Chapter 5
Five
Mairi had gone. So had the family, away to their homes now and out of my hair.
Eamon and I rattled around the cruck house as I worked the wool, tended the garden, and looked after the beasts.
Perhaps it was my imagining alone, but ever since the priest spoke to him, Eamon’s eyes seemed to be upon me constantly, as if he expected me to grow another head.
Ever he came after me with his words of caution: Do not follow in your mother’s footsteps.
Stay away from men of ill repute. Be a good daughter and do our family proud.
I tried, Mab knows I tried, though his definition of a good daughter and my own did not appear to be the same.
The wisest course of action was simply to avoid catching his attention, while being as obedient as I could.
Meanwhile, the time came for ploughing, then sowing, then ploughing again.
The Douglases, who owned the largest herd of cattle around these parts, lost some of them to a raid from reavers across the border.
Rumor had it, Thomas had helped the Douglases get their cattle back, which made Eamon cluck his tongue, but in my eyes, only added a roguish charm to the already dashing shepherd.
Despite Eamon’s warnings, I began to wonder when I would see Thomas Shepherd again.
It happened one day when I set out to bake my bread at the common oven.
Our lord the Baron de Lyne did own the oven operated by Rufus Baker, and all could use it to bake our bread, provided we paid.
Eamon had oft talked of us building our own oven at home, but an oven in one’s own house was a dangerous luxury, and not permitted to de Lyne’s tenants.
And it hardly seemed worth the effort now only two of us were in the house.
I set out early after making my dough, the March winds teasing my hair from my coif, and tangling my kirtle about my knees.
I had half a mind to tie up those skirts to keep them from blowing, and would have, were it not for the possibility of Eamon hearing tell.
His concern over my modesty had grown unendurable as of late.
Instead, I braced myself against the wind and held tight to my basket of dough, praying I would not drop it.
But then, as if possessed by some spirit who had overheard my very thoughts, a huge gust of wind caught hold of my kirtle, blowing it about in an unseemly fashion. I slammed my hands down on my legs to catch it.
And the basket of dough fell to the ground. “Mab’s tits,” I swore. And, in case some nature spirit had been at fault, and whipping up some mischief, I added, “Hold off, you lot. I am no mortal born, but one of yours.” Half of me was, at least.
“Here, let me give ye a hand.”
I froze in place, not aware anyone had been walking behind me. Slowly I turned around to find a tall figure, hale and broad-shouldered, his teeth gleaming white in his handsome face.
Thomas Shepherd.
Had he heard what I said?
He gave no sign, but bent to pick up the basket, which had fortunately fallen upright and spilled none of the dough. As he handed it to me, my cheeks grew warm. How I must look to him! My shoes were dusty from the journey, my front flecked with flour from mixing the dough.
I tucked wisps of fallen hair into my coif, then tried to straighten my skirts. “I thank you kindly.”
Thomas rubbed the back of his neck, a single dark curl tumbling down onto his forehead. “It is not in my custom to let a lady suffer such distress.”
“I am not a lady. I mean—” The warmth spread from my cheeks to my ears. “I am no noble lady.”
Thomas’s mouth quirked into a smile. “No,” he agreed, not unkindly. “You looked like nothing so much as a forest nymph there in your green kirtle, with the wind dancing about your skirts.”
A forest nymph? Me? More likely some twisted goblin or wizened imp, such as changelings were made from. Or did the shepherd mock me? I narrowed my eyes, attempting to read his expression.
Was it getting warm now, or was it just me?
Eamon had cautioned me against men of ill repute.
Eamon wasn’t here.
Thomas’s head lowered, as if he were the blushing maid, and not I. “Forgive my forwardness,” he said. “I meant to ask if you needed an escort. Someone to accompany you to . . . the baker’s, I warrant?” He gestured at the basket of dough.
I nodded. “Oh, but it’s only up the road a ways. I’ve no danger of being lost.”
Eamon’s stormy face came to mind, his cautionary words, his fear over my salvation.
But I had no salvation to lose. And the shepherd waited, brows lifted in expectation.
“Yes,” I finally said. “Your company would be welcome indeed.” And I rubbed the side of my throat.
Where my birthmark bloomed.
Suddenly I was shrinking, retreating even inside my Bess skin. I was mortal enough to be embarrassed, for I would swear no fair folk, ever, has felt shame.
Thomas frowned in puzzlement and moved closer. He raised his hand to where my neck met my shoulders, gently moving my fingers away. “It embarrasses you,” he observed.
No, I thought. And then, Yes. “You must think me awfully vain.” For Eamon lectured me when I fretted overlong over my appearance. My attention would be better spent fretting over the state of my soul.
“Not at all.” Thomas shoved his sleeve up to his elbow, revealing a thick white scar upon his arm.
I stared at it, compelled to brush my fingers across it, so lightly I gave the shepherd a start. I shrank back, alarmed as warmth thrilled beneath my skin.
Thomas pulled his sleeve down again. “There’s another where it is not meet to show you. My first attempt at milking did not go well.” He beamed brightly enough to shame the sun.
I could not join in his amusement. What am I doing? There’s errands to run. Eamon would say I played the huir.
Thomas placed his hand beneath my chin, and his grey eyes trapped me.
“No mortal man is perfect,” he said. “We leave that to the angels and to God.”
How close he stood to me. My pulse beat loudly and strong. The world might have paused around us, the stars ceased in their courses, for all had dwindled down to him and me.
Does he feel it, too?
His lids were lowered dreamily, and he spoke barely louder than a whisper. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. For lady, I would gladly pluck that rose.”
I imagined he did. That he leaned in towards me, and I smelled the human scent of him, mixed with green grass and old wool. That his rough whiskers brushed against my cheeks, and his lips delicately moved across the red rose at my throat.
Who needs the Devil when such temptation is offered by mortal men?
“I would,” he said, “if I thought myself welcome.”
He was welcome. I could hardly think of anyone who would be more welcome. I opened my mouth to tell him, but it had gone totally dry.
I had not noticed we had nearly reached the common oven, where the townsfolk clustered around.
Thomas stepped away from me. “I would not sully your reputation, lass. You do not want to spend time with a by-blow like me. Not where all can see.”
I wanted to argue. If I were in the faery realm I would.
From the tales Morven told me, of love talkers and elfin knights, ribald couplings of mortal and fae under the light of the moon, there would be no limits to what we could do.
No one would gainsay us if we laid ourselves down right now on the grass so green, and if I were to bear his child, it would be a source of joy for all the land.
But we were in the realm of man, in broad daylight and the middle of the road. I must push all thought of faery trysts from my mind. Reluctantly, I stepped away from Thomas, gulping hard.
Was it disappointment on his face? “That’s what I thought.” He dipped his head. “Forgive me. I have been far too forward with an unwed maid. I must bid ye farewell.”
I stood and watched as he left, wishing it could be otherwise.
“Ye’ve never been walking out with Thomas Shepherd, the baron’s bastard, have ye?” Glenna the Baker’s Daughter stared at me with wide brown eyes, her rosy lips round with surprise.
I hoisted my basket higher on my hip, eying the village folk around us. None seemed to be paying attention, but that hardly mattered where Glenna Baker was concerned. She were a prattling giglet of a girl, and word of my encounter with Thomas would be out by nightfall, if I knew Glenna.
“He only caught my basket, as any gentleman would,” I told her. “I dropped it while trying to catch my skirts. ’Tis such a windy day.” Though of course now the air was completely still. I wondered again if some tricksy sylph had been making merry before.
Glenna took the dough from my basket, kneading it a few times before laying it out on the rough paddle, the peel, and sliding it into the masonry oven. “The wind, eh? That must be why your cheeks are red.”
And getting redder by the moment, I’d warrant. I avoided her gaze as I counted out my coin. I despised these mortal tells, how the words of humankind could hide multitudes, but their feeble flesh never hid the truth.
Glenna pulled me to one side, letting her younger brother take over the oven.
There was something about her then, a wafting scent sweeter than the bread now baking, one I could not put a name to.
“Niver fear,” she said, as if we were bosom friends and not reluctant acquaintances. “I’ll tell no one your secret.”
“My what?” My mind flew to Faery, and the flesh I wore beneath Bess’s skin.
Glenna nudged me with an elbow. “Your secret sweeting, silly.” She smirked, bright-eyed. “For I have me one and all.”