Page 22 of Never Love a Lord
“Yes?”
His smile grew infinitesimally wider and his shoulders gave a minute hitch. “Are you all right?”
“Of course. I’m fine,” she said, and although she’d meant the words to come out terse and scoffing, when her voice echoed back to her ears it was breathy, weak, and sounded confused. “Are you . . . all right?”
“Ravenous, actually,” he said. Then he moved and reached for the satchel hanging forgotten in her dumb hand. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll just get us set up here.” Her fingers fell open and he quickly turned to set the leather bag on the stone. “You don’t mind, do you?” he tossed over his shoulder.
“No,” she answered, and then blinked several times. At last she forced herself to move, turning her head to look up at the stones, the moon glowing above them, as if to make certain she was actually where she was.
Foxe Ring, yes.
Full moon, yes.
And nothing had happened.
She turned her gaze toward Julian Griffin’s back and felt her eyebrows lower. He was making gruff little sounds of happy anticipation, and Sybilla found herself growing fantastically annoyed. When she could command her feet to become uprooted from the loamy soil, she walked to stand at his side before the stone he was busy setting as a table.
“Your cook is quite capable,” he said. “She’s thought of everything.”
Sybilla glanced at the brown oilcloth, where Julian was sparking life to a candle as thick as her forearm. As the flame bloomed, it tickled the glazing of a stout crock, its lid strapped tight with leather bands; a hunk of light-colored bread; and a corked flagon. A moment later, Julian had pulled two small wooden cups from the satchel.
She looked back to his face when he rubbed his hands together in anticipation and then turned to perch one hip on the edge of the stone. He was back on both feet again in an instant, a look of bewilderment on his handsome face.
Finally, Sybilla thought.
“I don’t know what’s come over me,” he said in an annoyed voice, and then gave a short bow before gesturing to the stone. “I’ve completely forgotten my manners in the face of such a feast. Please, my lady, sit.”
Sybilla felt her eyebrows rise.
She drew an inaudible breath and then, holding her mouth tight, placed her hand in Julian Griffin’s offered palm while he assisted her onto the stone. Her skin burned where he touched her, but an instant later the contact was broken as he reclaimed his own seat and reached for the crock, working straightaway at unfastening the leather straps.
In only a moment the lid was free, revealing a half of a roasted bird in a savory broth, surrounded by caramelized root vegetables and swirls of limp, new greens.
Julian hefted the crock with one hand and held it toward her. “My lady? Have you your eating knife?”
“Go on,” Sybilla said tersely. “I find I’m not at all hungry at the moment.” Julian shrugged and brought the crock back to the oilcloth in front of him even before Sybilla could add crossly, “It must be the air.”
He pulled the leg of the bird away easily and bit into it, leaning over the crock. “Mmm,” he mumbled, and then chewed thoroughly. Sybilla watched his throat as he swallowed, her stomach clenching, and at the same time hoped he would choke to death.
“This is quite good. Delicious, actually. Tarragon?” he asked, raising his eyes to her face as he swirled the bone in his mouth and finished off the leg.
“I’ve no idea, I’m sure,” she snipped.
“Lovely. Majestic,” he said, and then popped a bit of turnip into his mouth. A moment later, he said, “I’m glad you’ve realized that it’s in your best interest to conduct our business in a more friendly manner. Your cooperation may hold sway with Edward.”
“Friendly manner?” Sybilla repeated. “You think because I haven’t killed you yet that we’re friendly now?”
He gave her an indulgent look, as one might give a small child who vowed to run away from home due to poor treatment, before pulling a hunk of thigh meat free and setting it between his teeth with relish. Sybilla felt a bit of her discombobulation evaporate at his condescension. Her eyes narrowed.
In the next instant, Julian Griffin’s eyes went wide, and harsh hacking sounds emanated from him. He grabbed at his throat with one hand and gained his feet, beating on his chest with his other fist.
Sybilla watched calmly until a moment later, when the lord fell into a fit of wild, wheezing spasms. The corners of her mouth turned down with disappointment, and she reached for the flagon and cup.
“I beg your pardon,” he rasped as he regained his seat.
Sybilla handed him the cup of wine and then poured one for herself. She brought it to her lips but paused before drinking.
“All right, then. Go on. Tell me what you know,” she said quietly, and then took a drink.
