"Nope."
"You've lost weight—at least ten to fifteen pounds."
Conar's eyes flickered with annoyance. "So what?"
"You didn't have all that much extra weight to lose, that's what!"
A heavy uplift of Conar's shoulders was his only reply. He sat on the cot to draw on his black leather boots, then slipped one lethal-looking dagger into one boot. Its mate he thrust behind him through the sheath of his belt.
"Are you going out?" Brelan asked with alarm.
Conar frowned, looking about as if trying to remember what he was forgetting. Then, swinging his great cape from where it was wedged between the iron bars, Conar slung it over his shoulders. "What do you think?"
"You can't be serious!" Brelan shot up from the cot. "It's raining cats and dogs!"
"So, I'll be careful where I step."
"There's a gale brewing. You want to go out on a night like this?"
"If the rain was going to hurt me, it would have done so on one of the many occasions Appolyon left me chained out in it."
"You're determined to have your own way, aren't you? It doesn't matter what anyone says or how they worry about you—"
The words came as a quiet warning. "I can take care of myself."
"And you're doing a good job of it, aren't you?"
"Leave off, Brelan. You aren't my nanny."
"You sure as hell need one! Where are you going that's so damned important, anyway?"
"Your spies will tell you where I've been," Conar answered, his face unconcerned, almost expressionless, as he walked out of the cell.
"You can't face her, can you?"
Conar halted in mid-stride.
"That's why you won't attend the party! You can't face Elizabeth!"
Although Conar didn't turn, Brelan knew his brother's face had finally formed an expression. The evidence of that was in his tightly controlled voice as he resumed his walk. "Go to hell, Saur."
The distant echo of clanking iron told Brelan that Conar had left the dungeon. He heaved a disgusted sigh. He knew Thom and Sentian, or the unseen Shadow-warriors from the Outer Kingdom, would be close on Conar's heels, but such knowledge did not set Saur's mind to rest.
* * *
Liza jumped as lightning flared beyond the windows of the covered wooden walkway. She waited for the heavy rumble of thunder, and felt the floor move as it finally came. Taking a deep breath, she hurried across the walkway toward the kitchens, trying to ignore another lightning bolt weaving its way to land. She was, however, aware of her wildly thumping heart, her sweaty palms, and mentally kicked herself for having gone to the stables to see the Tucker's new brood of strays. The warmth and safety of Sadie MacCorkingdale's haven couldn't come soon enough.
The old cook glanced up with obvious annoyance when the door to her private kingdom opened. Seeing Liza in the doorway eased the scowl from her weathered face. "Milady, why in the good gods' names did you go out in that hell-storm! Humping hippo, will you look at you!"
Trembling, Liza let the woman escort her to a seat, felt the fingers twisted with arthritis smoothing her hair. She leaned against Sadie, flinching as another burst of fire slashed through the heavens.
"I hope them pups was worth it," Sadie mumbled. "Good for nothing but shitting and pissing, if you ask me!" She patted her Queen's shoulder. "But I suppose if you care for such things, it was something to take your mind off your troubles."
"Troubles?"
"The grand lord's home. If that ain't trouble, I don't know what is!"
"I haven't seen him yet."
"Well, it's best you don't. Nothing good ever comes from the two of you being anywheres near one another."
A sharp pain of loss went through Liza's heart. "I suppose you're right."
"You got a good man," Sadie went on as though she hadn't heard. "Legion A'Lex was always a good man." Her face hardened. "Not like some I could mention."
Liza was barely listening. She had only meant to be gone from the party a few minutes, but she'd been absent nearly an hour and knew she'd be missed. Heaving a tired sigh, she eased out of Sadie's light hold, stood, and smiled. "You always make me feel so loved."
Sadie's age-marked face turned red, and she ducked her head with its fine, straggling mist of white hair. "You be loved," she answered vehemently. "I look at you and see my Joanie, sometimes." A shadow crossed over her features. "My Joanie was a good girl."
"I'm sure she was, with a mother like you." Stooping, Liza planted a loving kiss on the woman's cheek. "Well, I've played hooky long enough, I suppose. Don't you stay too much longer, Sadie. Go home and go to bed!" With that, she turned and left the room.
* * *
Sadie stood with a crippled hand placed lightly on the spot where her Queen had kissed her. For a long time after her mistress had gone, she could feel that sweet act of love and affection touching her flesh.
"You don't deserve the likes of him," she whispered, looking toward the pantry, where all manner of vengeance could be found. "And I'll help to see he don't ever, ever hurt you again!"
* * *
Sentian and Thom trudged through the pelting rain and chilling wind, cursing the man whose footsteps they dogged. The cowl from Conar's great cape was thrown back from his rain-wet blond hair, the edges of the cape billowing out as he hurried through the storm.
Sentian ran the sleeve of his woolen jacket under his dripping nose. "He's going to catch the damned fever out in this muck."
Thom flicked an annoyed glance at his companion, but didn't speak. The back of his neck prickled with unease and he snapped his head around to catch sight of the shadows he knew were following their quarry.
"They're back there," Sentian told him. "I can feel them, too."
Thom hunched down his thick neck into the wet collar. "Just once, I'd like to see those bastards!"
"Don't hold your breath. Besides, I'm not so sure I want to see them." Sentian looked at Thom. "You didn't meet Misha!"
"Did, too! He might have been big, but I could take him in a fair fight."
"They don't fight fair!"
Ahead of them, Conar darted from one archipelago of dry land to another as he made his way toward the muted glow of yellow tavern lights.
"I'll lay you odds he goes to the Green Horned Toad," Thom prophesied, although he truly didn't care where their leader went so long as he hurried up with it. Wet from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, the warrior was fast becoming chilled and more than a little put out.
"We could be at the party," Sentian snarled, his hands digging deeper into his coat pockets. "We could be drinking warm ale and eating venison. But noooo. We're traipsing around in a gale, following a man perfectly capable of taking care of himself."
"That's a matter of opinion." Thom nodded his head toward Conar. "See! Didn't I tell you? Meggie's Ruck's kitchen."
* * *
When the door opened, letting in a gust of cold wind and rain, Meggie Ruck looked up from her baking. The anger lines on her aging face smoothed out once she recognized Conar, and a welcoming grin slipped into place. But she clucked her tongue as she looked him over, head to foot.
Aware he was dripping water on her clean floor, a small puddle forming around his mud-encrusted boots, he screwed up his face into a mask of contrition. "Uh, oh," he mumbled and started to sidestep the mess.
"Don't move!" she said, wagging a finger at him. "Sit yourself down and take them boots off!" As she spoke, she snatched a towel from a drying rack beside the blazing hearth. Her lips pursed with disgust. "Only a fool would go out on a night like this!"
"You've always told me I wasn't too bright."
Though it was difficult to remove his water-soaked boots, Conar finally managed to pull them off. Looking around for a place to set them, he glanced at Meggie, standing with her hands on her more-than-ample hips and glaring at him as though he were an addled child. The end of her towel tapped against her thigh.
"Over there!" she snapped, pointing t
o the stone fireplace. "I'll have Dorrie clean them."
He padded to the fire and placed his boots on the hearth.
"Now get that cape off 'fore you catch your death, boy!"
His fingers stiff with cold, wet with rain, he fumbled at the closing of his cape, thrusting the thick brass button through its hole until the sodden clothing swung free of his shoulders.
"You're soaked straight through!" Meggie scolded as she grabbed the great cape. "Get that bloody shirt off, too!"
Conar heaved a long sigh, but he pulled the shirt from his breeches.
Meggie went to the swinging door leading into the common room. Conar winced when her voice carried over the sounds of clinking mugs and mumbling men. "Harry! Harry! Get me one of your shirts!"
"What for?" came the puzzled voice.
"Never you mind what for! Just get it." Meggie let the door close, but immediately swung it open again. "And bring me a clean pair of woolen socks!"
"Socks?"
"You heard me, old man!"
Conar's lips twitched as he pulled the damp shirt over his head. He was chilled and wasn't surprised to see goosebumps covering his chest and arms. He started to use the shirt to wipe at the moisture on his face and neck.
"Don't do that! Use this!" She thrust the towel at him, then grabbed the shirt he had dirtied with muddy fingers. "Don't you ever take mind of your clothes?"
"I…"
She waved an imperious hand. "Sit by the fire until you thaw out!" She pushed him none-too-gently into a straight back chair. "The socks. Take 'em off!"
Knowing better than to argue, Conar pulled the sopping wool from his cold feet and laid the socks on the hearth. He looked up at Meggie, feeling like a little boy.
Her mouth tightened with annoyance. "Don't be giving me none of them cow-eyed innocent looks," she warned, lifting a flour-speckled finger. "I'm wise to you."
The right side of his mouth lifted in a cocky grin; his left brow arched.
"Oh, no, you don't! You can grin at me like that until doomsday, lad, and I won't be charmed. Understand?"
"Aye, Milady," he answered, his lips twitching.
Meggie folded her arms over her abundant bosom and fixed him with an unwavering stare. "What are you up to now?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing, my Aunt Daisey's hind end. You had nothing better to do than skip about in the storm, I suppose."
When he put up a hand to wipe the moisture from his face, she threaded her fingers through his wet hair, pushing it away from his forehead. Grimacing, she snatched the towel from him.
"It's a wonder you didn't drown out there!" she mumbled, vigorously appling the towel to his hair.
"Well, I really—"
"Stupid thing to do! One of many stupid things you've done of late. Why aren't you at the party?"
"I didn't want to go."
"Why the hell not?"
He winced as she tugged on his hair. "I had other things that needed doing."
"Such as?"
He looked up at her when she took away the towel. "Such as eating supper."
Meggie eyed him with a bland expression. "There's food up to the keep."
He frowned, looking away. "I wanted your cooking."
She snorted. "You wanted to sneak off, you did. Ain't that the truth?"
"No, I—" He stopped as the towel was again draped over his wet hair and strenuously applied.
The swinging door opened and Meggie's husband of fifty-five years stepped into the kitchen. His angry gaze flicked over the scene. "Who's that?" Harry snapped, jutting his chin at Conar.
"Where's the socks and shirt?" Meggie asked.
"Who's that?"
"Where's the socks and shirt?"
Harry folded his arms over his scrawny chest and glared back at her. "I ain't supplying none of my possessions to nobody!" His eyes and tone suggested it wasn't just the clothing that he wouldn't supply. "Who is he?"
Under the canopy of the thick towel, Conar's lips stretched into a wide mischievousness grin. He leaned against Meggie, wrapping one long arm around her hips to draw her closer. In his best Chalean brogue, he raised the timbre of his voice and spoke to his hostess. "Meggie, m'darling. Who is that bellowing jackass that would dare to speak so rudely to my Sweeting?"
Harry's face reddened. "Sweeting, did you say?" His arthritic hands curled into fists at his side. "Jackass, you say?"
"Send him away, Meg," Conar cooed, holding her fast to his side. "I thought we was to be alone this eve."
"Alone?" Harry took giant steps forward and dragged the damp towel from Conar's head. His scowl turned to jaw-dropping horror as the Dark Overlord of the Wind grinned and winked.
"Good eve, Harry."
"Old fool!" Meggie teased, but there was pride and great love in her face. Her breasts jiggled as she laughed. "Did you think I'd been messing around on you, then?"
Harry snapped his mouth shut, glanced at his Overlord, and chuckled. "Shame on you, Milord. You're an imp, you are!" With the long-standing friendship and love between them, he gently squeezed Conar's shoulder. "You had me going there, you did."
Conar's grin stretched wider. He hugged Meggie to him. "I know."
"Harry," she said, cocking her head. "The shirt and socks? The boy's getting cold."
"Oh, aye! Aye!" Harry continued laughing as he left the kitchen.
"You are a bad boy," she chided and tousled Conar's damp hair. "Hungry?"
He nodded. "What're you making?"
"Apple dumplings. Want some?" She walked to her work table where she had rolled out thick globs of buttery dough.
"Um, hum." He stretched out his legs, his toes wiggling in the heat from the roaring fire, and watched Meggie's expert hands rolling dough.
"Why ain't you at the party?" she asked, glancing at him.
"You've already asked that."
"I'm still awaiting an answer."
"I'd rather be here." His grin slipped to a tight smile.
She picked up her dumpling press and began to score circles in the dough. "Hiding, are you?"
His smile twitched, then disappeared. "No."
"Don't be giving me them sharp tones of yours, neither." She plopped a generous spoonful of apple filling into a circle of dough, then slapped another circle on top. "I know you, and I know when you're avoiding things."
"You do, do you?"
"Better than you do yourself, it seems, lad." Having filled a dozen pastries, Meggie placed them on a platter. She walked to a bubbling kettle of mulled apple cider and butter and lowered each dumpling into the cinnamon-smelling concoction.
"People don't understand me, Meg."
"That is a truth if I ever heard you tell it! You do things that make no sense at times." She pointed a finger at him. "Like running away from that party up to the keep."
"I didn't run away from the gods-be-damned party!"
"You didn't go, did you?" When he didn't answer, she came to him and nudged his foot with her slippered toe. "Did you?" When he continued to stare at her, refusing to speak, she leaned down to make her point. "You didn't even poke your head in to wish your men a merry evening, did you?"
His silence lengthened as he held her look.
"Nary a word to them to enjoy themselves after long and weary months of fighting, huh?"
"What are you hinting at, Meggie?"
She shrugged, lifting one thick shoulder high in the air. "Now, what would an old woman the likes of me be hinting at, Your Grace?" His instant frown at the use of his old title seemed to please her. "You had a duty to see to your men and you turned your back on them—ran away."
"I didn't run away!" he snapped, his face blazing with annoyance.
"Then what do you call it? You should have gone to the party, if only for a few minutes, just to let your men know you were there."
"They don't need me there to enjoy themselves," he mumbled, his gaze shifting away.
"Most likely not, considering the foul mood you be in this eve." T
urning, she picked up a ladle to stir beef stew simmering in a cast iron pot.
Conar watched her for a moment, her silence weighing heavily on his conscience. He could tell she was put out with him by the way her large hands gripped the ladle. He was fairly sure she was wishing it were his neck.
"Don't be mad at me," he said, breaking the quiet. "Not you, too."
"I ain't," she countered, shaking pepper into her stew. "Disappointed, maybe, but not mad."
"Disappointed in what?"
"In knowing why you won't go to that party." She added a pinch of salt to the pot.
"And what is it you think you know?"
Harry entered the kitchen, shirt and socks in hand. His wide, merry grin was in sharp contrast to Conar's scowl. Ruck looked at his wife's unsmiling face and obviously knew to make himself scarce.
"They're clean, Milord," he said, handing the objects to Conar. "Keep 'em as long as you want." He spun around sharply, pushing open the door to the common room as fast as he could.
There was a long moment of silence as Meggie stirred her dumplings with infinite care. The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg filled the steamy kitchen, and the soft bubbling of the pot combined to make the room a warm haven from the howling wind and pelting rain lashing against the window panes.
Meggie raised a ladle of thick syrup to her lips and tasted, beaming with pleasure. Cupping her free hand under the ladle, she carried the rest of the contents toward Conar. "Try it."
He drew in his legs and sat forward, carefully putting his lips to the steaming golden-white liquid. He sipped gingerly.
"Good?"
"Aye." He finished the rest of the spicy apple dumpling broth and licked his lips. With wariness, he looked at Meggie, trying to gauge her feelings.
She set the ladle on a counter and wiped her hands on her apron. "You look tired. Have you been taking care of yourself, lad?"
"I suppose," he answered, standing and padding away from her.
He scrounged about the kitchen tasting some foods, smelling others. He peered into a cupboard, lifted a lid on a cookie jar, and extracted a chocolate brownie. As he stuffed it in his mouth and pulled out a pitcher of milk, Meggie shook her head.
"There's rhubarb pie there," she said, pointing to the pie safe.
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