They parted after several moments, both men breathing hard, and Ulric threw back his head and laughed.
“By God, me thinks we have a soldier in our midst, Sir Lucan.”
Iris found her heart was beating very fast and she tried to calm herself with a long breath through her nose. But Padraig Boyd chose that moment to look over at her and his grin took her breath once more. She caught her lip between her teeth.
“Good,” Lucan called out, breaking the spell, but Iris was infinitely glad. He walked toward the two men. “Very good, actually. You have a natural ability, Master Boyd.”
“We’re nae finished, are we?” he asked, surprised disappointment coloring his words.
Lucan chuckled as he plucked the wooden sword from Padraig’s hand. “With these, we are.” He handed it to Ulric, who at once returned them to the case and withdrew two metal weapons. “It will do you no favors to become too used to a weapon of such light weight. These are dulled but will still cause injury to the lazy.”
Padraig took the sword in his hand, and Iris watched him heft it appreciatively, the muscles in his forearm flexing in the sunlight.
Iris’s stomach fluttered.
Stop it, ninny, she scolded herself. It’s only a child’s toy.
But when the two men engaged once more, she could not help her gasps of surprise, her little sounds of dismay, as Padraig struggled to hold his own before the seasoned soldier. The sound of steel on steel rang clear in the air, and Iris was rapt by the Scotsman’s efforts.
Ulric cried out and dropped his sword as Padraig’s clipped his bare knuckles. But rather than a curse, a laugh was again on the captain’s lips.
“I’ll know to wear my gauntlets tomorrow, lord,” he said in a voice full of admiration.
Lucan clapped Padraig’s shoulder. “Well done. Next time we should have a boon to pay.”
Padraig looked to her suddenly, his smile still broad and sparkling on his face. “From the lass, perhaps?”
Iris’s breath caught in her chest, but she composed herself. “That is a highly inappropriate suggestion, Master Boyd. Now, if you boys are finished with your sport, Master Boyd must return to the hold for diction.”
She turned away to begin the trek up the hill as the men groaned in sympathetic dismay, but Iris’s cheeks were aflame and her lips were curved in a smile.
* * * *
A hunt has been scheduled. All the nobility within a day’s ride of Darlyrede are being invited. It is a dangerous time when so many strangers are gathered as—
A solid but muffled thud coming from the corridor beyond the door caused Iris to lift the nib of her quill. She froze, listening to what sounded like garbled conversation. Another thud—a door, it must be—and then all was silent. She looked back to the page.
—as there have been several—
Another thud, this one closer. It was a door farther down the corridor, and if the echoing slam was any indication, doors were opening and closing all along her passage.
And drawing closer. A search? Had someone else gone missing?
Iris scrambled her pages together, sending up a little prayer that the ink wouldn’t smear too badly as she shoved them into the portfolio. She scooted from the edge of the bed, causing Satin to blink and regard her disinterestedly for a moment before curling back into himself and closing his eyes. Iris placed the portfolio and bag into the hole in the panel and fastened it into place just as the knock sounded on her door.
She straightened and composed her expression as she rested her hand on the latch. “Who is it?”
“Beryl?”
“Master Boyd?” She slid back the bolt and opened the door a crack. His wide form blocked the corridor beyond him so that she had no idea if he was alone.
He stood there, his chiseled face in the shadows, staring at her, saying nothing for a long moment.
“Master Boyd?” she prompted.
“Is Sir Lucan with you?”
Iris knew her eyes widened. “Why would you ask that?”
“Och.” He gave an awkward, hitching bow. “Good evening, Beryl,” he said solemnly.
Her face softened. He’d thought she’d been questioning his manners.
“Good evening, Master Boyd. No, Sir Lucan is not here. What made you think he would be?”
“I…I doona know where his chamber lies. I assumed it was along this corridor…” He trailed off.
“I believe Sir Lucan is residing in the soldiers’ quarters,” she supplied. “In the bailey. Remember?”
“Oh, aye. That’s right.” He nodded, his handsome face a mask of seriousness. “He’s nae here at all, then.”
“No, he’s not.”
“You’re certain?”
“He’s in the bailey.” She began to push the door closed. “Good night, Master Boyd.”
“Wait,” he said, grasping the edge of the door and moving forward. “Beryl.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes?”
“Could I…could I come in?”
Iris’s eyes widened again. “Master Boyd, that is not at all proper for a gentleman to suggest to a lady.”
“But you’re nae lady,” he rushed, and then at her indignant expression, he realized his faux pas. “What I mean is that I have some questions about—” He glanced down once and then backed up suddenly into the corridor. “What the hell’s that?”
Satin slinked through the crack in the door and into the corridor toward Padraig, his tail stiff in the air, only the tip waving.
“Oh, God, get him,” Iris whispered frantically as she came into the corridor.
Padraig was still backing up. “Get him?”
“Pick him up!” Iris hissed. “Please!”
Padraig stopped his retreat at once and then bent down obediently and reached his hands like two giant baskets held sideways.
Satin likewise
