He had formed an opinion of her somehow. And perhaps it wasn’t a good one.
She followed him to the door, where he paused, turning to face her. “Good night, Beryl. I’m looking forward to our lessons tomorrow.”
Iris knew she should smile at him, ease his suspicions, whatever they were. But despite the fact that she seemed to have done nothing but smile since he’d come into her chamber, looking up into his face now, she could not. Something in his eyes made a sound in her head like the loud hush of wind over waves, surface peace hiding dangerous depths below. Not the danger of Vaughn Hargrave, where the end was painful and sudden, but a slow, sinking descent that meant holding your breath for years and years and years.
Did she see the danger Padraig Boyd faced reflected in his eyes, or was it the potential danger of the man himself?
“Good night, Master Boyd.”
Satin swirled around her ankles after she had closed and bolted the door, meowing as if his best friend had just abandoned him.
“Your behavior tonight is why some people kick cats,” she lectured.
Chapter 9
“Nae more!” Padraig moaned as he collapsed onto his back on his bed. “I canna do it again.”
“Master Boyd, you’re being dramatic,” Beryl accused. “I’m doing most of the work. Surely it’s not your legs that are tired.”
“It’s me brains,” he complained staring at the gathered fabric over his bed. “If it’s this, make a bow; but if this, just a nod. The lady goes first, except when you should. Doona touch her, but offer your arm. Never offer your hand, except when so; but nae if the moon is full and you’ve just eaten tripe. And doona pick your nose, ever, apparently.”
He heard her sniffle of laughter and grinned, pushing himself up onto his elbows to have the pleasure of her face relaxed in a smile.
“Fine, we’ll move on. Come on,” she cajoled, stepping to the bed and offering her hands. She waggled her fingers. “Come on—up with you.” She pulled him up and then released him. “Now. Dancing.”
Padraig howled, turned on his heel, and collapsed back to the bed, facedown this time.
“Master Boyd—” Beryl began.
His voice was muffled by the mattress. “Nae! I willna do it, and you canna make me.” He knew he was being childish and he didn’t care.
“There will be dancing at the feasts. Perhaps you shall notice a lady you care to become acquainted with. As you now know, there are few proper ways a gentleman may interact with a lady unfamiliar to him.”
Padraig stayed where he was, the only thoughts going through his mind that he would want to dance with no one save Beryl, and as she would not be in attendance on him at the feasts, he didn’t care to go at all. It seemed a waste of time when he could be practicing his sword play with Ulric and Lucan, or spending time with the lovely maid who had been his near-constant companion, when she was not indulging the Lady Hargrave.
“I’m hungry,” he spoke into the mattress again, his voice comically muffled. But it gave him an idea, and so he sat up.
“Let’s take nuncheon out of doors.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Nuncheon,” Padraig repeated, warming to the idea as he gained his feet. “You ken, where one takes food and drink at midday. Nae reason we couldna place a bite in a basket to eat out of doors.”
She blinked at him.
“Do ye nae ken nuncheon, lass?”
“Yes, of course I know what nuncheon is, Master Boyd,” she scolded. “But nuncheon will not move you any farther along in your studies.”
This time it was he who moved toward her and took up her hands, and he knew it unnerved her by the way she blushed and dropped her eyes.
“Please?” he cajoled. “Have a meal with me under the sky, Beryl. I’ve not been imprisoned inside walls for such a length in all my life—nearly a month, and most o’ that’s been rain. Today, the sun will shine on us.”
She gave him a sideways look.
“Only an hour,” he promised. “And then if you wish, I’ll practice stepping on your toes all afternoon.”
“It can’t be all afternoon,” Beryl warned. “I’m to help Lady Hargrave dress, and I do believe Marta and Rynn have your costumes ready for their final fitting as well. Perhaps you should take Searrach.”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “I doona wish to take Searrach.” He began walking backward, pulling her toward the door. “Come with me. Find Satan—he should have a day about as well.”
“It’s Satin.” Her face softened, and Padraig couldn’t drink in enough of her features. He was winning her, he thought.
“Satan,” he whispered.
She sighed. “One hour, Master Boyd.”
“You might also call me Padraig.”
“Don’t press your good fortune.”
Padraig threw back his head and barked with laughter before grinning down at her and whispering conspiratorially, “To the kitchens!”
* * * *
In a quarter hour Padraig was leading Beryl down the slippery slope of the hill toward the narrow brook valley where he’d first held a sword in his hand. She’d tried to maintain what he was sure was a decorous distance from him, but the rain had made the ground soggy, and the dead grass gave through easily to mud beneath their feet, causing Beryl to grab for him out of instinct the first time her slippers slid through the wet, tangled mass. Padraig transferred the basket and oiled skin to his other hand and took firm hold of her slight biceps while Satin slinked slowly behind them.
The brook was high and swift with the late autumn rains, and Padraig spread the oilskin on a raised mound overlooking a melodic trill of water near a pair of boulders while Beryl laid the meal. The breeze played with the tendrils of hair that escaped from the dark twist around her head, like a crown or a halo, Padraig thought, and the hazy
