“Ye have gates around yer home and fourteen guards?” he asked, looking a little green. When he spoke, she could tell he was holding his breath. What was the matter with him. “How was yer mother killed, lass?”
She wanted to tell him, but not today. She wanted the day to stay bright and not dreary. “Let us not talk about that,” she insisted on a slight breath.
Tristan leaned into her and let his breath comfort her.
She thought about her life. After losing her mother and Neill just days apart, she thought she would go mad with loneliness and die of boredom.
She loved her father. She loved him more than anyone else in world. He overprotected her because he loved her. She understood why. But she was growing old and she had seen nothing, been nowhere. She wanted to live. To have adventure.
She wanted adventure with Tristan.
“Tristan?” she asked softly and played with a thread in her skirt.
“Aye, lass?”
“When might you be going back home?”
“I dinna know. Mayhap when I am done here.”
She nodded. Would he consider taking her—just for a month or two? Was she bold enough to ask?
“What do you miss the most about being there?” she asked instead.
He thought about it for a moment, then, “My Uncle Torin’s stories,” he answered with a soft laugh, as if he were surprised at his reply. “My father and his two brothers built our home. ’Tis more like a walled in village. My cousins and I all grew up together. Our families each had our own manor house but at night we would gather in the great hall to eat and, later, to listen to my uncle’s stories of a legendary king called Arthur and his restin’ place on the magical isle of Avalon. I was always last to bed.”
She smiled. So, the ruthless killer liked the fanciful.
“I read many things, but I have never heard of this king.”
“I will tell ye of him,” he promised softly.
Oh, why did he have to be a killer?
“Tristan.” She slipped her stockinged feet between his, “What if you did not kill Walters, the governor?”
“I’m goin’ to kill him, Rose. I have already been paid. My reputation would be ruined.”
“Is your reputation more important than your soul?”
“Are ye worried aboot my soul, lass?”
“Aye, I want you to go to heaven. I will be there and I hate the thought that you will not.”
Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light enough to see that he smiled indulgently at her. She was happy that he seemed to smile more today than he had yesterday. At least he did when he was alone with her. He’d scowled all through supper, sending warning glares to every man who dared to look at her.
She smiled and yawned. She loved the fathomless pitch and the melodious burr of his heritage. Oh, she wanted to hear him speak all night, for the rest of her life. But she was sleepy. She wasn’t sure if she’d even been aware of him shifting to his back and pulling her close under his arm.
She rested her head on his chest and heard his heartbeat and fell asleep while he told her of a knight called Sir Gawain, King Arthur’s nephew, who favored courtliness and love over martial valor. Rose liked this Sir Gawain and wanted to hear more about him…tomorrow.
She fell asleep in his arms and didn’t dream at all.
The morning came soon and found Rose alone in bed. She opened her eyes and looked up just as the door opened and Tristan took a tray from the innkeeper and stepped around him into the room. The innkeeper tried to look around Tristian’s body, but was unable and finally startled at the door being slammed in his face.
“Good morning,” she said, smiling at Tristan as he approached the bed with a tray of food.
“Mornin’,” he brooded then glared at the door. “I dinna know where I’m findin’ the patience not to punch the innkeeper’s teeth oot.”
Rose laughed softly into her hand and then smiled at him and the food when he turned his emerald gaze on her.
“When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see that you had left me.”
“I was just ootside the door the entire time. I called to the innkeeper and he came to me.”
Was he beginning to care for her, or was his concern due only to the fact that he’d saved her so he felt responsible for her? She would find out today when she asked him if he would take her home when he was done in Dumfries. Not to her home, but to his.
She would write to her father, telling him what had happened and that she was going to travel a bit with Tristan. “What is your family name?” she asked, realizing she didn’t know.
“MacPherson.”
“Oh, ’tis a bonnie name.”
He gave her a black look. “Bonnie?”
“Aye. MacPherson,” she practiced, repeating it. “It sounds pretty coming out.”
“Eat.”
Breakfast was poached eggs and salmon with black bread and freshly churned butter and honey. She didn’t eat too much and was finished before him.
She watched him chew his bread while she dressed in her kirtle. It was one piece, slightly fitted, with long sleeves that covered her knuckles. It had been yellow. Now it was stained with dirt and sweat, and God knew what else. How could Tristan even look at her? Her hair hadn’t been cleaned in a sennight. She needed a bath. She didn’t want to ask him for yet another thing, and one he would have to pay for if she had a bath here.
“Rose,” he said, taking a swig of his mead. “Why d’ye look sad?”
She realized she was frowning and stopped. “My gown is filthy.” She swallowed the rest.
His gaze roved over her long enough to make her feel even more aware of her disgusting appearance.
“Ye look fine.” He blinked his gaze away and stood up. “Are ye ready to go?”
She nodded and hurried into her shoes. She grabbed her mantle, which was
