“Anya?” Drustan laughed. “She’s but five and ten. And, I’ve heard, a most biddable lass.”
Nevin shook his head with a rueful smile. “Milord, ’tis futile to seek sense in it. My mother is not well. If you should encounter her and she carries on like a madwoman, ’tis because she’s worsening daily. I believe the walk to the castle is beyond her abilities, but should she somehow manage it, I beg you be gentle with her. She’s ill, very ill.”
“I’ll warn Da and Dageus. Doona fash yourself, we’ll simply guide her back home should she roam.” He made a mental note to be kinder to the old woman. He hadn’t realized she was so ill.
“Thank you, milord.”
Drustan started down the corridor again, then stopped and glanced back. He enjoyed Nevin’s philosophical mind and wondered how the priest reconciled a fortune-telling mother with his faith. It might also shed light on his tolerance for the MacKeltar. Drustan knew Nevin had been in residence long enough to have heard most of the rumors by now. Men of the Kirk generally held staunch views on pagan doings, but Nevin radiated some inner understanding that defied Drustan’s comprehension. “Do any of her predictions ever come true?”
Nevin smiled serenely. “If there is aught of truth in her yew castings, ’tis because God chooses to speak in such manner.”
“You doona think pagan and Christian are breached by an irreconcilable chasm?”
Nevin considered his answer a moment. “I know ’tis the common belief, but nay. It offends me not that she reads her sticks; it grieves me that she thinks to change what she sees therein. His Will will be.”
“So has she been right or not?” Drustan pressed. Nevin was oft evasive, difficult to pin down. But Drustan sensed he didn’t intend to be evasive, he was merely nonjudgmental to an extreme.
“If someone is to harm me, ’tis my Father’s will. I shan’t naysay Him.”
“In other words, you won’t tell me.”
Nevin’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Milord, God doesn’t bear any of His creations ill will. He give us opportunities. ’Tis all in the way you view it. My mother has a suspicious mind, so she sees suspicious things. Keep your eyes open, milord, for the chances He gives you. Keep your heart true, and I bid you, use what gifts He may have given you with love, and you will never wander from His grace.”
“What do you mean, ‘gifts’?”
Another calm smile, and some fascinating awareness in Nevin’s clear blue gaze.
Drustan smiled uneasily and wound down the corridors to the Greathall.
Gwen had just walked into the hall and slumped into a chair when he came down.
She nearly fell off her chair, so startled was she to see him walking toward her and not skulking out the back entrance. Her first instinct was to leap up, fling her arms around his leg like a child, and cling so he couldn’t get away from her. But she reconsidered, thinking he might just shake her off him and stomp her, if the expression on his face was a true indication of his feelings about her at the moment. He was awe-inspiringly large.
She decided to try the subtle approach. “Does this mean you’ve finally decided to listen to me, you pigheaded, stubborn Neanderthal?”
He walked past her as if he hadn’t even heard her.
“Drustan!”
“What?” he snapped, spinning around to look at her. “Can’t you leave me in peace? My life was fine, wonderful until you appeared. Flitting about”—his gaze raked over her bountiful curves, nicely fluffed in her gown—“trying to tempt me into making a fankle of my wedding—”
“Flitting? Tempting you? Could you show off your legs more? Walk around with no shirt on a bit more often? Oh, silly me, of course you couldn’t, you’re shirtless all the time.”
Drustan blinked, and she saw the hint of her Drustan’s grin tugging at his lips, but he fought it admirably.
Casually, he adjusted his sporran, hiking his plaid up a bit more. He tossed his silky black hair over his shoulder and arched a dark brow.
Her hormones broke out party streamers and kazoos.
She leaned forward, folding her arms beneath her chest. She felt the edging on her bodice graze her nipple. Two can play that game, Drustan.
His silvery eyes changed instantly. Icy amusement was replaced by untamed lust. For a long, suspended moment, she thought he was going to duck his head, charge her, and carry her up the stairs to a bed.
She held her breath, hoping. If he did, at least then she might be able to soothe him enough to get him to listen—after, of course, they made love nine million times and her own hormones had been properly soothed.