Page 23 of Wolf's Keep

He stopped in front of her, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Did he really think she’d be stupid enough to run a second time? His eyes told her he hoped she would.

Not his lucky day today.

“You didn’t provide me with any shoes.” Braving speech, she indicated her bare toes peeking out beneath her gown. All chatter ceased, an expectant silence filling the room. The heat in her face intensified. “My feet will get cold.” It took every bit of will she possessed to not take a step back. Didn’t the man understand the concept of personal space?

Oh, he understands it all right, and uses it to great effect.

Smiling down at her, he reached out, raising his hand to her hair. She locked her knees and swallowed hard. With a deft twist of his wrist, he removed the tie of her ponytail and her hair tumbled around her shoulders. Her mouth parted on a sharp intake of breath, but she quickly clamped it shut as his eyes zeroed in on her lips. His nostrils flared, and his hand hovered near her face, but he didn’t touch her again.

“Come, sit.” Withdrawing his hand, he dropped it to his side. “The meal will be soon served and that will warm you.”

“I would like some shoes. Or at least my own back. Please.”

Lust glimmered in his eyes. Had he heard the husky quality of the wordplease? Did he intuit it to mean more than a simple token of politeness? Had she meant it as more? Hell, she wasn’t so sure she hadn’t. Standing this close to him had all her intelligent brain cells malfunctioning. The man should come with a warning label, one of thosecaution hotsigns.

He pulled back from her, his face taut, jaw clenched.

“No.” He moved to take his seat around the other side of the table, amongst his people. “Without shoes, you will not get far.”

She glanced at the servants, their faces turned away, whispering. “You’re keeping me prisoner here?”

Leaning his elbows on the table, he clasped his fingers together, his chin resting on his hands. “I have no intention of locking you away, but I found you on my lands in the middle of the night. It would be remiss of me to give you the opportunity to wander off. We have yet much to discuss.” He indicated the space across from him. “Sit and we can talk. I am curious as to where you would go if you were to leave.”

He watched her, waiting for an answer, and Erin fidgeted. “I don’t know where I’d go,” she finally admitted and caught the hint of a smirk hidden behind his hands. He may not be locking her in a room, but he wasn’t going to let her leave either. She opened her mouth to call him on it, but he’d turned away, deep in conversation with a man next to him. Summarily dismissed, all she could do was take the place at the table he’d indicated.

Anne bustled into the hall followed by a trail of women carrying platters of food and jugs of wine, plonking her formidable behind down on the bench seat next to Erin. “Come, love.” Anne set a goblet before her and filled it with wine. “Time to eat, dear girl. You must be hungry. Do not be shy.”

The heavenly aroma wafting off trays of cooked meat reached her nostrils, and her mouth watered. She eyed large bowls of some sort of vegetable stew and platters of thick cut chunks of dark, crusty bread lathered with butter. Her stomach growled.

Hands reached for food, wine was poured and talk resumed. Erin made herself relax and enjoy the easy camaraderie around the table, listening as conversations flowed, servants mingling with farmers, all seated at the Lord’s table.

Someone handed her a platter of bread, and she grabbed a piece before passing the plate along to the man next to her, a farmer by his clothes. He smiled his thanks, and she smiled back. Except for the disturbing presence of the man across the table from her, this wasn’t so bad. She caught Gaharet’s eye. Deep in conversation with two men on either side of him, he nodded his encouragement at her. Despite herself, she smiled at him.

Following the conversations around her as she ate was difficult, her Old French not practiced enough to keep up. Instead, she watched them, observing their interactions. Most of all, she watched Gaharet through the periphery of her vision, careful not to be caught outright staring. This morning she’d encountered a warrior, an adviser to a ruthless count, master of a keep and a man used to getting his own way with women and with the world. Here, now, across the table from her—deep in conversation with his farmers, his servants—sat an altogether different man.

Affable, relaxed, he listened. He shared bread, poured wine, smiling at a comment here, showing concern over something said there, content to sit amongst them enjoying their company. Not the commanding presence lording it over the table she’d expected. Was it all for her benefit? She didn’t think so. She saw no awkwardness from the servants, no obvious curtailing of words lest someone speak out of place. Everything looked…normal.

“Erin,” said Anne, pulling her from her thoughts, taking care to slow her speech so Erin could understand. “What is it you do with your spare time? Do you sew? Embroider?”

Erin picked up her goblet, sipping wine, mentally running through the list of acceptable pursuits for noble ladies—sewing, embroidery, weaving, horse riding…nothing remotely close to archaeology, digging in the dirt or restoring artifacts. Reading probably wouldn’t make the list either. She did one thing that might fit.

“I like to draw…people, portraits. My mother taught me.” Art was her mother’s way of coping with the end of her relationships. June came alive under the spotlight of a man’s attention. The resulting crash when her lover left her was as equally spectacular. Some days her mother cried, her tears making the paint run. Others she’d slash a pencil across the page in furious strokes. Erin would sit beside her at the kitchen table for hours, never saying a word, watching her mother, patiently waiting for her to remember she was there.

One day, June placed a blank piece of paper in front of her, gave her a pencil and set about teaching her how to draw. Eager to keep her mother’s attention for as long as she could, she listened, she learned and she practiced.

She might have had a different career, studied art instead of archaeology, had Thomas Mathiesen not arrived on the scene. The fallout fromthatrelationship had destroyed everything. Shared moments amongst pencils, chalk, charcoal and paint, moments all the more precious for their brevity, shattered. Her life had changed that day. So had her relationship with her mother.

She brushed away the bitter edge of old memories, meeting Gaharet’s curious gaze across the table. She looked away. Those dark eyes missed nothing.

“We will have to see about getting you some chalks and slate,” said Anne. “Or do you prefer parchment and ink? Gaharet, what do you think? The girl needs something to occupy her while she is here.”

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

She narrowed her eyes at his easy acquiescence. “That’s very generous of you, thank you, but I don’t plan on staying long.”

His mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smirk. “You may find yourself here longer than you anticipated.”

She frowned. Not if she could help it. “We’ll see.” She needed to confront him about the amulet sooner rather than later. He might be a lot more forthcoming with information once he realized how high the stakes were. She resumed eating, returning his smirk with one of her own. His eyes narrowed. He raised an eyebrow at her, his expression wary, but she ignored him. Now was not the time for this discussion. He clearly agreed, for he let it go. For now, she’d concentrate on filling her stomach, listening, observing and learning all that she could.

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