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Lord Rardove stood talking with his men at the far end of the dais. Even facing away, he was an imposing figure. Tall and wide-shouldered, he wore a midnight blue shirt and chausses that burned a dark background against his blood red tunic: the colors of Rardove. One hand went to the sword belted at his waist, toying idly with the hilt. Rardove might be nearing fifty, but any gray hairs were undetectable amidst the blond. He looked every inch the warrior lord.
She swallowed a ball of fear. Perhaps it was the Irish warriors shackled on the floor in front of the dais that made him puff out his chest and strut so. Please, God, let it not be for her.
Her nerve liquefied in her gut at the exact moment Rardove turned to her.
“Mistress Senna,” was all he said, and his gaze held hers for half a moment, in a perfectly civil pause. But to Senna, it felt as if he were ripping apart her gown, assessing her like a mount, deciding if she was worth the cost.
Then a smile cracked the surface of his handsome face, and it was as if a window had splintered. He went into motion, crossing the dais.
“My deepest apologies I could not greet you myself earlier,” he said, his voice rich and low with chivalrous smoothness. He took her fingertips. “I shall have to make it up to you.”
She fought the crazed urge to slip her hand free and run screaming from the room. “There is no need, my lord,” she murmured.
“I hope you have been made comfortable.” He released her fingers. “Your trip was pleasant?”
“Quite.” She tried to smile back. “The mists are thick.”
He nodded. “Ireland.” He spread out his hands, palms up. The smallest smudge marred his broad hands. It was dark red. Like dried blood. “Ireland holds many things behind a veil.”
Her smile became more genuine. If he had the sensitivity to speak suchly, mayhap ’twas not all bad. Mayhap the Irishry were rebels, as Pentony said, unlawfully defying their overlord. Mayhap she could engage in business with this man without too much trouble—
“I hear you do not wish to see the mollusks.”
Her smile faltered. “Nay, my lord. ’Tis just, I do not know that business.”
“Is it not yours?”
Her smile collapsed entirely. “No, my lord.”
Rardove said nothing.
“I deal in wool.”
“Oh, I am interested in your wool, Senna. Quite. Exceedingly.”
No sense of relief followed these softly spoken words. Quite the opposite: a shiver walked down her spine. So, he was a harrier, was he? One who preyed on smaller creatures. She had had ample experience with such men. Squaring her shoulders, she said firmly, “Well good, my lord. Just so we understand, then. I deal in wool. Not dyes.”
“That is too bad, Senna. For you.”
“My lord?”
“I need a dye-witch.”
Chapter 4
The shiver became a cold chill down Senna’s spine. ‘Dye-witch,’ people had said for a thousand years, as a way to insult. Or, depending on the whims of the local parish or lord, as a way to get a person killed. But, for those who knew such things, ‘dye-witch’ was a term of respect bordering on awe.
Senna so desperately wished she was not one of the ones who ‘knew such things.’
“Oh, dear, my lord,” she said briskly, “I believe there has been a misunderstanding. I am here about the wool.” She extended the account ledger in her arm.
His gaze lowered briefly, then came back up. “There is no misunderstanding, Mistress de Valery. I have the Wishmé mollusks. I need the dye they create.”
“Oh, my lord, the Wishmés are legend. Only legends.” Ones she recalled her mother telling her by firelight. “Nothing about them is true—”
“They are real, Senna. Your mother’s treatise clearly outlines that.”
She practically recoiled. “My mother’s treatise?”
