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Five years had passed since he’d begun using her given name. Cristane remembered the very day he’d asked for her permission, not long after she’d been appointed Lady Cait’s maid. She’d been a young lass of eighteen, and the request had made her heart beat as fast as one of the rabbits’ they’d played with as children.
Both she and Rory, spending more time in the stables than most, had an affinity for animals. Rabbits, chickens, and of course the foals when they were lucky enough to have new ones . . . they’d spent many hours together caring for every animal they could find.
During one such meeting, though occurring less and less over the years, Rory had appeared so thoughtful Cristane had become nervous. Finally, when he had asked permission to use her given name, she’d been relieved, and happy of course, as that honor was typically reserved for family members.
“Come, look.”
She should be accustomed to him. To his penetrating stare. To the boyish charm he exuded despite his size. To the confidence that came from being a chief’s son. Given another lifetime of serving Bradon Moor, however, she knew she’d likely never become accustomed to it. Or to the way her heart plummeted every time he looked at her. He could never be anything more to her than what he was—her better, aye, but also her friend.
“Is she improving?” Cristane guessed.
Turning the corner, she saw her guess had been correct. The brown and white Spanish jennet lay still, but she seemed to be breathing much easier. Putting her hand on the foal’s flank, she watched Rory as he waited for her assessment.
“Aye, she is,” she finally said with a soft smile.
He grinned back at her.
Cristane hated when he did that. Unfortunately, he did it often. Even more so when he was trying to impress his brother. Or convince him that he had not a care in the world. Which of course she knew was untrue.
Looking away, hating herself more with each passing moment, Cristane concentrated on the foal.
“Have you named her yet?” she asked.
“Nay. With Cait coming soon, I thought to let her have the honor.”
Her head whipped up. “Have you word from her, then?”
Rory crossed his arms, leaning back against the wooden stall. “Are you so anxious to leave Bradon Moor?”
If only he knew.
“Just to see my lady. I love it here, of course. You’ve given me everything I could ask for. I would never wish to leave,” she rambled.
Realizing he was teasing her, something else he did easily and often, Cristane made a face no servant should use around their master. “You are a cruel one, my lord.”
“And you are too easily riled.”
She knew it well, but there was no denying the effect he had on her.
Pushing against the wall, Rory bent down, resting his hand much too close to her own. His very presence rattled her, as it had more and more these past years. He smelled as he always did, a combination of fresh air, hay, and . . . Rory.
“I’m pleased with her progress from yesterday,” he said.
And Cristane agreed. “The danger has passed, I believe.”
She stood, Amye’s words suddenly coming back to her.
Rory.
He was the first man she’d seen today, on this Feast of St. Valentine.
“What is it?”
His look of concern was for the foal, not for her, as if she’d noticed something he’d missed. Even so, the steadiness of his gaze, the seriousness he so rarely displayed to others . . . it moved her in ways she could barely admit to herself. She knew the folly of her attraction. Aye, it would be beyond foolish to put any stock in the old stories, even if, in this case, she wished to.
“’Tis nothing.”
“You’ve that look about you, Cristane. The one you inherited from Cait. Or she from you.”
