to find a tree, but Blade knew he’d be back soon. During their travels, his comrade had developed a discriminating taste for ale and could correctly identify the proportion of barley, wheat, and oats in almost any brew, which apparently proved so amusing to the alewives that they’d often give him an extra cup at no charge. Blade, of course, had his own ideas about the alewives’ generosity—‘twas Wilham’s bonnie face and not his discerning palate that earned him the ale.
Blade sighed, crossed his arms over his chest, and rested his head against the plaster wall, closing his eyes. He could hear the pilgrims’ gossip much more clearly now. Fulk, the butcher, talked about a recent visit to Edinburgh. The goldsmith, Jacob, chuckled importantly, flirtatiously chiding the woman he now referred to as Lettie. Bryan, the most boisterous of the scholars, addressed the timid lad, asking for his name, and Blade could even hear his soft reply—Guillot.
Then someone touched Blade’s sleeve, and he sprang off the wall. His chains clanked as, in one swift motion, he unfolded his arms and instinctively reached for his absent sword.
His intended victim flinched, hissing, “Holy Mother o’…! Shite! I mean…”
‘Twas her, the lass with the falcon, and he’d done it again—startled her, this time into an oath at odds with her sweet lips. Her hazel eyes were wide, and the cup of ale she held aloft partially spilled over her hand, though she fought to hold it steady.
He let out his breath and lifted his hands in a gesture of apology.
“Well,” she said, her rapid pulse visible in the hollow of her throat, “I’d no idea ye were so easily startled. Forgive me.”
“My fault,” he grumbled, not entirely sure whether her tone was sincere or sarcastic. He glanced about at the pilgrims. Fortunately, the incident hadn’t attracted as much attention as he imagined. The others carried on with their chat, scarcely noticing he’d nearly leaped out of his skin.
“I thought… I’ve brought…” she began, pressing the cup of ale toward him, then blurted, “This is for ye.”
He stared at it stupidly.
“To thank ye.” She lifted her brows. “For the egg?”
He frowned. She owed him nothing. What he’d done, he’d done out of concern for her pet, no more.
“Unless ye’ve sworn off ale,” she added.
“Aye. Nae.” He winced. What was wrong with him? Irritated by his own rapidly diminishing wit, he took the ale from her and downed it all at once, wiping the foam from his lip with the back of his sleeve.
She raised a single slender brow in astonishment. “Shall I fetch another?”
Blade shifted his stance. She shouldn’t be conversing with him. A young noblewoman had no business speaking to a shackled mercenary.
“Sir?”
He blinked and looked down at her again. Lord, she was a beautiful creature. What had she asked him? Did he want another?
“Nae. ‘Tis enough.”
“I’ll gladly bring another if…”
He pressed the cup back into her hands, disconcerted by her attention and eager to be rid of her. “There’s no need. I expected no payment.” He saw the old woman emerge from the alehouse, carrying two cups. “Go,” he bid her. “Your own ale awaits.”
The lass lowered the cup and, with it, her defenses. “‘Twill wait a bit longer,” she said, surprising him. In a great show of courage for one so small, she straightened her back and looked him in the eye. “I’ve an offer to make ye.”
He swallowed. A dozen highly improper offers dashed through his mind, most of them involving the delectable lass flat on her back. He waited with bated breath, but wisely held his tongue.
“For each day ye fetch an egg for my falcon,” she offered, “I’ll buy ye an ale.”
He hesitated. ‘Twas unwise to enter into any such dealings with the lass. He knew that. ‘Twasn’t that he was unwilling to fetch food for her bird. He had as soft a heart as any man when it came to the welfare of
Blade sighed, crossed his arms over his chest, and rested his head against the plaster wall, closing his eyes. He could hear the pilgrims’ gossip much more clearly now. Fulk, the butcher, talked about a recent visit to Edinburgh. The goldsmith, Jacob, chuckled importantly, flirtatiously chiding the woman he now referred to as Lettie. Bryan, the most boisterous of the scholars, addressed the timid lad, asking for his name, and Blade could even hear his soft reply—Guillot.
Then someone touched Blade’s sleeve, and he sprang off the wall. His chains clanked as, in one swift motion, he unfolded his arms and instinctively reached for his absent sword.
His intended victim flinched, hissing, “Holy Mother o’…! Shite! I mean…”
‘Twas her, the lass with the falcon, and he’d done it again—startled her, this time into an oath at odds with her sweet lips. Her hazel eyes were wide, and the cup of ale she held aloft partially spilled over her hand, though she fought to hold it steady.
He let out his breath and lifted his hands in a gesture of apology.
“Well,” she said, her rapid pulse visible in the hollow of her throat, “I’d no idea ye were so easily startled. Forgive me.”
“My fault,” he grumbled, not entirely sure whether her tone was sincere or sarcastic. He glanced about at the pilgrims. Fortunately, the incident hadn’t attracted as much attention as he imagined. The others carried on with their chat, scarcely noticing he’d nearly leaped out of his skin.
“I thought… I’ve brought…” she began, pressing the cup of ale toward him, then blurted, “This is for ye.”
He stared at it stupidly.
“To thank ye.” She lifted her brows. “For the egg?”
He frowned. She owed him nothing. What he’d done, he’d done out of concern for her pet, no more.
“Unless ye’ve sworn off ale,” she added.
“Aye. Nae.” He winced. What was wrong with him? Irritated by his own rapidly diminishing wit, he took the ale from her and downed it all at once, wiping the foam from his lip with the back of his sleeve.
She raised a single slender brow in astonishment. “Shall I fetch another?”
Blade shifted his stance. She shouldn’t be conversing with him. A young noblewoman had no business speaking to a shackled mercenary.
“Sir?”
He blinked and looked down at her again. Lord, she was a beautiful creature. What had she asked him? Did he want another?
“Nae. ‘Tis enough.”
“I’ll gladly bring another if…”
He pressed the cup back into her hands, disconcerted by her attention and eager to be rid of her. “There’s no need. I expected no payment.” He saw the old woman emerge from the alehouse, carrying two cups. “Go,” he bid her. “Your own ale awaits.”
The lass lowered the cup and, with it, her defenses. “‘Twill wait a bit longer,” she said, surprising him. In a great show of courage for one so small, she straightened her back and looked him in the eye. “I’ve an offer to make ye.”
He swallowed. A dozen highly improper offers dashed through his mind, most of them involving the delectable lass flat on her back. He waited with bated breath, but wisely held his tongue.
“For each day ye fetch an egg for my falcon,” she offered, “I’ll buy ye an ale.”
He hesitated. ‘Twas unwise to enter into any such dealings with the lass. He knew that. ‘Twasn’t that he was unwilling to fetch food for her bird. He had as soft a heart as any man when it came to the welfare of
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