She brought the flask to her lips and took a cautious swallow. She coughed once before recovering. “Mercy,” she gasped. “Ye mean to cure me ankle or set me throat aflame?”
“Both,” he replied dryly.
She took another smaller sip, color rising to her cheeks that had little to do with the alcohol. He watched her for a moment longer than necessary before turning to go gather the scattered wood she had dropped.
“Yer servant fetches firewood now,” he announced grandly as he left to the pit she had fallen into. “Be swift about it,” she called back. “I grow cold.”
“Aye, me lady,” he replied.
He found the scattered branches and gathered them, then returned to camp. He set them down in the fire ring.
“Would ye also like berries and fanned air?” he teased.
“If ye can manage it,” she said sweetly.
He chuckled, striking flint to steel until sparks caught upon dry moss. Within moments, smoke curled upward, and the fire leapt to life, crackling warmly. He fed it carefully, building it steady and strong.
“There,” he said, straightening. “Warmth for the Lady McGuire.”
She extended her hands toward the flames. “Acceptable,” she declared. “Ye may keep yer position another hour.”
He shook his head, smiling despite himself, and moved to make the tent comfortable.
Arianna watched shamelessly. “Ye perform yer duties well,” she observed.
“I aim to please,” he replied, tightening a rope. “Though I was unaware tent-pitchin’ would earn such praise.”
“In me court, it does,” she said primly.
He finished securing the canvas and stepped back to inspect his work. “The Lady shall have shelter from wind and rain.”
“Will me servant also fluff the blankets?” she inquired.
He crossed toward her slowly, stopping just before the log where she sat. “Careful,” he murmured. “Yer servant may grow bold.”
She met his gaze without flinching. “Would he dare?”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “He might.”
For a moment, the teasing edge softened into something warmer. He reached down and adjusted her cloak gently around her shoulders. “Truly, though,” he said quieter, “rest it.”
She studied him, the humor fading slightly. “Ye fret too much.”
“Only when it matters,” he answered.
She swallowed, then forced brightness back into her tone. “Very well. Continue yer tasks, servant.”
“As ye command,” he replied, though his gaze lingered on her face.
He returned to the fire, adding thicker logs until the flames burned steady and bright. The scent of smoke mingled with the meadow air, and the clearing felt smaller, more intimate.
“Tell me,” she called, taking another small sip from the flask, “does me servant often bring ladies to this secret meadow?”
He paused mid-motion. “Nay.”
“Never?”
“Never,” he said firmly, glancing at her over his shoulder.
