daresay she was,” Finn replied, “but she’s older, and I think she’s learned to hide her feelings. Keldra’s only a girl and a servant. She can’t count on her rank to protect her, the way a lady can.”
Unfortunately, from what he knew about Wimarc, rank wouldn’t necessarily protect Lady Elizabeth, either.
“Why do you suppose Wimarc sent his men for her?”
“Politics. She’s allied by marriage to men loyal to the king, and Wimarc is not. He probably hopes to use her against them.” He slid Garreth a glance. “Sometimes being a noblewoman has its shortcomings.”
“All right, so we’ve got to take them to the convent—but I hope that stupid girl doesn’t keep sniveling tomorrow. It’s enough to set my teeth on edge.”
“She’s not stupid, she’s frightened,” Finn explained again. “And you should rest. We’ve a long way to walk tomorrow, and the sooner we can get to the convent, the sooner we can go back and get Ryder.”
Garreth nodded and after a moment’s hesitation, he quietly asked, “You think he’s still alive then?”
“I have to,” Finn replied as he reached for another stick.
Or it would be his fault his half brother was dead.
THE NEXT MORNING, Lizette put her hands on the small of her back and arched to relieve the ache as she followed the silent Irishman along the narrow path that had probably been made by deer or some other creature through the wood of alder, beech, oak and chestnut. Finn had a leather pouch containing food and a few meagre articles of clothes slung over his back, and he seemed to have a knack for finding such paths.
Garreth was just as quiet and, mercifully, Keldra wasn’t crying as they both struggled to keep up with the Irishman’s brisk pace.
Was he really taking them to a convent? They could be anywhere as they marched through trees and the small valleys made by streams and brooks.
How could she trust this man? How could she have any faith in anything he said, or be sure he would help them? He was a thief, outside the law, perhaps even a murderer … yet he’d been true to his word and not touched her, or Keldra. She’d even been able to sleep a little, dozing off, then waking with a start to find him still sitting by the fire.
Most of the time he’d been motionless, as still as a stone, but every so often he’d lean forward to add more wood or stir the ashes. Then the flames would flare up, and she could see his handsome visage as he stared into the fire as if trying to foretell the future. Or maybe he’d merely been trying to stay awake.
At dawn he’d risen and told her they had to start moving, and so they had, with the thief in front and the youth behind.
Now, her feet felt as heavy as millstones, and her stomach growled with hunger. Every impulse urged her to ask the Irishman to stop and let them rest and eat whatever he had in that leather pouch he carried. But her pride was stronger than both her fatigue and her hunger, so instead, she quickened her pace until she was near enough to talk to him.
Since she didn’t want to anger him, she started with something relatively unimportant. “Is Garreth your son?”
The Irishman checked his steps. “Jaysus, no.”
He started forward again, pushing a low branch out of their way, and slid her an aggrieved look. “I’m not that old.”
“I thought perhaps he was because he so obviously admires you,” she replied, worried she’d offended him as she likewise moved the branch back, not above a little flattery if it would encourage him to talk.
“If he admires me, it’s because I treat him decently. Garreth was born in the gutter, my lady, same as me, so being treated with respect’s a rare thing.”
Could this Irishman who passed for a nobleman really be of such humble origin? “Are you truly of low birth? You sounded exactly like a courtier.”
“Because I took the time and trouble to learn.”
“Why?” she blurted, her curiosity overcoming her desire to be subtle.
“Why else but to make thieving easier? If you can talk like a noble, you can get yourself invited into a hall or manor with no trouble at all.”
She realized she’d been hoping he wasn’t really an outlaw—a hope now dashed.
He laughed with sarcastic mockery. “Ruined your little fantasy, have I? Want to think me some bold, brave fellow who’s only fallen on hard times temporarily? Well, I’m not. I’ve been thieving since boyhood, because it was that, or die of cold or starvation.”
His expression changed to one of aggravating condescension. “I don’t expect you’d know much about suffering.”
“Perhaps not in the way you mean,” she replied, her temper flaring, “but it wasn’t easy living with a father who drank too much, cursed you for being born a girl and sometimes used his fists when he was angry, which he often was.”
The Irishman’s brown eyes darted to her face. “On you?”
“No, not me. My poor mother and sometimes Adelaide when she tried to protect us. But we could never be sure he wouldn’t hit us, too, Gillian and me. I was always afraid when my father was at home. I confess I was relieved when he died last year, even though that means the king now has the right to decide my fate. At least John doesn’t live at Averette.”
“I was glad when my mother died, too,” he quietly replied. “She made my life a living hell during her last years.”
Surprised by that revelation, Lizette wasn’t as careful as she should have been and tripped over her muddy hem. He immediately reached out to steady her. Taken aback, she tried to ignore his touch, and the strength apparent even in that simple act, and pulled away the moment she was steady on her feet.
“I didn’t have any motive other than to keep you from falling flat on your face,” the Irishman coolly observed, “so I hope you’re not thinking of killing me for daring to touch you.”
Was he trying to be funny? “Not now,” she tartly replied. “Garreth called you Finn yesterday. Is that your real name?”
The man’s frown deepened as he stepped over a rock that she had to walk around. “Aye. It’s short for Fingal.”
“So you’re really from Ireland?”
“My mother was.”
The mother who had made his life a hell. “Did she teach you to speak like a courtier?”
“God, no—and that’s all you need to know about me or my mother, my lady.”
There could be no mistaking the finality of his tone.
“Tell me about this Lord Wimarc,” she said, starting to pant as the path went uphill. “I’ve never even heard his name.”
The way was muddy and slick, the ground damp and covered with dead leaves, and she had to keep her eyes on the ground so she wouldn’t fall.
