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He may have lost everything, but he’d used the woodworking skills his father had taught him and built a bed. Then he built a life—albeit a criminal one—and it served.
But she, of noble birth and endless coin, birthed of the men who'd stolen his home, Cassia d'Argent knew nothing of being washed away, homeless and hungry.
She'd never had to grab hold of any water-soaked log she could find ere she drowned.
She'd never built a fire or a bed. She'd never built a life.
She'd had all things gifted to her, and just now, she was looking at his cot as if it was lower than dirt.
Máel cared for nothing. Care did not inhabit his heart or burden his thoughts. But the way she looked at his cot, it generated some emotion, and he did not want it.
He strode past her without a glance.
Not without awareness, though, for how could he not be aware of the brightest thing in his tent. The brightest thing that had moved through his life these past twenty odd years.
Everything about her flashed and swirled and exploded with color. Light. Scent. Rosewater, he presumed, for it reminded him of summer paths laden with flowers. Paths he’d not walked on for decades now. Thanks to men like her father.
This time, one of them would pay.
The emptiness eddied again.
“What is this?” she demanded, flipping up the edge of the furs on his cot derisively. “And how long has it been dead?”
Cassia had stood her ground when he walked past, but now, when he looked over his shoulder at her, as he pinned those impossibly blue eyes to hers, she took an involuntary step backward.
Blue and cold. A winter's world in those eyes.
“’Tis my bed,” he said, then added, “Yours, tonight. I killed it this morning.”
She whirled to him. “You cannot think we would share a bed!”
“Difficult though it may be to believe, Cassia, arrogant ladies of privilege do not appeal to me.” It was a derisive drawl, an arrogant drawl, a self-satisfied, evil drawl.
“I?” Her voice arched high. “Arrogant? I, the arrogant one?” She waved her hand at the cot. “You are above your station when—”
He moved abruptly, slashing her words to silence.
Reaching down, he flipped up the edge of the furs on the bed, revealing a wood-framed cot with a thick feather mattress atop. “You.” He pointed to the floor. “Me.”
She sniffed and poked the cot with a forefinger. It was piled high with soft blankets. It looked like luxury.
“It will suffice,” she deigned.
He straightened. “Will there be anything else, princess?”
“My freedom, if you please.”
A smile barely touched his mouth. “The sooner the better for us all. All we're waiting on now is your father to be faithful. Tell me, how long do you think that will take?”
She thrust up her chin and turned her back on him.
Pride and disdain fueled the move, as well as a good measure of ignorance, for she could not in all honesty answer his question. But surely...surely her father would not break faith on this matter. Surely he would come for her, his only daughter.
Surely.
It all depended on what this knave wanted. His desires seemed to be a tricky thing. Unpredictable. Dangerous.
It would be wisest to watch and do nothing to arouse his attention. A simple enough thing, as he seemed utterly disinterested in her. He sat down on a low stool beside a single, small table and began whittling.
