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She stared at the door. “Your meaning?”
“To what end would we invite the retribution of a man such as Aodh Mac Con? For what reason risk his fury?”
“Why—”
“What ever happened to ‘serve two masters’?” His words were sharp, almost a reproach.
She gaped at the door, unable to form a sensible reply, but was saved the trouble when Walter hissed, “Hush.”
Low and gritty, boot steps sounded faintly on the stairs. Then, Aodh’s voice, low and rumbling and unmistakable, came rolling up.
Another male voice joined in, not Walter’s, and then Walter did say something; two of the three voices drifted away, one fussing as it went, and a single set of boots came toward the tower door.
Chapter Sixteen
SHE BACKED UP AS Aodh entered the room, a bundle of something in his arms. He kicked the door shut behind him.
“I do not like your steward,” he said curtly.
“Lock him up,” she retorted, not inclined to be friendly.
“I just did.” He dropped the dark bundle onto the bed. It looked red, a rich wine color. Silken.
He crossed the room, relighting oil lamps on the walls as he went, and setting a burning ember to ignite the wicks of the multitude of rush lights set around the room. In the growing illumination, the hard, muscular power of him was revealed. She drank in the sight of him almost despairingly.
Why must this Irish rebel be so precisely the manifestation of her secret desires?
A moment later, servants appeared, scurrying in wordlessly with trays and a few small chests, setting them on the floor, then hurrying out again while Aodh crossed the room, unpinning the heavy, fur-lined cloak slung over his shoulders as he went. He dropped it onto the bed, next to the silken bundle.
Midnight blue shadows stretched across the room as he knelt before the hearth, struck a flintstone into the kindling, and leaned forward to blow gently on the
tiny sticks.
A few sparks glinted in the blackened maw of the hearth, then, small and orange-bright, flames began spearing up.
“Stop doing this,” he said quietly.
“Doing what?”
“Sitting in the cold.”
“I am not cold.”
He swiveled his head around. “Then why is your nose red again?”
She chose not to reply. It was, in fact, cold. She simply had not noticed.
The fire began to snap and crackle as more flames caught. Soon, a miniature inferno was burning in the stony firebox. The flickering flames lit his face as he stared into it, then he said quietly, “I have some questions for you.”
And so it began.
“Tell me of the defenses.”
“No.”
He reached for a few larger pieces of wood and set them carefully atop. “Then I shall tell you. The west wall is in disrepair. The southern tower was undermined some time ago.”
She shrugged faintly.
