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Working with the man was one thing. Talking relationships with him very much another.
“I appreciate what you—”
“Do you want my advice?”
He’d just been about to say that he did not, and Kenton’s laugh confirmed the Englishman knew it. Something told Torr he was about to get it anyway.
“Turn her.”
His hand froze midway to his mouth.
“What did you just say?”
“Turn her, Torr. There’s no good reason not to, especially if you’re going to mope around—”
“I don’t mope.” He took a deep sip of his drink, grateful Garrett wasn’t with them to laugh at his blatant lie. All week, he’d been doing just that—moping about like some lovesick schoolboy.
She’d come into his life and lit a fire under his ass. And just like that, it had been extinguished. He was madly, deeply in love with Charlotte Harris. That would never be extinguished.
“Whatever you say.”
“I must say, this is strange advice from the man who refuses to turn his fiancée.”
“I don’t think so, Derrickson. We weren’t talking about me.”
“It’s a fair observation.”
“And a completely different situation. As yet we’ve found no evidence a Cheld can be turned. But Charlotte is human. And humans can be turned quite safely.”
Logically, he knew that. But his concerns were not logical, and he knew it.
“But it’s not her turning you truly fear, is it?”
His hand tightened around his tumbler.
“Do you remember your first tournament?” Kenton asked.
Humoring him, for the sake of their tentative truce, Torr thought back to the very first time he’d accompanied his father and brothers to the Tournament of the North. The weeklong event had been intended to bring the border lords together, English and Scottish fighting in a controlled environment, once a year. Eventually, it had grown large enough to be attended by both kings.
Participation in that particular tournament was something he’d dreamed of from the day he’d been old enough to wield a real sword.
“Hard to forget the first time you’re knocked on your ass by your enemy,” he said.
After watching both of his brothers advance to the second round of jousting, Torr had climbed his mount, staring straight ahead, terrified as hell. He could still remember the destrier’s heavy breathing under him and his brother’s squire shouting last-minute commands. He’d drawn the most skilled jouster on the field, but as his brother had reminded him, meeting Drake Morley in a contest of skill could easily be a precursor to facing him on the field of battle. And there, contestants weren’t matched by age or size. It would be a fight to the death, and the whole purpose of the tournament was to hone the skills they would need when it mattered.
Though only one year his senior, Drake had been knighted at a young age and had attended three tournaments to his one. And he’d knocked Torr flat on his back in one pass.
“You honed another skill instead,” Kenton said. “It didn’t take long for tales of ‘the Hunter’ to make their way across the border. A tracker like none other, a man who could find anything, or anyone. Which came in handy from time to time, if the rumors were true. Like the English reivers who stole old MacDuff’s cows.”
“And his daughter.”
“Nasty business, that. But you recovered both without starting a war.”
“I assume you have a point, Morley?”
Instead of taking offense at his tone, Kenton chuckled. “And here I thought your brother stubborn.”
He motioned for the man to continue.
