Miach whirled on her. "You're bloody beautiful," he snarled. "Satisfied?"
Admittedly she hadn't known him very long, but she had never seen him so undone. Confused, aye; baffled, aye to that as well; astonished, aye, more than once. But angry?
It was her turn to be astonished.
"It was a simple question," she managed.
"And a simple answer. Let's go."
He strode away. Morgan followed him a little unsteadily. Well, it hadn't been very politely said, but the words were somewhat pleasing. Whether Weger had ever stopped to consider anything about her besides her sword skill was really beside the point. It wasn't Weger she was interested in. It was for damned sure she wasn't interested in Adhemar.
She was fairly certain she wasn't interested in Miach, either.
Fairly.
Paien would have waggled his brows at this point and begun to list all Miach's finer qualities. She would have, at that same point, reminded him that her quest, aye, her very choice of professions demanded that she not be interested in anyone.
Perhaps it was time she reminded herself yet again that she was most certainly not interested in anyone who had truck with magic.
Never mind that such a plague haunted her.
Miach looked over his shoulder, glared at her again, then strode swiftly ahead.
Still, there was much to like about Miach. He was frank and clear-eyed. He was seemingly unafraid to acknowledge his limitations, he agreed with her that Nicholas's knife was unsettling, and he seemed as troubled by her dreams as she did. And she liked his laugh.
She caught up to him and found it far too comfortable a thing.
Despite the darkness that seemed to be swirling around her, she felt eased in her heart, somehow. It was almost as pleasant a feeling as a se'nnight on that goose-feather mattress at Lismòr.
Almost as much of a feeling of home.
Heaven help her.
Chapter Seventeen
Miach continued to walk away from the palace of Chagailt, cursing himself under his breath. What had he been thinking? He'd had almost two days alone with Morgan and what had he done? Had he wooed her? Had he sung lays to her beauty, taken long walks with her in Iolaire's lovely gardens, plied her with delicacies from Finlay's kitchens? Of course not. He'd opened his mouth and suggested an activity during which she could spend vast amounts of time with his brother.
Adhémar could teach you a spell or two.
Ha!
It had either been the height of stupidity or a flash of brilliance. He latched onto the latter and examined what the potential benefits of such an arrangement might be.
First, if Adhémar taught her a few spells, she would continue to believe that he, Miach, didn't know them. Given her substantial distaste for all things magical and their dispensers, that could only be good for him and bad for his brother. Second, the more time she spent with Adhémar, the less she would like him. Again, good for him, bad for his brother. Finally, it Adhémar spent time with her, he would no doubt begin to see her finer qualities and when she handed him that bloody knife she carried, he might actually be kind to her.
Miach frowned. That was good for his brother, but he wasn't quite sure what it meant for him.
He blew out his breath and turned his thoughts away from the whole subject. It was certain that he had many more things to think on that were equally as troubling and perhaps more pertinent to the current situation.
He ignored the tact that all those things seemed to have Morgan of Melksham in the center of them.
So, Nicholas of Lismòr had given her a blade, a blade that so greatly resembled the Sword of Angesand that it had to have been made by Queen Mehar herself, to take to the king of Neroche. That was an extraordinary thing alone, but it was made even more so by knowing that Morgan had been dreaming of the sword itself.
When she had never seen it before.
More surprising still was her dreams of a situation that mirrored Gair of Ceangail's demise so perfectly that he could hardly call it dreaming. He revisited his earlier thoughts. Perhaps she wasn't dreaming after all.
Perhaps she was remembering.
