Page 26 of Darach

“Dinnae touch the bow or the ash,” he warned the war master as he joined him. “Kindling stone, ’twas placed on the crossbow to slow-burn the catch so the bolt ’twould fly only after the bastart left the lists.”

“Who should wish Ameron dead?” Taveon asked.

“’Twasnae meant for him. Look.” Darach straightened and regarded the spot. “Ever I stand in that position while watching the matches. ’Tis where I may see all the sparring circles. Ameron walked up to me a few moments before the crossbow fired.”

“Such treachery stinks of Carack scheming,” the war master muttered. “I’ll tell the laird. Until we find the assassin, you should remain inside the keepe.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And it begs me ask again: Who should wish you dead?”

“Every enemy we count. My death, ’twould dishearten the garrison, challenge the truce, and distract you and our brothers from...” He stopped and looked at Taveon. “Charlotte.”

They both took off at a flat run into the stronghold.

* * *

After the emotional overload of being kissed by Darach and finding Zoey’s note along with the candy, Charlotte gratefully focused on writing what she remembered of The Rose Knight, Seona Kerrich’s fairytale. Vaguely she recalled the strange dedication––from the last of my line to those who may someday wonder––and the opening paragraph, which she wrote on her notepad.

Long ago in a land where magic was as real and pure as sunlight and water, a fairy prince and a beautiful lady of the highlands fell in love. Although they knew they could not stay together forever, for only the prince was immortal, they could not bear to be parted. After they married in the prince’s garden, which he filled with enchanted flowers, they gathered all of their dear ones to live in the prince’s castle. In time, when the prince’s wife gave birth to his son, their dear ones brought flowers from the garden and lay them all around the boy in his cradle.

Charlotte stopped there, set down her pen and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. Although she was sure of that much, she drew a blank on what came next. On impulse she took out her sketchbook and started recreating the drawing she had done for the first illustrated page, which showed the prince and his wife standing over their baby’s flower-filled cradle.

“You weren’t tattooed with the flowers,” she murmured as she drew the tiny baby’s face, and placed a large rose next to his left eye. “When everyone put them in your cradle they covered you, and became part of your skin, and shielded you with their magic. Right. Seona added that to the story to explain why they were all over your skin and face.”

The more details she added to the drawing, the more she wanted to paint the illustration. She knew she didn’t need to do it, but she had her watercolors. She also sensed it would help her remember the story if she repeated everything she’d done the first time she’d worked on the book.

She took out the sealed bottle of water she always carried in her supply bag, and set up her travel palette with its little brush bowl. Dampening the paint pans, she selected which brushes she wanted and removed the sketch from her book before taping it down to the table’s wooden top.

As Charlotte began to paint, the room around her faded to a background blue, and the distant sounds coming from outside muted. With a brush in her hand all her senses focused on the art; the floating dreaminess of working with watercolors creating a new world from the endless fountain of her imagination. She had often tried to define what happened to her when she painted, but words simply couldn’t do justice to the experience. Nothing in reality compared to what her art made of her.

“You have someone here who looks just like you,” Charlotte told the baby as she delicately tinted the rose blooming over his left eye. “He’s much bigger and older, of course, but you’d like him. I do.”

A small throb in her lip reminded her of how Darach had stalked out of the room after kissing her. He’d apologized, but he’d been just as angry as she had. She’d never had a sweeter, hotter first kiss with any man, and she wanted more. At the same time she wanted to throw a tantrum and call him every bad name she could think of.

He said he can’t lie. Why can’t he tell me the truth?

The clamber of heavy steps approaching on the stairs outside made Charlotte stop working and set aside her brush. A moment later Darach and a very tall, dark-haired man burst into the room. Both appeared sweaty and grim.

“You’re well, my lady?” the chieftain asked, looking everywhere but at her.

“Of course, I am.” She glanced at the other man, who had dark eyes that seemed to look right through her, and saw how he was staring at her hand. She put down the pair of scissors that she hadn’t realized she’d grabbed. “Is something wrong?”

Darach nudged his companion.

“An arrow went astray in the lists, Mistress Walsh. We wish only to assure the stronghold’s safe.” The dark-eyed man bowed before he turned to the chieftain and murmured, “I’ll search the rest of the tower.”

After he left, Charlotte watched Darach close the door and lean back against it, his face turned away from her. When he regarded her again he gave her a slightly sheepish smile. If he apologized again for kissing her, she thought, she really would lose her temper. Suddenly she realized why the dark-eyed man had answered her question instead of the chieftain––so Darach wouldn’t have to.

I wonder how many ways you use to lie without actually lying.

“You don’t have to stay here with me.” She started cleaning up her supplies. “You can go and help your friend.”

“He’s Taveon, our war master. I shall introduce you when we’ve a moment.” He came to the table and looked at the half-finished illustration. “’Tis beautiful work you do. I’ve never seen such paints as you use.”

“They’re called watercolors. They’re one of the oldest types of paint, but the sort I use won’t be popular for another century or two.” Since the illustration had already dried she removed it from the table top and placed it in her sketchbook. “Why did you run up here like that?”

“We reckon the arrow, ’twas shot by an intruder as a distraction. I wished only to assure you safe.” He grimaced. “I’ll prepare a work room for you in the garrison. ’Tis safer.”

He meant safer for him, Charlotte thought. He’d never kiss her in front of his men.

“That’s unnecessary,” she assured him. “This afternoon I’ll be moving into the guest room that Emery used when she first came here. It’s just down the hall from her and the laird. I’m sure I can ask for a table and paint there.”