Chapter 17 #2
“I hope ye like cherries,” she said.
His gaze lowered reflexively to her lips. What he thought was, They couldn’t be as sweet and delicious as what I tasted yesterday. What he said was, “I do. Thank you.”
“Would ye like me to feed ye?” There was a subtle smokiness in her eyes.
He very much wanted that. To stare into her eyes as she slipped the spoon into his mouth. To lick the frumenty from it while holding her gaze.
“That won’t be necessary.” He sat up and took the bowl in his bandaged hand, turning it so he could use the spoon with his good hand.
She leaned close and whispered, “I missed your snorin’ last night.”
He shoveled frumenty into his mouth to avoid having to reply. It was warm and sweet. But not as warm and sweet as her kiss.
She murmured, “I had a dream about ye.”
He almost choked on the frumenty. He’d heard that phrase before from lasses’ lips. Usually in the privacy of a bedchamber. It was always followed by an arousing account of her dream coupling. And that was always followed by an actual coupling.
“Ye were in my bedchamber,” she began.
The anticipatory tingling in his ballocks didn’t bode well.
“Lookin’ all bold and menacin’ with your axe across your shoulders.”
Was this going to be a plundering Viking dream where he seized the woman, tore off her clothes, and forced her to his will? He didn’t much care for those.
“I had brought the rat-catcher in, as my father requested.”
He stopped chewing the frumenty. The tingling had gone away. A rat-catcher? Where was this going?
“And sure enough,” she said, “Twinkle made an appearance.”
“Twinkle?”
“My pet rat.”
He grunted. He dished up another spoonful of frumenty, not sure he wanted to hear a romantic fantasy that included a rat.
“Just as the rat-catcher was about to trap my poor Twinkle in his bucket, ye said, ‘Allow me,’ and ye raised your axe.”
He furrowed worried brows and lowered his spoon. This had turned grim. Also, it didn’t seem the best tale for breaking one’s fast.
“And then ye turned it round backwards,” she said with a grin, “and knocked the rat-catcher’s bucket right out the window.”
Her laughter was delightful and contagious. Even if her dream was the silliest thing he’d ever heard.
After she was done laughing, she gazed at him with adoring eyes. “Ye came to my rescue and saved my precious Twinkle.”
Hew had never felt more like someone’s hero. The way she looked at him. With warmth. And humor. And companionship. It was far more attractive—and dangerous—than the voracious glances women usually sent his way.
But how long would she look at him like that? Would her affection fade with time?
“For that, my brave knight,” she murmured, “I shall someday reward ye.” Her violet eyes simultaneously sparkled with amusement and shone with sultry promise.
Already he could feel his heart softening and melting and becoming vulnerable. She held it in the palm of her hand, like a fragile egg. If he wasn’t careful, when she ultimately broke it, there would be nothing left but the shattered shell of a man languishing in a puddle of despair.
Carenza couldn’t stop singing this morn. She rose at dawn and flitted from task to task like a happy butterfly visiting primroses.
After her curious dream, she’d given Twinkle an extra portion of her frumenty and reassured him that the rat-catcher wouldn’t be visiting.
Then she’d brought Hew his breakfast.
Gazing down at him as he slept—with his mussed hair, his closed eyes, his open mouth—she’d imagined waking to that face each morn.
And decided she liked the idea. Nay, she loved the idea.
His was a countenance she’d never tire of admiring, even if it was accompanied by a snore loud enough to wake the dead.
She’d been tempted to stop that snore with a kiss.
But here in the great hall of Dunlop, she was the laird’s daughter. Demure. Polite. Respectable.
Later she’d find a place where they could be alone, for she wanted to savor the thrill of his embrace again.
So she settled for slipping a few smoldering glances into her conversation, an extra morsel of breakfast for him to chew on.
Meanwhile, she went about her schedule. She slipped scraps to Troye behind the stable.
Left several cherries atop the castle wall for the resident crows.
Checked in on her pair of hibernating hedgepigs, huddled in their nest in the garden.
Let the squirrel tug a stale oatcake from her fingers.
And gave Hamish a good, long scratch behind the ears.
By the time she was done, her father was preparing to leave.
Yesterday’s lightning had struck one of the byres on the Boyle clan’s land, so the laird and several Dunlop men were going to offer neighborly help.
At least that was his story. She secretly suspected the men were only curious to see the storm damage.
But the physician was going with them, so Carenza would be in charge of Hew’s care.
Which gave her an idea. A way she might forward her plan to get him alone.
It wasn’t a moment too soon when she found him. He was seated by the hearth, frowning and picking at his bandage.
“Sir Hew o’ Rivenloch,” she mock-scolded him. “Just what do ye think ye’re doin’?”
“Nothing,” he said, abandoning his pursuit. “I’m just…restless.”
She sat down beside him. It was probably torture for a warrior to be so inactive. Why he thought he could ever endure the tedium of being a monk, she couldn’t imagine.
“What would ye be doin’ if ye weren’t injured?”
“I would have gone with your father,” he sulked. “Been of some use.”
“I doubt any o’ them are goin’ to be of use.
They’ve only gone to gloat o’er the charred remains of Boyle’s barn.
Still…” She lifted his bandaged hand and studied it.
“Ye might be healin’ faster than ye think.
Let’s see how this looks. Come with me to the solar where the light is better. I’ll change the bandage and—”
“Where’s Peris?” he asked in surprise.
“He went with my father.”
Hew let out a vexed sigh, which crushed her momentarily until he followed up with, “I was hopin’ to question him.”
“Ah. Well, ’twill have to wait.”
Now she was doubly glad her father had taken Peris with him.
An axe-wielding Viking warrior might be accustomed to using intimidation to get what he wanted. But putting pressure on Peris would have been a mistake. Especially now, when they were so close to an answer.
Peris was as dangerous and impulsive as an anxious hound. Shivering in a corner one moment. Snarling and biting the next. Why else had he tried to solve his nervousness with something as drastic as murdering Hew?
If Hew started squeezing him for information, Peris would become even more wary and thus more threatening.
This part of the investigation was far better left in her hands. She would go to the monastery later today to deliver her tithing. And she’d employ a woman’s touch to coax useful information from Peris’s allies.
Meanwhile, she intended to use her woman’s touch for something far more enjoyable.
“Come,” she beckoned. “Ye can question him when he returns.” Hopefully by then she’d have confirmed the identity of the second culprit.
She’d already placed the honey-butter mixture, linen strips, and a basin of clean water in the solar.
She’d also told the servants she wanted privacy.
So it took a great deal of willpower not to slam the door closed behind her, thrust herself into his arms, and immediately resume kissing where they had left off last eve.
She desired him. There was no doubt about that. But she found she cared more about him than she lusted after him. And right now he needed healing.
“Sit there,” she said, indicating a chair near the window.
She opened the shutters to let in the light, filtered through a solid bank of white clouds.
Then she placed the basin on a nearby table and knelt before him.
She took his hand and carefully lowered it into the cool water, soaking the linen to loosen it from the blisters. With gentle fingers, she unwound the wrapping.
“I hope this doesn’t hurt ye.”
“’Tis fine.” He was probably lying, she decided, for she could hear the strain in his voice.
“There,” she said as she removed the last of the bandage. His palm was still raw and red, dotted with plump blisters. But the wound wasn’t infected. “’Tisn’t too bad, aye?”
He didn’t respond, and when she looked up at his face, she could see his mind was elsewhere. His eyes were glazed, like the diaphanous silk of a veil that barely concealed what was beneath. But she could see what was beneath.
Arousal. Desire. Yearning.
Her gaze lowered to his slightly parted lips.
Then his gaze lowered to her bosom. She realized, kneeling before him, her leine had gapped away enough to display the upper curve of her breasts.
She should have gasped in outrage. Adjusted her garment. Scolded him roundly for leering at her.
But she didn’t. Here, alone with him, she didn’t have to keep up pretenses. Though her own brashness made her blush, she had to admit she enjoyed having him look at her that way. As if he wanted to tear off her clothes and ravish her.
Of course that wasn’t going to happen. She was a responsible person, after all.
But she fully intended to kiss him again. After she finished bandaging his hand.
Pretending she didn’t notice his stare, she placed the crock of the honey-butter mixture on her lap.
“Give me your hand.” Her voice was breathy and alluring, even to her own ears.
He rested his hand atop hers, dwarfing it. How different from hers it looked. There was great strength in the sinews. The sun had weathered his skin. And calluses from wielding an axe thickened his fingers. She wondered how that hand would feel caressing the top of her breasts.
She took a deep, settling breath and tried to clear her mind. Then she dabbed her fingers in the honey-butter and began spreading it gently over his blisters.
He made no complaint. But she wasn’t sure if that was because it didn’t hurt or because he was distracted by the view. She didn’t dare look to see if his eyes were still fixed on her bosom.
The silence was becoming uncomfortable, so she explained, “The butter is to keep the moisture in. The honey helps to keep the wound clean.”
“To think I’ve been wasting it on oatcakes.”
She smiled and glanced up at him.
He was gazing out the window now. The light caught his face, making his eyes shine like silver and highlighting his chiseled jaw and supple lips.
She shivered with anticipation. She needed to finish the task of dressing his hand so she could begin the next task. Relieving some of her strain with a kiss as sweet as honey-butter.
Wrapping his hand again was a delicate operation. It was made even more difficult when she realized, kneeling before him, her eyes were at the level of his…
She gulped. She couldn’t even think the word. She certainly wasn’t going to stare at it.
Except she did.
There was nothing to see. Not really. He was fully clothed. His leine hung between his knees. And even if it hadn’t, his trews surely covered everything.
Still, there was something forbidden and thrilling about stealing glances without his knowledge.