cool, responsive smile.
He chuckled and shook his head. “I think you’re eager to cleave me in half with a broadsword, that’s what I think. But don’t do it yet, lass. Show a little patience. Ah, Grandmama. How lovely to see you. Come to protect me from Laurel, have you? She has the look of a bloodthirsty warrior.”
Eloise marched into the room and took a seat beside the door. “She’s delightful. Stop teasing her, Graelem.”
Laurel was surprised that Eloise did not plan to sit beside them. “Won’t you join us by the bed?”
“No, dear.” She tossed Graelem a warning scowl. “Your father and Graelem may have worked out this arrangement, but you and Graelem will never get to know each other if I’m sitting right beside you. So it’s best that I stay out of the way as much as I can.”
“Eloise, this is ridiculous.” Laurel crossed the room intending to move Eloise’s chair, but the stubborn old dowager wouldn’t be budged. “You’re his grandmother and a countess, not my governess or a serving maid to be shunted into a corner. I don’t treat Gladys,” she said, referring to her own maid, “this rudely.”
In this, Eloise appeared quite stubborn. “I’m merely a dowager countess. Gives me no standing whatsoever.”
“You could be a fishmonger’s wife and we’d all love you,” Laurel said in exasperation, turning to her grandson for assistance. What she encountered was a look of genuine gratitude and admiration. What had she just said to warrant approval from the oaf? Oh, she’d admitted that she loved his grandmother. Well, it was true. She had no intention of hiding it.
“Lass,” he said with a gentleness that astonished her, “Eloise can be a disagreeable old battle-axe when she wants to be. You won’t win this fight. But thank you. I can see why she adores you and your sisters. You have kind hearts.”
Laurel wanted to throw her hands up in disgust. She wasn’t special or kind. She simply wanted out of this betrothal. She crossed back to his side, lifted the book from the stool, and sank down in its place. “The Song of Roland,” she said, opening the pages and beginning to read.
She’d only gotten four lines in when Watling strode in, rolling a tea cart before him. “Lemonade and pies,” he announced.
Laurel slammed shut her book. Her attempt to bore Lord Moray into insanity wasn’t working anyway. He was reciting the lines along with her, obviously knowing them by heart. All four thousand of them? It wasn’t possible. She turned to Eloise. “I thought you said your grandson detested poetry.”
Eloise shrugged. “I thought he did.”
“Lass, you simply could have asked me. I would have told you that I do abhor most of that drivel, but this poem is about Charlemagne’s campaign to conquer Spain and claim it for his empire. The story is about battle and betrayal. Lots of military tactics and murder for boys to love. My uncle, the Earl of Trent, read it to me and my cousins during a summer I spent with them.”
She tipped her head, now curious, and couldn’t resist asking, “How old were you?”
“I was all of nine years old,” he said with a wistful smile and a faraway gaze as he momentarily drifted back in time. “My cousin Alexander was the eldest and quite grown up at all of ten years old going on eleven. His brother Gabriel had just turned eight. Their father read to us a little each night before we went to bed.” He shook his head and chuckled. “The ladies did not approve of us dreaming of blood, gore, and death.”
“I should say not,” Eloise intoned from her corner of the room.
“But it was one of my fondest memories,” he said softly.
Laurel’s heart began to beat a little faster, and she stifled the urge to lean close and wrap her arms around him. He’d said that his uncle had read these stories to him. Not his father. And what about his mother? Was she one of “the ladies” he referred to? “I’m sure it upset your mother, as it
He chuckled and shook his head. “I think you’re eager to cleave me in half with a broadsword, that’s what I think. But don’t do it yet, lass. Show a little patience. Ah, Grandmama. How lovely to see you. Come to protect me from Laurel, have you? She has the look of a bloodthirsty warrior.”
Eloise marched into the room and took a seat beside the door. “She’s delightful. Stop teasing her, Graelem.”
Laurel was surprised that Eloise did not plan to sit beside them. “Won’t you join us by the bed?”
“No, dear.” She tossed Graelem a warning scowl. “Your father and Graelem may have worked out this arrangement, but you and Graelem will never get to know each other if I’m sitting right beside you. So it’s best that I stay out of the way as much as I can.”
“Eloise, this is ridiculous.” Laurel crossed the room intending to move Eloise’s chair, but the stubborn old dowager wouldn’t be budged. “You’re his grandmother and a countess, not my governess or a serving maid to be shunted into a corner. I don’t treat Gladys,” she said, referring to her own maid, “this rudely.”
In this, Eloise appeared quite stubborn. “I’m merely a dowager countess. Gives me no standing whatsoever.”
“You could be a fishmonger’s wife and we’d all love you,” Laurel said in exasperation, turning to her grandson for assistance. What she encountered was a look of genuine gratitude and admiration. What had she just said to warrant approval from the oaf? Oh, she’d admitted that she loved his grandmother. Well, it was true. She had no intention of hiding it.
“Lass,” he said with a gentleness that astonished her, “Eloise can be a disagreeable old battle-axe when she wants to be. You won’t win this fight. But thank you. I can see why she adores you and your sisters. You have kind hearts.”
Laurel wanted to throw her hands up in disgust. She wasn’t special or kind. She simply wanted out of this betrothal. She crossed back to his side, lifted the book from the stool, and sank down in its place. “The Song of Roland,” she said, opening the pages and beginning to read.
She’d only gotten four lines in when Watling strode in, rolling a tea cart before him. “Lemonade and pies,” he announced.
Laurel slammed shut her book. Her attempt to bore Lord Moray into insanity wasn’t working anyway. He was reciting the lines along with her, obviously knowing them by heart. All four thousand of them? It wasn’t possible. She turned to Eloise. “I thought you said your grandson detested poetry.”
Eloise shrugged. “I thought he did.”
“Lass, you simply could have asked me. I would have told you that I do abhor most of that drivel, but this poem is about Charlemagne’s campaign to conquer Spain and claim it for his empire. The story is about battle and betrayal. Lots of military tactics and murder for boys to love. My uncle, the Earl of Trent, read it to me and my cousins during a summer I spent with them.”
She tipped her head, now curious, and couldn’t resist asking, “How old were you?”
“I was all of nine years old,” he said with a wistful smile and a faraway gaze as he momentarily drifted back in time. “My cousin Alexander was the eldest and quite grown up at all of ten years old going on eleven. His brother Gabriel had just turned eight. Their father read to us a little each night before we went to bed.” He shook his head and chuckled. “The ladies did not approve of us dreaming of blood, gore, and death.”
“I should say not,” Eloise intoned from her corner of the room.
“But it was one of my fondest memories,” he said softly.
Laurel’s heart began to beat a little faster, and she stifled the urge to lean close and wrap her arms around him. He’d said that his uncle had read these stories to him. Not his father. And what about his mother? Was she one of “the ladies” he referred to? “I’m sure it upset your mother, as it
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