There were times she suspected she should have.
An older lad, one who looked as if he spent far more time thinking about heroic tales than determining how he might become a part of them by some time spent in the lists, stopped by the door and turned back to Nicholas.
"I know the prophecy, my lord," he said quietly.
Nicholas remained seated in his chair, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. "The prophecy? "
"Queen Mehar's prophecy about the Sword of Angesand."
"I imagine you do, lad."
"I can recite it for you?"
Morgan was about to tell him not to bother, but Nicholas beat her to it.
"Not tonight, my son. I've a guest, don't you see, and you need to be abed."
"I could speculate," the lad offered.
Nicholas rose slowly and walked over to stand by the door. "In the end, my son, unless you are intimately involved in either the doing of the deeds or the telling of the tales, it is naught but speculation. And since we are neither, we should leave the speculating to others and retire to our beds before our nerves are overworked." He held the door open pointedly. "Good night, Harding's son. Have a peaceful sleep."
"And to you, my lord," the lad said, then unwillingly made his way from the chamber.
Nicholas closed the door and turned to look at Morgan. "You came."
Morgan rose and looked at him narrowly. "Your missive said to hurry. I feared you were dying."
Nicholas laughed merrily and enveloped Morgan in a fatherly embrace. "Ah, Morgan," he said, pulling back, kissing her soundly on both cheeks, then drawing her across to sit upon his exceptionally comfortable settee, "I'm not dead yet. What a pleasure to see you."
Morgan scowled at him as she sat. "You asked me to come."
"Did I?" he said, sinking down into an equally comfortable chair.
"It sounded as it your trouble required my immediate attention."
"And so it does," he said with a smile. "But not tonight. Tonight you will eat, then go to your rest. We'll speak of other things tomorrow."
"My lord?"
"Tomorrow, my girl."
She frowned fiercely at him. "I made great haste away from a very lucrative bit of business, simply because you called. I've hardly slept in a sennight for worry that I might arrive too late and find youdead. I daresay I deserve to at least know why you wanted me here!"
He studied her gravely. Then he smiled. "Is it not enough for an old man to simply wish to see the daughter of his heart?"
Morgan felt a sudden and very uncomfortable burning begin behind her eyes. She rubbed them to ease the stinging and to give herself time to recapture her frown. She was better off in a pitched battle. She did not do well with these kinds of sentimental utterings.
"A pleasant visit does not seem a good reason to me," she managed finally.
"Doesn't it?" he asked kindly. "A pleasant visit, a sennight of comfort, a chance for me to make sure you're still alive?"
"I suppose," she conceded, but she wasn't sure she agreed. She did not need the luxurious surroundings she found herself in. She did not need the affection of a man who had taken her in as a scraggly, snarling, uncivilized lass who had been accustomed to sleeping with a dagger under her pillow and holding her own against men three times her age. She did not ever dwell with pleasure on those many years in Nicholas's care when he taught her of letters and numbers and the quiet beauty of the seasons changing from year to year.
She also did not think on him each time she drew the sword at her side, the glorious sword he'd had made for her and adorned with gems from his own personal treasury.
"Morgan?"
"Aye, my lord?"
