Ewan reluctantly stopped the peddler for her and helped her from her horse.
The lady was much a magpie whose head was turned by any item she found passingly attractive or interesting. But at least today she hadn’t made him stop while she dawdled with flowers.
He expected her to grab one of the costly furs that was draped over the back of the wagon.
Instead, she approached the side where the peddler had four lutes tied.
She ran her hand over them as if they were the most precious objects on earth.
A chill stole down his spine as he watched her gentle caress and wondered what her hand would feel like gliding down his back.
“Oh these are beautiful,” she gasped.
“My lady likes the lute?” the peddler asked.
“Aye.”
Ewan scoffed at her enthusiasm, even though her bright face enchanted him. “They are only lutes, Nora. They’re not even particularly good ones.”
She scowled at him. “What do you know of them?”
Her face softened as she looked back at the rosewood lutes. “They are beautiful, aren’t they?” she asked the peddler.
Ewan shook his head at her as she plucked one of the strings.
The peddler pulled one of the lutes from the wagon and handed it to her. “Would you like to hold it?”
“Oh, aye. Thank you so much.” Nora’s face beamed brightly, much like the sun itself. She was a beguiling creature. Filled with as much merriment as he was with ill humor.
“Have you played much?” the peddler asked her.
“Nay. My father said I played like a maid wringing a cat’s neck. So one night after I went to bed, he used my lute for kindling.” Nora cradled the lute in her lap and strummed an ill-fated chord.
The discordant sound made everyone cringe.
Her father was right. It did, indeed, sound like someone wringing a cat’s neck.
“Let me have that,” Ewan said, pulling it from her hands before she tortured them further.
Nora started to protest until he took the lute in his own hands and quickly tuned it.
Stunned, she cocked her head and watched the expert way he held and strummed it.
Why, he didn’t even need a pitch pipe to tune it like the minstrels she had seen in her father’s home.
“You play?” she asked rhetorically.
He answered by playing Bad Roy’s Anthem.
Nora gaped at his expertise. Who knew the big, giant bear would be so talented?
She’d never heard anyone play better. His large hands made the chords with an ease that bespoke years of tender practice. Fierce and strong hands that had also chopped and piled up wood the night before.
Hands that belonged to a man wholly unrefined.
Wholly unrefined and yet strangely delectable. Even more delectable now that she’d heard his skill.
He handed it back to her.
