Page 23 of Fletcher

Nyall caught the bone the chieftain tossed to him as he left. “You should also warn Mistress Ambrose of the dangers of wandering about Caladh just now, Seneschal, unless you wish avoid the lady. Then another may take her in hand.”

“As you attempted with Lady Valerie?” Fletcher countered, his temper climbing another notch. “She’s no’ for you, Captain.”

“That much I reckoned when she came in search of you today,” Nyall said. “Dinnae be deceived by her shy manner. ’Tis more that lady wants than you reckon.”

After the captain left, Fletcher summoned the head vassals that worked in the garrison hall, and bid them inform their staff of the new threat in the waters. He then went to do the same with the stable master, the master carpenter, the groundskeeper and the salt maker before he returned to the stronghold to gather the household vassals in the great hall.

“Attend me,” he said, and when they quieted he related what they knew of the two attacks. Some of the maids put their arms around each other, while the older men muttered to each other with dark expressions. “The clan shall hunt down the beast and end it before it strikes again. Until we find the shark, no one goes near the water. If you’ve some pressing need, come speak with me.”

“We’ve one need, Seneschal,” Duncan said as he joined them. “Gilroy’s died, and his daughter wishes bury him at sea.”

Fletcher rubbed his brow. “Ask her if she’d be content with strewing his ashes after we assure the water, ’tis safe again. Any more worries?” He saw a tall maid with vivid red hair step forward. “Brochan can do without his oysters, Meg.”

“Aye, and so he may, but half the island use the old fairy pools for laundering and bathing,” the chamber maid told him. “I ken of three near the stronghold fed by sea water channels. ’Tis likely more near the villages and crofts.”

He silently wished his sire had not created so many trysting pools. “I’ll send word out across the island and bid the vassals cease using them.”

To efficiently contact all of the headmen of the small communities on Caladh, Fletcher went to the laird’s scribe, who took down his orders and began writing message scrolls to be delivered by dove. He then asked the cote keeper to see them sent before sunset. By that time the evening meal had to be served, which he supervised, and a dozen other household tasks awaited him when the last of the clan had been fed.

“’Tis never enough hours in the day, aye?” Meg said as she delivered a mug of brew to his room, where he studied the daily accounts.

“My thanks, and no.” He glanced up when she hovered at his side. “What more?”

“After the meal the lasses and I took up bathing water for Mistress Lark,” the chamber maid said. “She bid me make her bed with fresh linens as well.”

“You neednae do such yourself,” he told her. “The laird said until you leave you only need attend Lady Valerie.”

Meg kicked his chair. “Eejit.”

After she left in a huff Fletcher set aside his quill and rubbed his tired eyes. He was glad that the maid took on the additional work of looking after Lark, but he couldn’t understand why his words made him an idiot. Why should the lass bathing and wanting clean linens have anything to do with him?

Come into my room if you’d like to be with me. Any time you want.

Chapter Eight

Lark had several arguments with herself that evening, most of which remained unresolved even after a long soak in the tub. She tried to work up some remnant of regret or longing for Lawrence, just in case she had some lingering emotions for him, but she honestly didn’t care about him. She wasn’t sure why; either his betrayal had killed her love, or she’d never loved him in the first place. But if her groom hadn’t run off with her friend, would she have married a man she hadn’t loved? Had she been that desperate?

It doesn’t matter. He married Kate. It’s finished.

She didn’t want to stay closeted in the guest room any longer, but every time she left it something startling happened, like the confrontation over her dress, or meeting the Finfolk king in the labyrinth. Uncle Matt had always called her “the bravest kid in the world” but in reality everything in both worlds intimidated her. Maybe that was why she had been happiest when she sewed while she was alone, because she didn’t have to deal with anything but fabric, trims and thread. Yet for the first time since she’d set out to become a seamstress it seemed as if it wasn’t enough.

Is that all I can ever have? Just sewing? Nothing else?

Lark grew torn between who she had always been, and this evolution of herself that had begun when she’d fallen into the fountain and wound up here. Who she had been wouldn’t do anything risky. Who she was becoming wanted to go and find Fletcher, and ask him directly to spend the night with her. Wanting him seemed to glow inside her like embers waiting to be fed, and every time she saw him more piled up inside her.

Was it because he was so handsome and strong, or because he’d pulled her out of the ocean and saved her from drowning? She didn’t know or trust herself enough to decide. Yet he was so many things that she wasn’t: half-Fae, immortal, and in charge of a huge, busy castle. How could she even be sure he wanted to have sex with her? Just because he’d kissed her and said some things didn’t mean he would go any further than that. Maybe he was just being nice to her. Maybe he regretted kissing her in the first place.

I hate this.

Sitting down by the hearth, she used the comb Meg had given her to untangle her damp hair as she tried to settle down for the night. Since Lawrence wouldn’t even be born for another nine hundred years, and she might have to stay in the twelfth century for the rest of her life, that rendered their relationship and the petal-picking question of I-loved-him, I-loved-him-not irrelevant. She really couldn’t spend the rest of her life in this room, so she’d need to find enough courage to face the alarming world outside. As for the seneschal, as handsome and kind as he was, he knew she wanted his company. He’d chosen to stay away, so he had to have his own reasons for not getting involved with her. Certainly she could rethink that, too.

Is it really smart to have a fling with a man a few days after being jilted at the altar? Smart, probably not. Should she? Absolutely.

A knock came at the door, and when no one stepped inside Lark set down the comb and went to open it. Fletcher stood in the passage, his hair dark and damp and his clothes clinging to him with wet patches. He smelled of soap and man, his feet bare, and the laces of his tunic hung undone, as if he’d just pulled the garment over his head after taking a bath. His golden brown eyes had grown so dark they looked almost bronze when he met her gaze.

Lark didn’t know what to say, so she reached out and took hold of his hand. She wanted to pull him over the threshold, but instead she waited. She needed to be sure, so he would have to tell her he wanted this.

“Bad luck may follow you, lass, but I’m cursed. ’Tis why I cannae give you my heart.” He twined his fingers through hers. “The rest of me, ’tis yours if you wish.”