by Deborah Hale
He thrust Maura away from him with such force she staggered and almost tripped over his clothes.
“Who is downstairs?” he demanded. “I heard the pounding on the door. I thought you might be a Hanish soldier.”
As he spoke, he swiped his clothes from the floor and held them in front of him.
She rounded on him in a half-crouched stance as if preparing to fend off an attack. Rath was torn between alarm and admiration at how she had exploited his weaknesses to break free.
“There is no one down there, now, unless Langbard has woken.” She glared at Rath. “The pounding was our neighbor. She came to make sure we were all right.”
Maura’s gaze fell to the leather breeches and vest in his arms. “She saw your clothes hanging on the line. I told her you are Langbard’s nephew, Ralf, visiting from Tarsh.”
“Well, well.” Langbard bustled in. “I always fancied having a nephew. Though there is not much of a family resemblance between us, I will admit.”
He directed a warm smile at Maura. “That was quick thinking, my dear. I hope Sorsha will not make too free with the information around the market.”
Then he looked Rath up and down. “You seem a good deal better than you did when Maura fetched you from Betchwood yesterday. Still, you had better rest while you can. It is quite a journey to Prum. I want you fit to protect us if the need arises.”
“I cannot just lie about, unclothed and unarmed,” Rath protested. “What if that had been soldiers at the door, rather than a neighbor woman. I’d have been done for.”
“Go ahead and dress, then!” cried Maura before her guardian could answer. “But your weapons stay outside. I will not bide under the same roof as those tools of pain and death.”
Rath could not let such a slur pass. “My blades deal a far faster, more merciful death than most sorcery! I’ll wager this cottage is crammed to the eaves with tools of that kind.”
“How dare you?” Maura headed for the door, keeping Langbard between her and Rath. “Uncle, I do not know how you can think of traveling with such a witless lout, danger or no danger!”
When she had descended the stairs with a far heavier tread than she’d used to climb them, Langbard broke into the kind of smile Rath had only ever seen on young children or simple minded folk. “Mark me, lad, she will come to like you, yet!”
Rath scowled. “Let the wench like me or loathe me as she will. I do not care.”
He spoke the words with such force, he almost made himself believe them.
Langbard kept Maura so busy for the next several days she scarcely had a thought to spare for Rath Talward except when he was in her direct line of sight. Fortunately for her, and perhaps for him, the outlaw did not stray her way very often.
She suspected Langbard might be responsible for that, as well—an effort to forestall domestic mutiny.
Much to Maura’s surprise, it worked. Almost against her will, and certainly against her better judgment, she found herself growing accustomed to Rath Talward’s lurking presence around the cottage.
After that first morning, when he had scared her half to death, he’d done nothing further to frighten her. Still, she kept remembering the harsh power of his grip and the heat of his bare skin when he’d held her against him. If she pondered it very long, her own flesh grew too warm for comfort.
Now, for instance.
Hearing the two men entering the cottage, Maura quickly bent near the hearth to give the stew a stir. That would explain away her flushed cheeks.
Behind her, Rath sniffed the air. “Smells good! I cannot recall the last time I ate so well for so many days at a time.”
Maura did not want that careless scrap of praise to please her as much as it did. She tried to dismiss it with a tart answer. “You have been working hard. They say a sharp appetite makes anything taste good.”
The outlaw gave a dry grunt of laughter. “Whoever says so has never had to eat some of the things I have.”
His tone rasped against Maura’s composure which, of late, had rubbed too thin for her liking. She turned to confront him, her gaze drifting over his shaggy, rangy form. Why could Langbard not see the danger this man posed?
To her peace of mind as much as anything else.
“Perhaps if you had settled down to a bit of honest work before this, you would not have had to eat such things.”
His lip curled. “Be careful who you condemn, my lady, and for what. The day may yet come when you will be that hungry and have to choose between unlawful survival and honest starvation.”
Langbard had been watching them with a look of fond amusement that vexed Maura almost as much as the outlaw’s mocking insolence. Now he interrupted before she could work up a suitably scathing retort. “Come, you two! Have pity on my tired old ears and speak a little more gently if you please.”
He dropped onto his accustomed chair. “Besides, we have more important matters to talk over. I have decided we must set out for Prum no later than the day after tomorrow.”
“So soon, Uncle?” Maura’s stomach felt as if it were falling out of her body, into a deep pit.
Often during the past few days she had lapsed into familiar routines, savoring a fleeting pretense that nothing had changed—that nothing would change. It suddenly occurred to her that the root of her annoyance with Rath Talward might be the bothersome reminder he represented that her whole world was about to turn upside down.
With stubborn resolve, she clung to her last tattered remnants of habit, serving supper at her familiar table with her familiar crockery. Langbard murmured the ritual blessing of the food while Rath sat with a self-conscious scowl on his face.
“We cannot tarry, my dear,” said Langbard after he had finished the blessing. He patted the back of Maura’s hand in what felt like a gesture of apology. “Your aunt will be waiting for us. I would have gone before now, but I wanted young Rath to regain his strength for the journey.”
So the outlaw had done her a favor. Maura took a bite of her stew and found she had little appetite for it.
“I can be ready to go whenever you give the word.” Rath stopped eating long enough to tap his fist against the arm that had been wounded. “You’d never know I had a fly bite there, much less a Hanish arrow clean through.”
“I am gratified it has healed so well. Though you may thank Maura for that since she compounded the poultices.”
From the opposite side of the table, Rath made a deep nod of acknowledgment. “Once again, I am in your debt, my lady.”
“Do not call me that!” Maura did not mean to snap at the man, but his words reminded her too forcefully of what she would soon face. “And take care you don’t get hair in your stew, bending over it like that.”
The possibility of getting stew on his hair concerned her less. It would take a great deal more than that to make him look any more unkempt.
Perhaps fearing further hostilities might break out over the supper table, Langbard quickly changed the subject. “I want the two of you to go in to Windleford tomorrow and buy supplies for our journey.”
Maura fumbled her spoon. “Prance into Windleford in the company of a wanted outlaw? What if the soldiers spot him?”
Rath nodded, for once in agreement with her.
Langbard waved away Maura’s objections. “I have a wee spell to take care of that.”
“You said we oughtn’t squander our cuddybird feathers.”
“It is something else entirely,” said Langbard. “It makes a body blend in with the herd... crowd. Especially to the eyes of predators. Embrians will be able to see and hear you as plain as can be. But the Han will not notice you at all as long as you do nothing to draw attention to yourselves.”
“Hundredflower.” Maura rolled the name around on her tongue. “I should have known.”
From the time she’d been a child, Langbard had always sprinkled a little of it over her before she left home. He had claimed it would protect her from catching any sicknesses going around the village.
It gave her a strange, breathless feeling to look back over her life and recognize all the subtle preparations Langbard had been making for the time that had finally arrived.
“I do not see why we both have to go.” Maura pushed a large chunk of carrot around her bowl with her spoon. “I have done our marketing for years on my own without any complaint from you.”
This would be her last visit to Windleford. She did not want Rath Talward dogging her footsteps, needing to be introduced and explained with a tangled litany of falsehoods.
“Of course I had no complaint,” said Langbard. “Nor do I now. But a long journey south requires provisions you might not consider. Rath will know what we need and may be able to direct you in your purchases.”
“Very well. He may come with me. But on one condition.”
Two sets of thick brows, one gray, the other tawny, rose in a wordless query.
Maura looked from her guardian to the outlaw, forcing herself to meet his piercing, truculent gaze with a bold challenge of her own. “Wash... your... hair. I refuse to be seen in the company of such an unkempt ruffian. Even if the Han take no notice of us, the village folk may remark about you in some soldier’s hearing.”
When Rath made a face, she asked, “Why do you balk at a little soap and water when you would not quail before a blade?”
“Would you have me primped like some Hanish court-boy?” The look of horror on his face made Maura fear he might spit on the table for emphasis.
Though she had no idea what “a Hanish court-boy” might be, she had noticed that even the soldiers of the provincial garrison seemed vain about their flowing flaxen manes.
“No, but—”
“Fancy grooming is no boon to an outlaw.” Rath gave his shaggy head a defiant shake. “His friends tend not to respect him nor do his enemies fear him as they ought.”
“Fine, then.” Maura pushed her chair away from the table. “Stay at home and rub a little more dirt into your hair while I am gone. If I see a nice patch of burrs by the side of the road, I will fetch some back for you.”
Barely resisting the urge to upend the rest of her stew over Rath Talward’s untidy head, she strode off to the preparing room. At least this meant she would not have to suffer his company in the market tomorrow.
Maura wished the prospect brought her a greater sense of satisfaction.
“I would have preferred the burrs,” Rath grumbled the next day as he and Maura led Langbard’s pack pony along the road to Windleford.
He plowed his fingers through his newly washed and shorn hair. “What did you put in that rinse water?” He wrinkled his nose. “I smell like a Venardi bed-girl!”
Rath could not decide which vexed him worse—that the old wizard had bewitched him into getting his hair properly washed for the first time in years, or that he had not been able to muster enough strength of will to resist.
What vexed him more than either was the pert little smile of triumph Maura Woodbury made only a token effort to hide. “I do not know what you are complaining about. It was only a little fleawort to kill vermin.”
When Rath began to sputter, she darted close enough to ruffle his hair. “And honeygrass to make it shine. You look like a different man, altogether—almost handsome.”
Before she could dance out of reach, he grabbed her by one ridiculously delicate wrist and pulled her toward him. Part of him wanted to rage at her teasing, while another part secretly enjoyed it far more than he dared let himself.
“You grow too bold, wench.” He chased away her provocative little smile with a wolfish grin. “Is there nothing about me you fear?”
Maura’s great green eyes widened until they looked as vast and turbulent as the Sea of Dawn during a storm. Their beauty made him almost reckless enough to cast himself adrift in their bewitching currents, knowing full well he might wreck and drown.
“Aye!” she cried. “Your breath. It reeks. You should chew on a leaf of icemint.”
He leaned closer. “If I sweeten my breath, will you give me a kiss?”
The most inviting pair of lips he had ever seen parted... but not to honor his request. “I’d sooner kiss a musk-pig! Take your hands off me, Rath Talward, before I turn you into a...”
“Save your threats!” Rath laughed as he swooped in and pressed a kiss on Maura’s neck, just below her ear. “Langbard told me the difference between your harmless vitcraft and the mortcraft of the Xenoth. You can do no worse than put me to sleep or befuddle me like you did the soldiers in Betchwood.”
“Rogue!” She squirmed out of his arms.
“At your service, my lady.” Rath bowed. “And let me give you a priceless piece of advice, at no cost.”
Maura’s eyes narrowed and her hands hovered over the many-pocketed sash Langbard had made her wear. “What advice?”
Rath ruffled the pony’s dark mane in a mocking imitation of what Maura had done to him. “Do not flirt with a man unless you wish him to collect on your offer.”
“I? Flirt with you? You must be daft!”
Rath shot her a dubious look. “I grant you may have been raised too sheltered to know about flirting. That is what you were doing, all the same. It could land you in a great deal of trouble if you try it with a man who respects women less than I.”
“If this is your notion of respect, the Giver save me from a brazen fellow!” All the while she glared at him, Maura did not seem aware that she was rubbing her fingers over and over the spot on her neck where he’d left his kiss.
Rath was not certain what that meant... if anything.
“Someone had better save you if you have not learned a bit more caution by the time we reach Prum.” He dropped the taunting note from his voice. He did not want Maura to dismiss his warning as a jest. “A good many cattle drivers pass in and out of that little town. Compared to some of them, I am a perfect flower of honor.”
He expected her to huff, or protest more, perhaps even slap his face. But she did none of those.
For an instant Maura’s gaze faltered before his, then she lifted her chin and looked him square in the eye. “Consider your warning heeded. Now, let us buy our supplies and get home as soon as we can. I still have a great deal to do around the cottage if we are to leave tomorrow.”
“Fair enough.” Rath tugged on the pony’s rope halter.
They walked the rest of the way to the village in awkward silence.
As they came within sight of the garrison, Rath muttered, “I hope that flower spell of Langbard’s works.”
“It does.” Maura’s sounded as though she took offense at his doubt, yet Rath noticed she moved to put the pony between her and the garrison. “I have been coming and going in Windleford for years and never had a single Hanish soldier glance at me.”
Her claim reassured Rath. The Han were still men, after all. If they had been aware of a comely lass like Maura moving about the village without an escort, no doubt one of them would have approached her.
“Besides,” she added, “in that old robe of Langbard’s and with your hair tidied up, you look almost respectable.”
“But you know better?” Hard as he tried, Rath could not keep a teasing note out of his voice.
He had no more business flirting with Maura than she had with him. He did not want to encourage her in dangerous habits.
“I know better.” Maura slid him a sidelong glance. “But your secret is safe with me. Just remember what Langbard said. Keep your eyes downcast. Do nothing to draw their notice.”
“Easily said.”
Rath glanced ahead at a young soldier marching down the narrow road toward them. By his side, a black hound strained on its short chain, dense muscle rippling beneath its dark pelt.
With all his will, Rath battled his urge to draw the sword concealed beneath Langbard’s robe. Pulling the pony closer to the gutter, he did his best to give the soldier and the dog a wide berth. He made an effort to look servile, but it was not easy. Living outside society in the company of desperate men, h
e’d had to adopt a bold, swaggering manner. Any sign of meekness might have invited a dangerous challenge.
The dog gave a menacing growl as it passed them, but the soldier only snarled a Hanish curse and gave the beast a hard cuff on the ear to silence it. He did not even glance in Rath and Maura’s direction.
“Well, well,” Rath muttered once they were out of earshot.
This vitcraft of old Langbard’s might lack the fearsome power of Hanish mortcraft, but it had its uses, just the same. Especially for a man in his trade. Perhaps, if he kept his eyes and ears open on the road to Prum, he’d be able to pick up a few more handy little spells like this one.
He and Maura continued on their way to the village square, where they set about purchasing supplies for their journey.
The first merchant they approached looked Rath up and down. “We heard you and Langbard had a visitor, Mistress Woodbury.”
The simple statement implied a question and demanded an introduction.
A faint sigh escaped Maura’s lips ahead of her answer. “You heard right, Master Starbow. This is Langbard’s nephew, Ralf, from Tarsh.”
“Tarsh, is it? My grandsire on my mother’s side was born in Bagno. What part do you hale from, Master Ralf?”
By the look on Maura’s face, Rath could tell she was worried that he might say or do something to make the villagers doubt her story. He would give her a surprise.
Letting his features fall a trifle slack, he affected a broad Tarshite accent. “Honored to meet ’e, sire. I comes from the West Shore. Good fishin’, there, the West Shore.”
“So I’ve heard.” The merchant failed to smother a grin as he turned his attention back to Maura. “And what can I get for you today, mistress?”
When she rattled off a number of items including rope, flints and canvas, Master Starbow’s eyes grew round. “Going on a journey, are ye? Odd, that, with a visitor newly come.”
Before Maura could answer, Rath spoke up. “I’s a-fetchin’ Uncle and the missy back to the West Shore for a spell.”
“I don’t suppose ye’d be fetching her home for your bride?” The merchant gave Maura a broad wink as he set about collecting the items she’d requested.
