Page 33 of The Herald's Heart
She swiped at her eyes, whipped back around and, shoulders shaking, bowed her head over the chopping block.
He walked up behind her, close enough to feel her distress. She hacked one-handed at a large yellow onion. Her other hand lifted a corner of her apron and wiped at her tears.
He tilted his head forward and swirled that low melody into her ear. Once more my sweet, please do you mind, I’ll give you treats. Her lavender-and-pansy scent speared desire through his body, but he ignored it. He was here to get information. The song was a tool to unsettle her. Seduction was a side benefit and could come later.
The other women tittered.
She paid him no mind, but whacked aimlessly at the onion.
This was not working as he’d planned. He placed his palm on her arm. Her hand jerked. The flat rather than the edge of her blade struck the onion. It skittered from her reach, dropped off the edge of the block, and rolled to the floor.
She reached for the errant vegetable in the same moment as he. The movement caused her bottom to brush against the lower portion of his body. She gasped. He grinned, knowing that all her indifference was forced. She abandoned the onion to his longer reach, and leapt round to face him. He’d wanted her attention, but now her hips were a mere finger’s span from his. She swiped at her eyes, which had begun to tear again. Concern for her distress helped him focus on his immediate aim—get information from her. The knife in one of her fists finished the work of cooling his errant lust. Onion in one fist, Talon raised his hands to shoulder height and stepped back. “I meant no harm, Larkin. Please,” he nodded at the knife, “accept my apologies.”
She stared at the blade, surprised to see it still in her grasp. She raised her eyes to his. He returned her gaze, carefully assessing her mood. Her stare faltered, and she looked past him toward the kitchen fire.
A child’s shrill cry broke the silence.
“Nay,” she shouted and leapt past Talon. The knife clattered, forgotten, to the ground.
“What?” He turned as she sped past him.
There before the blaze, stood Aedwin the laundress’s son, flames licking up his legs.
The kitchen erupted in chaos.
Larkin tore the apron from her body and tossed it to the ground. She knocked the child from his feet onto the apron and bundled the heavy material around the boy’s legs, beating at any flames that tried to escape. She continued swatting at the child’s small form until Talon grabbed a bucket of water and drenched both her and the boy.
The child wailed. Coughing, she swept him up and coddled him to her chest. “There, there,” she soothed between spasms. “’Twill be all right. Your mother will be here soon. Hush now, all will be well.” She crooned a Norman tune Talon recalled from his childhood. A nurse, born and raised in Normandy, had sung him to sleep. Larkin sounded very like that nurse. Too much so for any English peasant, no matter how well educated.
The boy’s wails faded to whimpers, and the laundress rushed into the room, crying for her Aedwin. Larkin passed the boy to the other woman.
Talon helped Larkin to her feet. He anchored her wrists in one firm grip and began a thorough examination of her hands.
She squirmed in his grasp, twisting to speak with the boy’s mother. “He is hurt. I don’t know how badly.”
“Thank you, thank you, Larkin. How can I ever repay you?”
“’Tis no need. I will go for the abbess this instant.”
“Nay,” Talon ground out.
“But the child—”
“The child will be cared for, but not by you. Alice, have Cleve send a rider to the abbey with all speed. After Mother Clement has tended the boy, ask her to attend me in the solar.”
“Aye.” The cook bustled from the room.
Larkin stiffened. “I understand you feel you cannot trust me, but to make that child suffer because of it is unforgivable.”
“The child will suffer less if a rider goes than if he must wait for you to walk.”
She had no argument for that.
“Even so, you are right. I cannot trust you, can I, Lady Rosham? He kept his voice low but hard. Calling her Lady Rosham before so many witnesses had been a mistake. Whoever intended her harm might try harder if it were known the king’s herald believed Liar Larkin to be no liar at all.
She turned defiant eyes on him. “You mock me, now, but someday all will know I speak the truth.”
“You deceived me from the moment we met.” Stop proclaiming the truth so loudly! he wanted to shout at her, but he had to keep all the listeners believing she lied and thinking he believed the same.
