she looked flawless.
The color of her gown matched the jewels of her eyes.
Every strand of hair framed her face perfectly.
Every inch of her skin was radiant. She smelled like a field of summer flowers.
He longed to court her with pretty phrases and gentle caresses. To whisper praise into her ear and slip the silky strands of her hair between his fingers. To sweep her into his arms—his burns be damned—and cradle her winsome body against his chest.
But his careless vow of chastity kept him in a prison of his own making. He would have to avert his eyes and temper his desires.
“How are ye feelin’?” she asked. “Any better?”