Page 5

His expression tightened. “I will throw him out.”

“No, don’t.” I scanned the room. Despite the nasty impression I had gotten from the stranger, the rest of the crowd felt relatively benign for a festival crowd. “Don’t disrupt the others. One rude patron isn’t worth the bother.”

“He kicked you.”

“Nudged more like,” I corrected him as I attended to a stubborn bit of dried stew.

When I dared to glance in his direction again, he had returned to his usual position, the chair in the corner. He still glowered in the direction of the stranger, but his intensity had decreased to closer to his normal luminosity when I looked at him out of the corner of my eye.

Chapter Two

Kent

Rue attracted trouble.

From elderly farmers who cornered her to pour their stories in her ear to the village drunk who tottered in at lunch to mutter his woes to her over his roast chicken and mashed turnips, she treated them all the same. To each she gave a patient ear and soft, sympathetic smiles.

Misha left them to Rue without comment or complaint because neither the drunk nor the farmer was interested in complimenting her. Also, they had no extra coin for her to earn with her smiles.

As the midday rush on festival day petered away to a handful of scattered diners lingering over their cider. Misha announced she was taking a break and removed her apron with a decided flair as she headed through the door to the kitchen. “You can take care of any new arrivals until I return,” she informed Rue with a toss of blonde hair, as though she were the proprietor and not merely a serving girl.

Not even a quarter hour later, a dozen young men burst into the room, a breeze at their back. Fresh-turned soil scent came off them despite each wearing well-made, clean clothes.

“They serve the best cottage pie in the region, and their cider is delicious!” the local of the group declared as the men crowded through the door.

“This is a dreary place,” the tallest of the bunch commented, his narrowed gaze taking in the room. A handsome fellow in a brutish way, he looked familiar.

“Looks can be deceiving,” commented a slender lad with a narrow face and a hungry look about him. “It only matters what the food tastes like.”

“Over this way!” A redheaded lad, who appeared to be the youngest of the lot, motioned toward the long tables.

“Nay.” The brutishly handsome man surveyed the room and then indicated the tables in the center. “We will sit there. Push the tables together, lads!”

Three of the other young men rushed to comply, and with much scraping and talking. The group settled around their makeshift setup, overflowing about the two tables. Two of the group didn’t bother trying to join the others and settled at an adjacent table without a word.

“I will be right with you,” Rue called from the back where she was cleaning the spoons and knives used in the last meal rush.

“How about now?” The leader of the group leaned back in his chair, balancing on the back legs, and snapped his fingers at Rue. “We are hungry.” Then he turned his attention back to his companions, who were discussing the armorer’s stall at the festival.

Rue finished wiping the spoons in her hands and replaced them in their storage box, by all appearances ignoring the rude demand.

Glancing her way, the redhead of the group grinned before turning back to his companions. He said something I didn’t catch, and the entire group erupted with gales of laughter. By the looks directed at Rue, it appeared the joke had been about her.

Rue lifted her head and glanced toward my corner. When I met her gaze, she visibly relaxed. Then, straightening her shoulders, she turned and approached the riotous bunch.

“Welcome to the Hart and Hare. Our menu today includes cottage pie, roast chicken, or pork with peas and turnip mash. Everything comes with rolls baked fresh this morning. What may I fetch for you?”

“A dozen cottage pies,” the local man ordered. “Cider acceptable to everyone?” he asked.

A chorus of assent passed through the group before the conversation about the weapon vendor resumed. Only the tallest male watched Rue as she returned to the kitchen with the order.

“She is a mousy thing,” he commented to the man next to him.

“Not worth your trouble, Yurtin.”

Yurtin watched the kitchen door with a lazy smile. “Ah, but the mousy ones are the most interesting. They are so desperate for attention that they will do anything for the slightest bit of affection.”

“Do leave Rue alone,” begged the local man. “She is a good sport, but quiet. Mistress Misha would be much more entertaining company.”